A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  When I had purchased three outfits and two toques suitable for mourning, and given the Benchleys’ address for delivery, I left the store. Under the awning, I wrestled with my umbrella. The rain was still coming down and the umbrella seemed to have given up the ghost. The Benchleys were less than a mile away, but it seemed like a very long journey home.

  A man appeared in front of me, bearing a large umbrella, which, unlike mine, seemed to work. He smiled invitingly; I was about to look away to avoid the flirtation when I realized it was Michael Behan.

  Holding up a hand, he said, “Just a cup of tea, Miss Prescott. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll do the talking.”

  I looked up and down the street; where had he come from? “Did you … are you following me?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Prescott. That nice girl Mary told me where I might find you.”

  I was about to plunge into the bad weather—working umbrella or no—when I remembered the Pep Pill story. Mr. Behan had a point. Charlotte could use a friend in the press. Because she had enemies—at least one of whom might be feeding Town Topics its stories.

  And it was raining very hard.

  So I found myself sitting at Porter’s Café. While not an actual saloon, it was a shabby place with sawdust on the floor and long tables with benches on either side. As I was the only woman present, Mr. Behan allowed me the side that let me keep my back to the wall, rather than being brushed by other patrons passing by.

  Behan called to the man behind the bar, “Beer, please. And a dozen oysters.” He looked to me, and I shook my head.

  “I have ten minutes,” I told him.

  “Right.” The beer arrived, and he drank. Then, setting down the glass, he said, “So. Pep Pills.”

  “A lot of people use Dr. Forsythe’s remedy,” I said.

  “Not so many men, though.” He still had the trace of an accent. “Though” was practically “dough.”

  I was about to point out that any number of women at the ball could have dropped that bottle. But I realized that would lead us to the question of which women at the party might have had Pep Pills, and that was not a question I wanted to raise. It still bothered me that I couldn’t remember seeing the pills that night.

  Changing the subject, I said, “Did you write that story about the engagement ring?” He grinned. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

  I waited for him to tell me who had given him the information. But he only sipped his beer and asked, “Why, have you seen a ring on her finger?”

  “Who was your ‘eyewitness’ for the story about Norrie’s body?”

  “I’ve got a pal at the morgue.”

  “A man of great sensitivity and discretion.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know what a man gets paid to lug a body that’s spent three days in the East River, Miss Prescott? Well, it’s not so much that you can’t blame him for a little private entrepreneurship.”

  “And who told you Pep Pills were ‘found’ nearby?”

  “Ah, there, I cannot reveal my source.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “Cops figure out yet that you’re the one who found the body?”

  I shook my head.

  “Didn’t think so. The press doesn’t have to be your enemy, you know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, it could mean, why give the police the scoop for free when my associates would be happy to pay you for it?”

  I made to stand up, but Behan put a hand on my wrist.

  “Your uncle runs that mission on the Lower East Side, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m a good reporter. Sit down, Miss Prescott. I can see you’re a young woman of high moral principles who wouldn’t take a dime for your story, and I almost admire that. But I bet your uncle could use the money for his fine work among the fallen women of this city.”

  “He could, but he wouldn’t take it.”

  Beaten, he sat back and blew out his cheeks. Dropping his brash reporter’s tone, he said, “I can’t figure you out, Miss Prescott. You’re here, so you must want something—what is it?”

  “I want to know who’s feeding you stories.”

  “I talk to a lot of people.”

  “The story about the fight at the party—who did you talk to for that one?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I tried a different tack. “All the other papers are writing about anarchists. People who might be angry with the family over the Shickshinny Mine.”

  “Oh, the dark and terrible notes sent to the Newsome family? Well, those boys at the Times and the Herald have the anarchist side all sewn up. They’ve got the money to send people over to Pennsylvania to talk to the miners’ families, and even if my paper had that money, they’re not going to send me. I’ve got no pull with the Newsome family flunkeys on the police force. So I’m going with the women’s angle. True heart scorned, that kind of thing.”

  “What makes you think there’s a true heart scorned?”

  “Well, the young ladies didn’t start pulling hair over politics, did they?” He leaned in. “You have any idea how much I could have written about Norrie Newsome these past few years, only it was too hot to print? Let’s put it nicely and say he had a way with women. And not all his ways were pleasant.”

  “So you’re starting rumors about an innocent young woman simply because it makes for a good story.”

  “Simply nothing, Miss Prescott. It’s my job. Between you, me, and the wallpaper, did those wounds look like the work of an anarchist to you?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Maybe I read too much of that yellow journalism, but I had the idea they went in for bombs or guns.”

  “Bombs and guns make noise. Maybe the killer didn’t want to attract attention.”

  “Strange they haven’t found the murder weapon yet. Think he took it with him? Dripping all that blood?”

  I swallowed. “It could have been a hammer. Small, easily concealed. The sort of thing a workman would have.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the killer used something in the house, something easy to hand, that could be left in the house unnoticed afterwards.”

  “What if they did? What difference does it make?”

  “Well, surely our vengeful anarchist came prepared for the task.”

