A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  In the mirror, the girls glanced at each other to see if they should answer—and how. One was long limbed with clear skin and large eyes, the other short through the waist and neck. It was clear which was leader and which follower.

  Sliding her eyes toward me, the taller one said, “That’s right.”

  Her voice was defiant, but nervous; I realized they thought I was going to report them to some adult authority.

  “I wonder if you could help me.”

  Appealed to, they were calmer, but haughtier. There was an almost imperceptible lifting of the nose, a delicate rearing of the shoulders. They always want something, these people.

  “My employer is seeking information about a former student at Phipps.” There was a spark of interest, although they tried to hide it. “He’s considering a marriage. Of course, he wants to make sure the young lady has nothing … disreputable … that might be connected to her. He’s willing to compensate anyone who can be of assistance.” I dangled the last piece of bait. “Her name was Lucinda…?”

  From the way the girls looked at each other, I knew they knew her. They hesitated only for a few seconds; then the taller one blurted out, “Oh, God, there’s nothing scandalous about that old stick—except how boring she is.”

  The other one let her jaw go slack and heavy, her eyes half-lidded in imitation, then giggled. “You can’t ever imagine her with a boy.”

  “Except her brother,” said the first girl, and they burst out laughing.

  I pretended ignorance. “Her brother?”

  “She has an older brother. She’s very fond of him,” explained the tall girl.

  “Had,” corrected the mimic.

  “Oh, that’s right.” She looked at her with grudging respect for recalling this fact. “That’s right, he was murdered. Something political.”

  “It’d be funny if she did it.”

  The other girl’s mouth quirked. “It’s those twisted spinsters-in-training you’ve got to look out for.”

  “It’s all bottled up.”

  Having shocked themselves, they shrieked with laughter. I was practically forgotten, but I smiled along. “Did her brother visit her often?”

  “He had better things to do, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, but don’t you remember?” said the small girl excitedly. “He was here this winter. Betsy Cameron-Dodge had to stay in for the holidays—”

  “She says her family’s abroad, but you know they’re just too poor to afford the train.”

  “And she saw him. Talking to Mr. Mayles, the music teacher—”

  “That disgusting creature. I hate how he looks at me.”

  “I know. But Betsy saw them, and she told everyone how she’d seen Norrie Newsome right before he died. It was all she talked about.”

  The tall girl rolled her eyes. “Well, there you see. When did her beloved brother come to the school? Not when Lucinda was here. And it’d be the same for any man. So as long as your employer or whoever doesn’t mind being bored to death, I’d think he can go right ahead with the match.”

  When the girls had gotten their money and left the restaurant, Behan said, “So?”

  “Norrie talked to a man named Mayles. He teaches music at Phipps.”

  Behan raised his eyebrows in admiration. “So how do we get in touch with Mr. Mayles?”

  “I don’t know. A school like that won’t let us through the door.”

  Behan’s mouth bunched in agreement. Then he raised his eyes as our waitress passed. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The woman was old enough to merit the ma’am and to suspect the tone of the man who offered it. She stopped but did not smile.

  “You know the school nearby?”

  She nodded.

  “Where might we find a person who works at that school? My sister”—I was indicated—“is anxious to be employed by that establishment. I thought perhaps if she could introduce herself to a member of the faculty, they’d see what an excellent candidate she would be.”

  The waitress glanced at me. I tried to look excellent.

  “You’re looking for one of the teachers?” she said finally.

  Behan nodded.

  “You want a teacher, there’s only one place to find ’em.” She nodded across the way. “And that’s the bar.”

  * * *

  I couldn’t go into the saloon, so Behan went while I drank more tea and grew increasingly jittery. Why would Norrie come all the way out here to ask a music teacher questions? He had never seemed interested in his sister. Of course, Lucinda was not the only member of the family to attend Phipps Academy.

  Just then I heard Behan cry, “Here she is!”

  He came to the table with a thin, balding man. “This is Mr. Mayles. Mr. Mayles teaches music at Phipps Academy.”

  As Mr. Mayles extended his hand, I saw that it was pale and long fingered; the nails were well cared for, the skin smooth. But he did not so much shake my hand as feel it. His gaze made me feel inspected rather than greeted.

  “Mr. Mayles here is a friend of our friend,” said Behan. “The one who visited about a month ago.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Mayles. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please.” He gave me a brief smile. His eyes did not move.

  Coffee was brought. I pushed a tea cake toward Mr. Mayles, careful to withdraw my hand before he touched the plate.

  “Now, Mr. Mayles, why don’t you tell the young lady what you told me?”

  Mayles looked reluctant, as if he felt himself too good for the bargain he had clearly made. Finally he said, “He wanted to know about a certain student at the school.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. I glanced at Behan, who said, “Don’t make us guess which one.”

  Another sip. “A very beautiful student.”

  That could not be Lucinda. “Who later married quite well?” I guessed.

  Mr. Mayles pointed to me as if I were a bright pupil who’d got the right answer. “The young man was curious to know how she came to be at the school. As we serve only the finest families, our education is out of reach for all but the most blessed in our society.” He gave the words a mocking twist.

