A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “But you don’t want to go to the police now. They have tests, too.”

  “No.” Should Mr. Rosenfeld discover the worst, the Benchleys would need time. “But I will. No one is harmed by my not going now, I promise you.”

  He nodded. “I will cut the cloth in two and run my tests on one piece. If I find something … interesting, the police will have enough left to test themselves.”

  “Thank you. How long will it take?”

  “If a sedative was used, it will depend on what kind. It may be weeks, it may be tomorrow.” He handed me a card. “Call me in a week. I may know something then.”

  14

  Mrs. Amelia Ramsay, formerly Shaw, was, in appearance, a near copy of her sister: not tall, with a plump, rounded figure, and shining hazel eyes. But where Mrs. Benchley’s eyes were kind and eager, Mrs. Ramsay’s eyes were sharp and critical. Where Mrs. Benchley had the habit of fretting the air with her hands when she was anxious, Mrs. Ramsay used her hands to emphasize and correct. Mrs. Benchley’s mouth, when it was not speaking a mile a minute, was either smiling or half open in confusion. Her sister’s was set in a thin, disapproving line. I did not envy Louise having to keep her company for the week.

  Amelia Shaw had not married half so well as her sister. She lived in a rather modest town house in a quiet street in a lovely residential area. Philadelphia itself was altogether a more conservative city than New York. Here, there was no glamorous impropriety, no titillation. The realms of proper and improper were strictly defined, and woe betide those who crossed the line. Louise crossed it the moment she entered her aunt’s house. Mrs. Ramsay took one look at her trunk and narrowed her eyes at its size.

  “Whatever do you need so many clothes for?” she demanded.

  “Oh…” Louise looked doubtfully at her trunk, which she had had no hand in packing.

  “We were worried about the weather,” I said. “Miss Louise has a weak chest.”

  “Perhaps if she stood up straight, her lungs would have room to expand,” said her aunt.

  “That’s what Jane says,” said Louise weakly. “Although not the part about the lungs.”

  Louise’s main activity was to be reading to her aunt. Not that the week was to be entirely free of festivity. The two ladies would attend a string quartet concert, hear a lecture on the social ills of intemperance, and pay calls on Mrs. Ramsay’s eminent acquaintances. If Louise’s behavior was exemplary, she might be allowed to indulge in some needlepoint.

  That evening, as she watched me unpack her things in a small upstairs bedroom, Louise said, “I wish you didn’t have to visit your relatives. I didn’t know you had family in Philadelphia.”

  I felt bad lying to Louise. She believed anything, which made it even more despicable to deceive her. But Mr. Benchley had been firm on this point, and he was paying for the trip. “I didn’t either,” I said. “They just contacted my uncle recently. It’s very kind of Mr. Benchley to allow it.”

  “I bet they’re more fun than Aunt Amelia,” said Louise, glumly examining a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress.

  Mr. Behan had traveled to the city separately and was staying in a hotel. The next morning, he presented himself at Mrs. Ramsay’s door as my cousin Henry. Mrs. Ramsay looked disbelieving, but she had been instructed by Mr. Benchley to let me go, and so she did.

  When we were safely away from the house, Behan asked, “How’s life with Auntie?” He was bright and cheerful, like a dog on the scent.

  “Poor Louise. She’s certainly suffering to clear her sister’s reputation.”

  “Philadelphia matrons can be real gorgons. Especially the Main Line ladies.”

  “She’s hardly Main Line.”

  “Aren’t you the snob?”

  Anna had once accused me of the same thing. I changed the subject. “You didn’t tell me where we were going.”

  “To Norrie’s hotel, of course.”

  The driver drove us into the center of town and dropped us off on the Avenue of the Arts, in front of the Ritz-Carlton. It was Philadelphia’s newest and most fashionable hotel, situated in the former Girard Trust Company. The building had been inspired by the Pantheon in Rome; looking up at the massive Roman columns that lined the front of the building, I felt very much like a Christian about to encounter lions. I was not dressed for such surroundings. Yet Michael Behan in his shabby hat was making his way up the marble steps, ignoring the appalled looks of the hotel patrons.