  I thought of Mr. Pawlicec at the door, the heavy iron tongs he used to carry the ice. “There were many people there that night. Anyone could have slipped in. You did.”

  “That’s right, I did. But this feels like a sudden crime to me, Miss Prescott. Sudden and ugly and passionate.”

  In spite of myself, I felt drawn to Behan’s vision. Forgetting the need for discretion, I said, “And how do you think a young woman overpowers a strong young man like Norrie Newsome?”

  He held up a finger. “You make a good point, Miss Prescott. Let’s think again about those Pep Pills. Maybe someone slipped Mr. Newsome a little something to make him go quiet.”

  And there it was, his big story: a rich, callous young man makes an unsuitable match. He jilts the unfortunate girl on the evening their engagement is to be announced. In return, she drugs him and bashes his head in.

  “I can write a different story, Miss Prescott. If you tell me something you remember about that night, one little thing that proves I’m wrong—I’m not a man who slanders those who don’t deserve it. It must be said, sometimes the deceased had it coming.”

  Remembering Norrie’s ruined eyes, I said, “No one had that coming, Mr. Behan.”

  “What were you doing in the library, Miss Prescott?”

  “I was looking for Miss Charlotte.”

  “You sure?” His voice was soft, his eyes concerned.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

  I hesitated, images from that night flitting through my mind, too fast and frag
mented for comprehension. It was like seeing a shape in a cloud, then losing it with the slightest breath of wind. I shook my head.

  Behan sighed. Then he reached into his pocket and handed me his card. “See, my theory is the people who cook the food and clean the clothes see and hear a lot more than the people they work for. And my further bet is, you see more than most. May I escort you to the trolley?”

  He made good on his promise, holding his umbrella over my head all the way to the trolley stop. “What brought you out on a day like this?” he asked.

  It seemed rude not to answer a man who was keeping my head dry. “Mourning wear for Miss Charlotte.”

  “Anxious to look the part?” She was, but I gave him a look anyway.

  The trolley rolled up. Tipping his hat, Behan said, “Oh—one other thing. Did your young lady happen to take a trip to Philly shortly before her intended’s demise?” He pronounced it “de-meese.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Newsome did—and when he checked into the hotel, he brought a friend.” He grinned. “A lady friend. If you remember anything about that night, give me a call, will you? My landlord will thank you.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I arrived back at the Benchley house wet, cold, and dispirited. Shucking off my damp coat in the servants’ cloakroom, I tried to sort through the tangle of what might be true, what people believed, and what people could be made to believe for some sense of real danger to the Benchleys. I put my mind back to that night, skirting the memory of Norrie’s face. I thought of the rug, the legs of a low table, a blanket left carelessly over a chair, the leaping, irregular light of the fire. I didn’t see Pep Pills, but maybe I missed them. Whenever an image or a feeling became too clear, my mind would shut down, as if slamming the door on something unpleasant.

  As I trudged up the backstairs, I heard a clatter of feet overhead. I looked up and saw Louise. Her arms were raised in happiness, her long camel face alight.

  “Jane! They said you were back.”

  “What are you doing backstairs, Miss Louise?”

  Louise held out a small package wrapped in blue paper with a silver ribbon. “I wanted to give this to you. We didn’t really have Christmas, did we? So … Merry Christmas, Jane.”

  Dutifully, I opened it. It was a comb, a lovely thing and not inexpensive. It looked to be silver. A row of small dark purple jewels—I hoped they were paste—was inlaid along the edge.

  “I thought the purple, with your hair and eyes. If you don’t like it—”

  “I own nothing in the world as nice as this,” I said truthfully. “Thank you, Miss Louise.”

  Perhaps some small part of me should have felt insulted. Anna would have said that Louise was trying to buy my affection when diligent service was all she had a right to. But it was impossible for me not to feel moved by a girl so lonely she could be made happy by giving her maid a present. Louise wished to be generous. If I was the only person in the house capable of receiving that generosity, I couldn’t feel ashamed of that position. But perhaps that position gave me the privilege to ask a question.

  “Miss Louise, do you remember those pills your mother gave you the night of the party?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I wanted to put them back in her cabinet, but couldn’t find them. Do you know where they might be?” Louise shook her head. “Perhaps you gave them to someone?”

  “I can’t remember. That night was so…” She trailed off.

  It’s never a pleasant thing to know you are being lied to. Still less pleasant when every possible reason for the lie is disturbing. I could not connect Louise to those reasons. And yet I knew she was lying.

  And now I lied to her, saying, “Oh, well, we can order more. Thank you again for the gift, Miss Louise. I’ll cherish it.”

  Before going upstairs, I went to the kitchen. It was nearly dinnertime, and the staff was in a flurry of chopping and stirring, poking and carving. It was not the best time to bother the ill-tempered cook with questions, but I could not help asking if I had had any calls while I was out. I held my breath, hoping Anna had finally phoned.

  “No calls,” she barked over her shoulder.

  12

  Over the next week, the newspapers avidly followed the search for Norrie Newsome’s killer. Several articles educated readers about the savagery of the anarchist. Others speculated on the murder weapon itself, which had still not been found. Inspector Blackburn was daily on the front page, raiding anarchist “strongholds,” hinting at secrets revealed to the department by informants, and promising a significant break in the case any day. I saw Anna’s name nowhere, but that didn’t stop me worrying.