  “Were you able to tell him?” I asked.

  “I was. The gentleman who handles the school’s finances is a particular friend of mine. We belong to a string quartet.” He emphasized the T’s in the last two words; I had the impression it was code for something less musical. “It seems the young lady had a benefactor. My friend was able to tell the young man the mailing address used by the Samaritan.”

  “And the Samaritan’s name?” asked Behan.

  “There was never a name,” said Mayles. “Make of that what you will. The checks were signed by an attorney.”

  “And you gave this address to the young man?”

  Mayles nodded.

  I knew I shouldn’t be antagonistic, but I couldn’t resist asking, “And you had no qualms about giving out this young woman’s private information?”

  “No,” said Mayles. “Not when I gave it to the young man a month ago, and not when I gave it to him”—he nodded at Behan—“half an hour ago. Proper young ladies have no need for privacy, do they? If they’re … proper?”

  “This young lady seems to have made quite an impression on you.”

  “Oh, yes.” He sat back. “She was very memorable.”

  I had the distinct sense he would have chosen another adjective had I not been present. I wanted very much to tell him that after we left, I would be contacting the school and telling them that a member of their staff was selling secrets about their students—in particular, one who was now a member of a very powerful family and in a position to do the school great good or harm, should the mood take her. I disliked his casual selling of Rose Newsome. I disliked how his tongue moved about his mouth when he spoke of her. I disliked that I could not pour scalding tea into his lap.

  “Oh,” he said. “One other thing, and I’ll give it to you for nothi
ng. My friend also noted that the memo line of the checks specified that they were for the care and education of Rose Briggs. Except that one time, the lawyer made a mistake and wrote for the care and education of Rose Coogan. I’ve always wondered about that.”

  * * *

  On the drive back, Behan said, “So. This stepmother.”

  I pretended not to hear. The conversation with Mayles had turned my stomach, and I wasn’t in a mood to talk.

  But Behan kept his eye on me, waiting. In a low voice, I said, “Her name is Rose Newsome. Or Rose Briggs, if you prefer.”

  “Or Rose Coogan.”

  The name pricked something in my memory. But when I tried to attach a face or event to it, I couldn’t. Maybe one of the many girls who came and went at the Benchley house had been a Coogan.

  I said, “Why would a girl change her name from Coogan to Briggs? It’s hardly an improvement.”

  “It’s not the choice of name, it’s the fact that she changed it.”

  I knew he was right, but I felt stubborn about admitting it. “What does it matter? We know Norrie probably didn’t marry Beatrice Tyler in secret. So we know there was nothing to prevent Charlotte marrying him—except good sense, which she doesn’t possess. Our job is done.”

  “Was that a shot at the Benchleys?” Behan sounded amused.

  “No. Yes, I guess it was. I’m tired.”

  I was more than tired. I was upset. The way Mayles talked about sixteen-year-old Rose Briggs—or Coogan—implying that no virtuous woman should need privacy while he himself was drunk, leering, and indiscreet, made me angry. The way he disposed of her dignity as if it were trash was insulting. If he could do that to her, what would he do to me? That stupid, malicious, meaningless … music teacher.

  And Behan—he would never dare go after Mr. Newsome or even Lucinda Newsome in this way. But Rose Briggs, a poor girl who had the nerve to marry well, she was fair game. No doubt the Coogans were embarrassing hicks with wonderfully awful stories to tell, but there was no great clue to the murder here. Norrie wanted to make mischief by tracking down the people who knew Rose … Briggs? Coogan?… before she became Rose Newsome. Tomorrow, Behan would find those people and do what Norrie never got to: show everyone what a tacky little fraud she was.

  I thought of the women at my uncle’s refuge. Many of them went on to have jobs. Marry. Have children. What if one day some reporter decided one of the women’s pasts would make a wonderfully seamy story? What would the likes of Behan and Mayles have made of her life—of her—then?

  “I know when a woman’s cussing me out in her head, Miss Prescott. You might as well say it.”

  I faced him. “You’re very casual about a woman’s reputation, Mr. Behan. You can say a lot about a girl and stop well short of accusing her of murder. But you’ll have ruined her life just the same, simply because she’s got a selfish streak, or loves her brother more than she should, or had a sad, degraded childhood.”

  I expected Behan to come back with a joke, a bold statement that he could do what he wanted, write what he wanted. But he didn’t. For many miles, we rode in silence.

  Finally, as we drew close to the city, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” I turned back to the view.

  Shifting in his seat, he said in a rush, “I’m sorry Mayles was dirty. He didn’t … he didn’t insult you, but he didn’t treat you with a whole lot of respect. And I didn’t tell him to, because I wanted him to keep talking.”

  I took that in. “Well, we didn’t drive all the way out there so we could listen to him play piano.”

  “No.”

  We had reached Mrs. Ramsay’s house. Getting out of the car, Behan signaled to Burt that he would be a moment. Then he stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets, head down.

  “Here’s another thing I’m sorry about. I’m going to that address, and whatever Newsome found out, I’m going to find out. Because I can’t not. The story leads there. I can’t start and not finish.”

