A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  Connolly said to Behan, “It’s the suit you’re wanting.”

  “That’s right,” said Behan. “The one we talked about.”

  As Connolly lumbered into the other room, I glanced at Behan. But he was watching Connolly as he opened a trunk.

  “How do I know it’s the real thing?” Behan called.

  “Oh, it’s real.” Connolly returned to the kitchen, a pile of dark cloth in his hands. Right away I could see it was excellent fabric, and I winced at the thought of it bundled against that soiled undershirt.

  But it wasn’t until he laid it out on the table that I understood what I was looking at: the clothes Norrie had been wearing the night he was killed.

  “The shoes took a walk,” Mr. Connolly said, “but the rest is here.”

  “Why weren’t his clothes given to the police?” I asked.

  Mr. Connolly shrugged. “They never asked. I guess it was obvious it was the skull-cracking what killed him. They didn’t look further.”

  Behan arranged the items so that the shirt was under the jacket, waistcoat over the shirt, evening pants below—all neat and tidy. Except for the wrinkles. And the blood, which had dried brown and rust on the collar and bib of his white shirt.

  Stepping back, he said, “Take your time. Take a good look.”

  I tried to connect what was before my eyes right now to that flash of comprehension I had when I first saw the body. But nothing in what I saw took me back to that moment of doesn’t fit. And yet the moment had happened.

  What had I seen? I pressed myself. What had been so out of place? I struggled, sifting through images in my mind, one more useless than the other.

  Then all of a sudden, one picture came—still indistinguishable, but brighter, more insistent, and I cried, “There. On the lapel.”

  Behan looked. “What?”

  Surprised he couldn’t see it, I pointed. “The stain, right there.”

  He leaned in, squinting in the poor light. I put my hand over the spot without touching it. Perhaps it was difficult to notice if you weren’t used to cleaning clothes. But I could see clearly the pale brittle film of a spilled drink, now dried, in the dark cloth.

  It had been damp, I realized, on the night of the murder, and hard to distinguish from blood against the black jacket. But the spread of the stain had been different, broader, looser. Not a spatter, but a spill. Now that the liquid had dried, it was clearly not blood.

  “It’s not blood,” I explained.

  Behan frowned. “Man was soused. I’ve been known to spill a drink or two when I’m soused.”

  “Not that soused. I saw him only half an hour before. He was speaking clearly.” And cruelly, I thought, remembering his remarks to Rose Newsome. “People don’t generally spill drinks on their front unless their arm is jogged.” I knew this well, having had to repair Louise once after a devastating encounter with Freddie Holbrooke’s elbow that left punch all over her décolletage. I demonstrated, hoisting my elbow with one hand and flinging my arm back.

  Behan nodded. “All right. So someone bumped into him. Or he bumped into them.”

  “Or he passed out.” This was not helpful to Charlotte—but in my excitement at having found the thing that bothered me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Didn’t you say one way for a weak person to overpower a strong young man would have been to slip him something?”

  I pointed to the clothes again. “Norrie’s drinking. Holding his glass like so.” I lifted my hand to my waist. “Suddenly, he feels strange. Dizzy. He sways—I bet if they had examined that rug, they would have found spills to match this one. He falls back, the drink falls with him. And you have—”

  I gestured to the stain.

  “Maybe it spilled when he took the first hit,” Behan said.

  I remembered the time Emily Tyler slapped Henry Pargeter for pinching her, how his head lurched back and the glass of champagne erupted all over Mrs. Pargeter’s rug.

  “It would have fallen on the floor and his pants. I don’t see anything on the pants. A shame you don’t have the shoes.”

  I could tell Behan was excited, but he said, “Still—we don’t know anything was in the drink.”

  Mr. Rosenfeld’s words came back to me. Fingerprinting, chemical tests to establish the presence of bloodstains, or certain chemicals in the bloodstream …

  Mr. Connolly was right: the coroner had seen the blows to Norrie’s head and looked no further for the cause of death. I couldn’t think of anything I could say that would prove otherwise. I stared around the room. Noticing an empty jar on the counter, I said, “I need something to cut with.”