  I followed, whispering frantically, “I’m not dressed, I don’t have the right hat.”

  “Just stay close,” he said, as we passed two very intimidating doormen in black Ritz-Carlton livery. He strode through the lobby, right up to the front desk, where he addressed the clerk with a sharp clearing of the throat and a “See here, my good man!”

  I expected the clerk to instruct one of the hotel detectives to have us thrown out. But when he looked up, he smiled and offered his hand for an exuberant shake.

  Behan asked, “Time for a drink?”

  “Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you outside.” Noticing me, he raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Behan raised a hand, apparently assuring him I was strictly business.

  Ten minutes later, we were in a noisy restaurant, and the clerk was introduced to me as Mr. Behan’s cousin, a Eugene O’Reilly. He had a round, pink face, a pudgy nose that put me in mind of a piglet, and thinning dark hair, slicked straight back. Upon making my acquaintance, he shook my hand with a “Meetcha.”

  “So,” said Behan, “about this boy.” He slid a copy of Town Topics with Norrie’s photo on the front page onto the table, and I understood that Mr. O’Reilly had been the one to tell him about Norrie’s visit to the hotel with the mystery lady.

  Mr. O’Reilly ran a finger around his collar, as if his throat were being squeezed. “Now, none of me in the papers, Michael, I could lose my job.”

  “No, no. This isn’t for the paper anymore. My employer is someone whose name I cannot…” He thought for a moment, then finished with “reveal.”

  “You and he require anonymity,” I said, wanting the poor man to breathe easier. He smiled thanks, but didn’t look any happier. I nudged Behan to put the paper away, and he did, sliding it back into his coat.

  “Well,” said Mr. O’Reilly, “he was there. On the day I told you…” He looked at Behan, who whispered the date to me. It fit the time Norrie had told Charlotte he would be in Philadelphia, and I nodded.

  “And the woman?” Behan said.

  “There was a woman, yes.”

  “Can you describe her at all?” I asked.

  “She was dark.”

  Beatrice Tyler, I thought. But then an ugly thought came to me: Rose Newsome was also dark.

  To be certain, I asked, “Tall or short?”

  “Tall,” he said promptly. “I noticed it right away.”

  Rose Newsome was not short, but she was not noticeably tall. Whereas Beatrice’s height was often lamented by her mother, who worried it made her appear unfeminine. My stomach turned. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I had been counting on Beatrice’s claim to Norrie’s affections being meritless. Of course, Lucinda’s beige coloring might pass for dark. And it was possible that Mr. O’Reilly had written Mr. and Mrs. rather than Mr. and Miss by accident.

  I was about to ask if the lady had been attractive when Mr. O’Reilly said, “She’d had a few, pardon me saying so.”

  Almost certainly not Lucinda, I decided. But still shocking to think it might be Beatrice. A woman of the Tyler/Armslow family tipsy and being signed into a hotel with a man for the night. Beatrice’s general contempt for the human race had sometimes shown itself as defiance of its customs, but never to this degree.

  Unless Behan was right and she and Norrie had gotten married that day. Which was a shock of a different caliber.

  “And the young man in the paper, you’re sure it was the young man you signed in?”

  “He did the signing.”

  Even if he’d been inebriate
d, I thought, the handwriting would probably be close enough to match.

  “You have the sheet, right?” asked Behan. O’Reilly nodded. “On you?” He nodded again.

  At that point, two envelopes were placed on the table. Behan slid his toward O’Reilly; O’Reilly slid his toward Behan. Each man tucked an envelope into his inside coat pocket.

  “And this is the only copy?” Behan asked.

  “’Course. If you’ll excuse me…”

  As Mr. O’Reilly went to relieve himself, I nodded to the table where the envelopes had crossed and said, “What happens to that?”

  “Your boss paid for it, so it’s now his property. Better to have any ‘relevant documents’ where they can’t do any harm, seems to be his logic. I can see his point.”