  I was about to say he could very easily do that when he added, “Look, if you saw a … a crease on Louise Benchley’s dress, you’d go after her and fix it, right? Even if maybe you were the only one who’d notice?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Right. And you don’t leave your job half done. Norrie Newsome came here to find out something about his stepmother. I want to know what he found out. And I want to know if it got him killed.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “Then she’s got nothing to worry about. It won’t matter if I go to that address tomorrow. Or if I go digging in whatever mud hole she comes from—”

  “Schuylkill,” I said, remembering her embarrassed admission. “She comes from Schuylkill. Her name is Rose Coogan, and she comes from Schuylkill. She’s a person, Mr. Behan.”

  “Fine. Then come with me and let’s find out who that person really is.”

  “Where?”

  “The address Mayles gave us. Or to Schuylkill, whichever. Both.”

  I hesitated. As little as I wanted to concede the point, Mayles had left me with questions. Perhaps there was no ugliness in Rose’s background; Norrie had just assumed there must be because she didn’t come from one of the four hundred acceptable families. But I realized that I did want to know if the change in her name had been on purpose or a careless error by a bank clerk.

  And ultimately, Mr. Behan was right. I didn’t like to leave a job half done.

  “Schuylkill first.” I didn’t want to begin where Norrie had begun. It made me feel we were following a path he had laid for us.

  I turned to the Ramsay house. “I should go in. I don’t want Mr. Benchley having to answer Mrs. Ramsay’s questions as to why he lets a loose woman tend to his daughters.”

  16

  The next day, at my insistence, Mr. Behan and I went first to the Philadelphia City Hall and confirmed there was no marriage license issued to Robert Norris Newsome Jr.

  Then we began our journey to Schuylkill.

  We went by train. I would have preferred to sit by myself, but Behan took the seat next to me without asking. However, he was preoccupied with his notes and was, for once, not in the mood to talk.

  In less than half an hour, we were well into the countryside, far beyond the genteel neighborhoods that surrounded the city. We rode for miles and saw nothing but potato fields and endless pale sky. At other times, we were swallowed up in the silence of trees surrounding us on either side. I suddenly had the realization that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone. I felt the breath leave my body in a single exhalation of freedom. I tilted my head to see the sky, aware that I had two hours with absolutely nothing to do.

  “They’re only trees,” I heard Behan say.

  “Maybe to you,” I answered, not taking my eyes off the view.

  The view changed as we got close to Schuylkill—and not for the better. As we stepped off the train, I was tempted to ask if we had actually arrived at the station, as the only indication was a platform of broken, warped boards and a small ticket shack that stood empty. But then the stationmaster returned from the outhouse.

  The man found us a horse and buggy that would take us into town. The roads were bumpy, and Behan cursed as we bounced over rocks and deep puddles. The trees thinned out. The land was scraggly, mud and brush and tree stumps. Our driver matched the landscape, so thin he appeared all gristle; his patchy beard was graying; his eyes had deep lines. He could have been anywhere from thirty to ninety.

  At one point, Behan called up, “You don’t know the Briggs family, do you?”

  The driver didn’t turn around, but gave a sharp shake of the head.

  “Or the Coogans?” I asked.

  That didn’t even get a shake of the head.

  The main street had brick buildings and wooden pathways along the storefronts. There were some signs of modernity. Electric poles leaned this way and that. But many of th
e houses were rough, hastily built from raw wood planks, with gaps that must have let the wind whip right through the house. Poorly dressed women and children stared as we passed. A store owner came out to inspect us. An elderly man removed his pipe from his mouth to get a better look. I wondered where the other men were.

  We stopped the car outside a largish store. Behan paid the buggy driver extra and asked him to wait. Then he turned to me and said, “Well, Rose Briggs certainly came up in the world, didn’t she? Anyone with any brains up and left this place a while ago. All you got here is bullheads and suckers.”

  Darting my eyes to indicate the bullheads and suckers might be listening, I said, “Let’s ask the store owner if he knows how to find the house.”

  It was a general store, offering everything from canned food and flour to hammers and oilcloth. Behan approached the owner, who was a thin, sandy-haired man in his forties, although the hair had retreated to the sides of his head. Behan bought a small bag of hard candy and said, “We’re looking for the Briggs house.”

  The store owner shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

  Behan and I looked at each other. I tried, “The Coogan house?”

  The man gave me a hard stare. Disconcerted, I said, “The family did live here, didn’t they?”

  “Oh, they lived here,” he said. Pointing, he told us, “You take a left at the end of the road, keep going up the hill. After maybe a mile, you’ll see a white house with a weather vane shaped like a rooster. Turn right there and go another quarter mile. It’ll be there, third house on the right. Can I ask your interest in the Coogans?”

  Behan shrugged as if to say it was our business.

  Outside, Behan dispensed the candy to children who had surrounded the car. He was casual about it, teasing them in a way that made me think he must have had younger brothers and sisters. As I looked around, I thought there was something disquieting about the town. It wasn’t only the poverty; I had seen that in New York. This place was silent, as if condemned. Maybe Behan was right. Maybe anyone of any spirit had abandoned the place and all that was left were the … survivors—the word popped oddly into my head.