  Connolly instantly gathered up the clothes, saying, “No, you don’t.”

  He raised his eyebrows at Behan, who sighed. “What’s the price?”

  “I told you before.”

  Behan pulled an envelope out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to Connolly, who promptly put it in a drawer. As he did, I mouthed to Behan, “Where did you get that?”

  He mouthed back, “Newspaper.”

  Connolly found me a knife. At first I thought of trying to scrape the film off, but then decided I would need to give Mr. Rosenfeld more to work with. As I picked up the jacket, Behan asked, “What do you mean to do?”

  “I have a friend who studies this kind of thing. I’m going to give it to him and see what he finds.”

  “Careful when you cut,” he said. “That jacket’s going on our front page.”

  As carefully as I could, I sliced a three-inch scrap of cloth from the lapel. Then I put it into the jar and screwed the lid tight for safekeeping.

  Taking my arm, Behan thanked Mr. Connolly, who sarcastically thanked him back. Then he said, “Miss Prescott—how about I buy you dinner?”

  When we went back down the stairs, I looked for the child. But she was gone.

  * * *

  A little while later, I found myself in a modest but comfortable restaurant that clearly catered to an Irish clientele. Seeing Norrie’s clothes had left me feeling unsettled, and when Mr. Behan told the waiter to bring me a whiskey, I drank it. Slowly, disliking the taste. But I drank it.

  When the whiskey had done its work, I said, “All right. I did what you asked. Tell me what you know about Miss Charlotte.”

  Behan tapped his finger on the edge of the table. Finally he said, “Let me ask you something. You think Newsome really meant to marry your girl?”

  “Why?”

  “Because a friend of mine puts him in a Philadelphia hotel with a young woman not long before he got his head bashed in.”

  “So?”

  “Well, since Charlotte Benchley was in New York, we know she wasn’t the girl in Philly.”

  I shrugged. “If there was another girl, I’m sure Charlotte knew nothing about it. Even if she did, I’m not sure she would have cared. She once told me she was going to marry Norrie Newsome and nothing would stop her.”

  “Here’s the thing, though. He signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Robert Newsome Jr.”

  “Well—isn’t that what young men do?”

  “Is it? What if it happened to be the truth? What if he was already married? And he broke the news to Charlotte Christmas Eve? What if that’s why he went to Philadelphia, to get married in secret?”

  “I congratulate you on your imagination, Mr. Behan. Really, you ought to write novels.”

  “Any guesses on who the real Mrs. Newsome Jr. might be?”

  “There is no Mrs. Newsome Jr.,” I said, keeping memories of Beatrice’s accusations at bay. “It’s probably some girl he met in the city. I doubt he remembered her name the next morning.”

  “Well, it’ll be awkward if she turns out to be the heir to the Newsome fortune.”

  “Stop it. You’re not actually going to write this, are you?”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “But people will think…”

  “What will they think, Miss Prescott?”

  I lowered my voice. “You’re giving Charlotte Benc
hley a motive.”

  Behan whispered back, “Maybe I didn’t give it to her. Maybe her intended did.” He sat back. “Anything good from the funeral?”

  I thought. William’s confession, Lucinda’s vengeful spit, Beatrice’s malice. The new note Rose Newsome had told me about. What had it said? Now your son is dead. So clear in its meaning, but vague in its intent. Now your son is dead? Now your son is dead? Meaning the killer might move on to the next family member?

  I asked, “Has your paper heard about any more threats to the family?”

  “No. Why?”

  I looked at him, unsure of how much to tell.

  “You think they’re going after the daughter?”

  I thought of Lucinda standing in front of the mausoleum as if waiting for permission to enter. “Eight children died at Shickshinny. Is one Newsome death enough?”

  “Well, but it depends on what the murder was meant to avenge. Eight kids or one girl in a hotel room?”

  “The Newsomes were very kind to Charlotte,” I argued. “They don’t seem to share your suspicions.”