  So any hard evidence that Norrie had enjoyed another woman’s company was shortly to be in Mr. Benchley’s keeping. But that didn’t prove no marriage had taken place. I thought back to my talk with Beatrice, her hands in her lap, on the top of the chair. I hadn’t seen a ring.

  When he came back, I asked, “Mr. O’Reilly. Since the lady was … the worse for wear, did you think to ask for proof that they were married?”

  O’Reilly swallowed. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  Behan half smiled. “Did the gentleman indicate it’d be worth your while not to?” O’Reilly didn’t answer directly, but from the look he gave Behan, I felt pretty sure money had changed hands. That was promising; Norrie would hardly have had to bribe a hotel to admit his wife.

  O’Reilly said, “I did notice, she kept her gloves on.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  He thought. “Yes. She laughed a bit and said, ‘What would Mother say?’”

  Not “What will Mother say?” Which is what Beatrice would have said if she were speaking of a marriage. “Would” indicated news Mrs. Tyler was never to hear. We would have to go to city hall and check the public records for a license. But I began to relax, feeling there was now little to prove that Charlotte had a powerful motive for murdering Norrie Newsome.

  At the same time, I felt a pang for Beatrice, a young woman whose pride was so important to her. Yet, out of love, she’d allowed herself to be used by a young man who took pleasure in causing embarrassment and misery to others. Love—and perhaps desperation to hold on to the young man who was so central to her family’s hopes.

  Then I had another thought. If Norrie had promised her he would drop Charlotte, and then gone back on his promise the night of the ball, Beatrice would be enraged—and frightened. To know that such a secret was in the hands of someone with no scruples whatsoever would be an intolerable level of helplessness. One that I couldn’t see Beatrice accepting.

  I heard Behan ask, “What’d they do the next morning?”

  “The lady left. She didn’t stay.”

  “And the gentleman? Any idea where he went or how he spent his time?”

  “Mostly calling room service and having a grand old party,” said Mr. O’Reilly. “Ah, now wait. I called him a car once. I remember because it was a strange, out-of-the-way place he was going. Couldn’t think what was there to interest him. Long drive, too. I told him so, but he said he’d got the cash.”

  “Where did he go exactly?” Behan asked.

  “I don’t remember.” He raised a finger. “But I know a man who will.”

  As we walked back to the Ritz, I tried to catch Behan’s eye. Our next stop should be city hall; where Norrie went on his sordid adventures shouldn’t concern us. But he kept his gaze straight ahead.

  O’Reilly led us to a row of Elmore cabs lined up to take the hotel’s guests wherever they wanted to go. Mr. O’Reilly walked down the line, stopping at the fifth car, and called, “Burt.”

  The driver looked hopefully at me and Mr. Behan.

  Behan said, “We’re trying to track down a gentleman. Swell young fellow, handsome, brown hair.” Burt looked uncertain. “You took him quite a distance about a month ago.”

  Burt nodded. “I remember.”

  “Think you could take us where you took him? We’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  “Yes, I take you.”

  I said, “Excuse us a moment,” and pulled Mr. Behan to one side. “What are you doing?”

  “Your boss told me to find out what Norrie Newsome was doing in Philadelphia. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “He meant anything that might be connected to Charlotte.” I poked his coat, heard the rustle of paper. “We have what we came for. We should go to city hall and see if there’s a license on file.”

  “And we will. But we’re also going to find out where Norrie went after his romantic evening.”

  “That’s in your interests, not Mr. Benchley’s.”

  “The two are the same, until proven otherwise. I gave up a good story with that registry sheet, Miss Prescott. But something tells me I might find another if I look in the right places. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

  He started walking back to the row of cabs. In a moment, he would be in one of them, going off God knows where with Mr. Benchley’s money and learning God knows what about his potential son-in-law. I had been told to keep an eye on him; now I knew why Mr. Benchley had sent me along on this journey.

  I ran and pushed into the backseat beside Mr. Behan. Then I asked Burt, “Will it take very long? I have to be back before dark.”

  “Ja, we make it back. Hour there, hour back.” He held the door open for me.