  The “feminine angle” was generously covered by Town Topics. There was speculation as to the state of relations between the intimidating grandmother of the deceased and his young stepmother, a spread on the latest in funeral fashion, and discussion of what sort of flowers had been used in the service. The paper also hinted at Norrie’s past “romances.” There were rumors of a grieving waitress in New Haven and an aggrieved coat check girl at the Waldorf-Astoria. So far, there was nothing more about Charlotte, but I felt it was only a matter of time.

  Meanwhile, I wrestled with the possibility that either the young woman I worked for or my oldest friend might be guilty of murder. Anna. Charlotte. Pep Pills. Once my mind had worked itself around to reassurance on one subject, it leapt back to the other to fret again. Lack of activity fed my anxiety; there was too much time to worry. None of the Benchley ladies were going out, and there were few visitors. Publicly, the Newsomes might be standing by Charlotte, but the rest of society was not as generous.

  Could Charlotte have killed Norrie? As I sewed, ironed, or folded, I wrestled with the idea. Chief against her was the fact that no one had seen her at the time of the murder. No—chief against her was her fiancé’s behavior. Insulting her in the weeks leading up to the party. Flirting with Beatrice at the party.

  But Charlotte had come through the door opposite the library. She couldn’t have made it through the ballroom after murdering Norrie unnoticed; there would have been blood on her dress. Then I remembered the library had two doors, one leading to the kitchen and the backstairs. She might have gone that route and not been seen; staff was accustomed to adopting an invisible posture when the employer class was present, and that often involved looking the other way. Upstairs she could have changed her dress …

  No, chief against Charlotte was the fact that she changed her dress. Why had she done that? And where was it now?

  Then there were the pills. They promised energy, not lassitude, but who knew their effect when taken with a lot of alcohol? Louise had had the bottle, but I could easily imagine her pressing them on Charlotte at some point in the evening. With Norrie dead, she might be hiding that detail to protect her sister.

  And then there was Anna. I could think of any number of things that argued for her guilt.

  One endlessly long afternoon, I approached Mrs. Benchley and said Louise was in need of a hair tonic; might I go out and get some?

  Then I added, as if it were a new thought, “And while I’m at the pharmacist, perhaps I could get you some more Pep Pills. Unless you have enough…”

  She brightened. “That’s an excellent idea, Jane! I’ve been searching everywhere for my bottle, but I suppose we left it at the Newsomes’, and I certainly can’t ask them now. Thank you, Jane, you think of everything.”

  That afternoon, I left the Benchley house and headed down to the Lower East Side. As I walked to the elevated, I passed a newsstand located by the stairs that led up to the platform. Several tables were laden with copies of the dozens of newspapers and journals sold in the city, everything from the Herald to the Gaelic American to the Staats-Zeitung. The Newsome murder was on the front page of many of them, but I paused to examine some ladies’ magazines displayed on the rack and saw one hairstyle that might suit Louise. But as always, the “effortless” ideal involved a lot of
painstaking labor.

  As I started to walk up the stairs, I was confronted by an ad for Floradora Cigars featuring the lovely Floradora Girl. That put me in mind of the last time a crime had dominated the papers: the murder of Stanford White by Harry K. Thaw, who was taken by a fit of jealousy over his wife, the gorgeous Evelyn Nesbit, one of “Gibson’s Girls,” whose face had been on the cover of Vanity Fair, Harper’s Bazaar, and Ladies’ Home Journal. Nesbit’s testimony about her relationship with White, begun when she was only fourteen, had shocked the country. As I waited for the train, I wondered what had ever happened to Evelyn Nesbit, who had once been so famous.

  As always when I visited the Lower East Side, I was struck by the vast difference between this world and that of the Armslows and Benchleys. You might have been in different countries. There, the abundance of wealth stood in stark contrast with the marked absence of effort, as if the comforts of life grew organically from the earth. On those streets, quiet. A strolling ease among the people. One could hear the trees of the park, the murmured greetings of passersby. To hurry or raise one’s voice would be an unseemly sign of urgency. Barter and negotiation were below-stairs matters.

  Whereas here, barter was life. From storefronts and pushcarts, from windows where women called to men, from gangs of boys whose fingers fiddled at your pockets, everything was the pursuit of more—because people had so little. Everywhere you went there was assault, from shouting, elbows and shoulders, the smell. You didn’t walk down these streets. You put your head down and pushed through.

  The world of the Benchleys knew the city’s tender care. Police patrolled to make sure no one lingered who should not be there. The streets were cleaned. The streetlamps were lit. Here, the gutters were full of sewage, rotting food, and the occasional dead horse, left splayed and stiff on the street. Not an inch of space was unused. Laundry flew overhead. Old mattresses were crammed onto fire escapes for an extra bedroom. Every stoop was crowded with neighbors. Here, street and sidewalk were the same, as carts and horses and cars and people rushed through whatever route was open, bumping, shoving, even trampling one another as they went.