  He grinned, tipped his glass toward me. “Bet you the old lady does.”

  Trying to make a joke of it, I said, “She’d probably rather Charlotte murder Norrie than marry him.”

  Behan pretended shock. “Miss Prescott!” He moved my long-empty whiskey glass out of reach. “No more of that for you.”

  As he paid the bill, I looked at the wrapped bundle under the table. “Is that really going on your front page?”

  “Certainly is, after what my boss paid for it.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’re not going to write some story about infamous infants and mysterious marriages, are you? What proof do you have? One hotel clerk’s word?”

  He stood. “I’m afraid I’ve got better than that. My friend kept the sheet from the registry. Either I take it or he sells it to someone else. I told you, young ladies caught up in murder need a friend.”

  “If you take it, what will you do with it?”

  He shrugged, making no promises. Then he said, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Miss Prescott, I’m not letting a young woman wander through the city at night on her own. I may be a newspaperman, but give me credit for some morals.”

  As we walked to the el, I said, “You said you would tell me the name of your source.”

  “I said I’d tell you one name that was not my source.” He wasn’t stupid, I gave him that.

  I gave him Beatrice Tyler’s name. He immediately shook his head.

  “You’re sure?” I pressed. “Maybe someone connected to her…?”

  “I am sure it is not Beatrice Tyler,” he said precisely.

  I made him leave me on the platform of the train station closest to the Benchleys’, partly so I wouldn’t be seen with him near the house and partly so he didn’t have to pay a second fare.

  Putting his hands in his pockets, the bundle of Norrie’s clothes under his arm, he said, “This friend with the hobby—you’ll tell me what he says about the stain?”

  “Don’t be too hopeful. Norrie probably just wiped his hand on his jacket.”

  “But you’ll call me, no matter what?” He widened his eyes in a poor imitation of a pleading suitor.

  “I’ll call.”

  “Because I’d be brokenhearted not to see you again, Miss Prescott. Really I would.”

  * * *

  It did occur to me not to tell the Benchleys that there was a document that could incriminate Charlotte in Norrie’s murder. They could, I reasoned, read about it when Mr. Behan published his story. But loyalty is a peculiar thing. It hurt my heart to think of Mrs. Benchley and Louise exposed to damaging scandal. Even Charlotte, if I was honest. So much of people’s bad opinion of her grew from the fact that she was “a la Scarsdale,” as Town Topics might put it. Also—it was my job to make these ladies look attractive. It would be a failure of duty to let them be pelted with mud. Any proof of marriage would be damaging to Charlotte. A girlfriend could be overlooked, but a wife was a killing offense. Even if she were never charged, the suspicion would stay with her.

  And there was something more complicated than loyalty. A feeling that had started when Mr. Benchley gave me the newspapers to destroy and asked me to be present during Charlotte’s questioning. He had dismissed my concerns about the Pep Pills story, but he hadn’t rebuked me for telling him. Show them about summed it up. I wanted to show them—and myself—that I was capable of more than tending clothes and dressing hair. I knew things, could find out things I didn’t know. Anna and my uncle had always said I should think of myself as more than a servant. Perhaps it was true. At any rate, you’d never catch Bernadette on Chrystie and Rivington at night. Or bargaining with a reporter for information.

  So the following evening, I knocked again at Mr. Benchley’s door. He listened to my story without comment. If he was angry with me for meeting with Mr. Behan, it didn’t show on his face. When I was finished, he picked up a pen and scratched idly on a piece of paper. “And this registry sheet, does the reporter have it?”

  “Not yet. But his newspaper seems willing to buy things they feel will be of interest to their readership.”

  “I see. And this reporter means to write about it.”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “I know it seems ridiculous, Mr. Benchley. But the police haven’t found the anarchist yet, and the newspapers are simply making up their own stories to fill their pages. I’m afraid they’ve decided Miss Charlotte is a good story.”

  I was afraid I’d gone too far. But Mr. Benchley nodded in agreement.