  As we rumbled out of the city, I felt distinctly uneasy. For one thing, I was in the company of two strange men, headed who knows where. Also, I was not comfortable in cars. They went too fast, as much as a mile a minute, and they felt perilously flimsy. People were using them for everyday trips more and more, but I still thought of them as big toys for wealthy young men to speed around in and, as often as not, crash.

  Keeping my grip tight on the edge of the door, I leaned toward the driver’s seat. “Was the young man traveling alone?”

  “Alone,” Burt confirmed, then turned his eyes back to the road.

  I sat back. Where could we be going? What would Norrie want to see in Pennsylvania that was not a fancy hotel—or a club of some kind? If a stately home, why had he not taken a train and been picked up at the station by his hosts?

  The car jumped as it hit a bump in the road. I seized the seat edge, and Behan wondered aloud, “What was Newsome doing taking a cab? I thought he had his own fleet. Not to mention Papa’s car and driver.”

  “He may not have wanted ‘Papa’ to know what he was up to,” I said. Then, remembering his response to Charlotte’s request for a drive, I added, “And he had a habit of breaking his toys, so Papa was keeping him on a short leash with money.”

  As we drove past a field, I saw a horse-drawn wagon coming toward us on the road. As they passed, I saw the wagon had sacks of grain and other farming supplies, a shovel, rope, a pickax. And then I remembered the business Norrie had supposedly come to examine: the Newsome mines. At the time, I had dismissed the idea that Norrie could be at all interested in anything work related. But perhaps he really had visited the site of the disaster that likely cost him his own life.

  We drove a long while. I shivered in the cold, wrapped my arms tight around myself. The surrounding countryside did not look like a mining town. Our road was taking us through a lovely village, well kept, with substantial homes dotting the landscape. No sign of poverty anywhere.

  As we rolled down the main street, I asked, “What’s the name of this town?”

  “It’s called Haddonfield,” said Burt.

  Haddonfield. The name was familiar to me, a tickle in my brain, but I couldn’t make the connection.

  Finally I heard Burt say, “There.”

  I looked up. Before us was a handsome white building that resembled a small hotel. Dark green shutters braced the windows. A dark green door led the way in. A few girls dressed in matching skirts and hats hurried indoors from the cold.

/>   This was not a mine haunted by the ghosts of trapped and dying children. Or a church for a clandestine wedding.

  It was Phipps Academy for Girls. Attended for over a century by the daughters of wealthy men, such as Lucinda Newsome.

  And, very rarely but every so often, the daughters of less fortunate men.

  Such as Rose Newsome. Née Briggs.

  15

  “A girls’ school?” said Behan. “What the hell was he doing at a girls’ school?”

  We were in the dining room of the village inn. Burt had been paid to wait in the tavern across the road. I suspected Behan would have preferred to be with him. But it had been a long morning, and I wanted a real lunch.

  Now he asked me, “Another girlfriend, you think?”

  Norrie Newsome had never expended that much effort to see any girl. “His sister went there. But she left the school last year.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the devoted sibling.”

  “No.” I remembered the lonely figure in front of the mausoleum. “She is. Still, he didn’t come out here to see her.”

  “Who else would he know here?”

  I hesitated. “His stepmother went to the school as well.”

  “Ah, right.” He chuckled. “I forgot the girlies were classmates.”

  The door of the restaurant opened. There was a gust of frigid wind and a burst of happy chatter and giggling. I looked over and saw that a group of girls had arrived. They rubbed their arms and stamped their feet against the cold. They also wore Phipps Academy uniforms.

  Neither Behan nor I said anything as they took a table in the back. From the excited whispers and glances around the room, I guessed these girls were supposed to be in school but had escaped for an unsanctioned lunch out. They looked perhaps seventeen, old enough to dare such a thing. Also old enough that they might remember Lucinda Newsome.

  But they were young enough that they went to the ladies’ room in pairs. And when they went, I followed, waiting by the sinks for the girls to emerge. They took no notice of me as they tumbled out of the stalls, fingers flying to their masses of sleek hair.

  Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “Do you attend Phipps Academy?”