  “I did warn the reporter you might sue.”

  Mr. Benchley surprised me by shaking his head. “Then the lawsuit becomes the story. ‘Outraged father defends slandered daughter.’ No, thank you.”

  Sitting back, he said, “However, if young Mr. Newsome did enter into a ‘secret marriage,’ in Philadelphia, I want to know about it. And I certainly want that registry sheet before the newspaper gets it.”

  “Will you hire your own investigator?”

  He sat up, hands on the edge of his desk. “No, Jane. I’m going to hire your reporter friend. Find out what he makes at the newspaper, and I’ll decide his price.”

  Behan would welcome the chance to follow Norrie’s trail. Still, I said, “Wouldn’t a private investigator be more discreet?”

  “An investigator will find what the highest bidder wants him to find,” he said cryptically. “I want my own people.”

  “But how can you trust the reporter?”

  “I won’t. I’ll be trusting you.” He looked up. “That’s not a mistake, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, I didn’t think so. Mrs. Benchley’s widowed sister lives in Philadelphia. She’d welcome a visit from her niece. Obviously, Charlotte is not yet ready for travel, but it would do Louise good to get away. You will travel with Miss Louise, meet this reporter in Philadelphia, and get the registry sheet.”

  “He may want money for it.”

  “Of course he will. Also, I want you to find out what Norrie Newsome was doing in Philadelphia and if there’s any other proof of … adventuring.”

  I was both excited and puzzled. Why didn’t Mr. Benchley just hire a private detective agency, such as the Pinkertons? Perhaps he didn’t trust them not to answer to a higher bidder. Whereas Michael Behan was a nobody. I was a nobody. If we proved untrustworthy, we could be destroyed without comment. Still—it wasn’t ironing.

  “Do you have this fellow’s telephone number?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please give it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  A few days later, I had another telephone call. When I answered, Behan said, “Sounds like your boss is a little nervous.”

  “If you knew him, you wouldn’t say that.” The cook was lingerin
g in the hallway, suspicious of my frequent phone conversations. I frowned at her, and she moved on.

  “So, we’re going to Philadelphia, Miss Prescott. What do you think we’ll find?”

  Images flashed through my head. Charlotte toying with the onyx earring. William as he flicked cigarette ends onto the grass. Rose Newsome smiling through smoke. Beatrice, her dark, uncompromising eyes. Louise going pink when she asked about William.

  And Mr. Pawlicec. Miss Prescott, so good to see.

  And Anna, who hid so much, and yet made so much clear. Horrifyingly clear.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Behan.”

  * * *

  The day before we left for Philadelphia, I returned to the Lower East Side and Mr. Rosenfeld’s pharmacy. When he saw me, his face brightened and he said, “Miss Jane Prescott not from Lodz.”

  “Yes.” I approached the counter, the glass jar in my bag. “Do you … is there a place we might talk in private?”

  “Certainly,” he said, as if it were no surprise to be asked. He took me through a door, which led to a small office with a desk and two chairs. Gesturing to one of the chairs, he sat in the other. “Now, what is this condition that requires privacy?”

  I had a sudden flash of other women who had sat in this chair discussing “private” ailments. Shifting uncomfortably, I said, “It’s not a condition, but it does require privacy. Even secrecy.”

  He nodded, understanding.

  I set the jar on the desk. “You said you liked mysteries.”

  “I do.”

  “You also said there were ways … tests to find out if certain chemicals were…”

  He supplied the words. “Present in the blood.”

  “Or clothes?”

  His eyes on the jar, he echoed, “Or clothes.”

  I pushed the jar in his direction. “Do you think you could find out what chemicals, if any, were on this piece of cloth?”

  He picked it up and examined the cloth through the glass. “Do I know what I’m looking for?”

  “A sedative of some kind.” I decided to risk it. “Strong enough to render a young man unconscious.”

  Mr. Rosenfeld looked at me.

  I assured him, “Whatever you tell me, if it’s important, I’ll go to the police.”