A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  Where I saw the fire iron, exactly where it should be. But had not been the night of the murder. The poker was a blunt, ugly rod of iron with a cruel hook at one point. Remembering what Mr. Rosenfeld had said about fingerprints, I was careful not to touch it. But looking closely, I saw that it had been wiped clean.

  What would you use to wipe such a thing clean? And how would you dispose of a blood-soaked rag on the night a murder was committed? Anything bloodstained would be extremely incriminating …

  I turned out the light and hurried back upstairs. Using my memory of Mrs. Armslow’s Newport house as a map, I wandered until I found a remote part of the house; the opulent silence declared it the family’s living quarters. A long, richly carpeted corridor led to three doors. As I passed one room I caught a whiff of lime and cloves; masculine scents. This was not the room I was looking for.

  No, the room I was looking for was at the end of the hall. There was a double door, white and gilded with gold. As I put my hand on the handle, I listened for people inside. I didn’t hear anything. The maids must all be downstairs. But I rehearsed, “Oh, I’m so sorry! I must have the wrong room!” nonetheless.

  It was entirely possible someone would think I was a thief. I supposed in a way, I was. I swallowed that thought, turned the handle, and stepped inside Rose Newsome’s bedroom.

  Marie Antoinette would have found the room suitable to her needs. Most of the gleaming floor was softened by a large carpet, covered in a riot of roses. The walls were covered in pink silk, embroidered with gold garlands. The twenty-foot-high windows were obscured by heavy damask drapes and topped with stern figures of the virtues, accompanied by the odd cherub. There was a delicate writing desk in the center of the room, and a pretty white bureau with a porcelain bathing bowl. A portrait of someone’s ancestor, demure and bewigged, hung on the wall. At various points about the room, there were small paintings of charming English country scenes.

  But the centerpiece of the room was the bed itself. Large enough to sleep four, it boasted a canopy and coverlet draped in the same gold-garlanded pink silk. It stood on a platform of rose velvet. Not surprisingly, there were no personal mementoes on display. Only a photograph of Rose Newsome and her husband on their wedding day.

  I felt certain this had not been the first Mrs. Newsome’s taste. But the room as a vision of the second Mrs. Newsome’s taste puzzled me. Her dress style was modern, daring without being vulgar. Intelligent, aware of the impression it made. Mature. This room was a princess’s dream—or a six-year-old child’s dream of a princess.

  But I was not here to criticize the lady’s taste. Crossing to the bureau, I saw that the drawers were long enough to hide what I was looking for. I pulled one open and felt at the front and back. But my hand came across nothing except silk and satin. Some of the items were of an intimate nature, and I pulled my hand out of the drawer.

  There was a smaller door that led off the main room. Opening it, I saw that it was a sort of closet or storage space. It was packed tight with dresses and coats. On the floor, on racks, the lady’s shoes for the season—or month. At the far back, shelves with boxes put up high and away. The kind of spaces even the most devoted lady’s maid does not disturb more than a few times a year.

  And yet when I stood on a small stool to look more closely, I could see the faintest trace of fingerprints in the dust that had gathered on the lids. These boxes had been recently moved.

  I took one box down, carefully lifting the lid with one finger. Here were items even more intimate than what was kept in the bureau outside. Also, a skirt and sweater that looked strangely pedestrian—until I noticed the emblem of the Phipps Academy. I closed the box and put it back. As I did, I pushed it close to the wall—and heard the sound of crinkling cloth. Moving some of the boxes, I found Charlotte’s dress, hidden behind them.

  With delicacy, I reached out and tugged at the very edge of the garment. It was fragile, and I did not want to tear it, in case it became evidence. I could see it was badly stained; the red wine had turned purplish in the weeks that had passed. The stain was heaviest on the bodice; the skirt was spattered as well.

  But when I held it up, I saw a different stain. A darker, heavier patch. I reached out to touch it with the tips of my fingers, felt the stiffness of dried blood.

  My heart felt as if it had turned to lead. I had to remind myself to inhale, then exhale. I looked more closely at the dress.

  And all of a sudden, I was calm. My heart eased; breathing came more naturally.

  The stain was wrong.

  Had Charlotte been the one to batter Norrie’s head in, the blood would have flown, landing randomly in drops or spatters. As it had on Norrie’s shirt. And yet the darker stain was a solid smear, with a few lighter ones surrounding it, almost the way a child draws the sun and its rays. It did not have the appearance of chaos. More of … cleaning.

  Wiping.

  Wiping off something covered in blood.

  Stepping down, I took the dress with me.

  Then I heard, “Jane—what on earth are you doing?”

  I turned. And saw Rose Coogan Briggs Newsome. A Rose Blush in her hand.

  22

  In such circumstances, it can be difficult to know who has committed the greater crime: the servant who has entered the sanctum of the bedroom without permission or the woman who has taken a life. Those who dictate social mores might find me guilty of the lesser offense. But that didn’t stop me from feeling like a criminal caught in the act.

  Like her stepdaughter, Rose Newsome wore black—on top at any rate. The tunic and the fall of the skirt were a black silk, embroidered with pale cream roses. But the skirt was open at the front, and the tunic was stopped short at the waist to show a glorious fall of sunrise gold taffeta. Small gold coins dangled provocatively from the hem.

  For a moment, she stood there, assessing the situation. Her gaze traveled the room, noted the open drawers, then the soiled dress on the floor. She seemed determined not to meet my eye, and I had the sudden impression of a child who thinks if she does not see you, she will be invisible.

  As gently as possible, I said, “Rose.”

  “I’ll say I caught you stealing.”

  “And the bloodstained dress?”

  “That’s what you were stealing. The Benchleys sent you to get it because they knew it would prove Charlotte killed Norrie.”

  “And that’s why you kept it. If Blackburn had ever suspected you, you meant to ‘find’ this dress, didn’t you?”

  She turned away from me and began to walk along the edge of the rose-patterned rug, delicately placing one foot in front of the other.

  “Also why you kept bringing Charlotte and Beatrice together. You pretended not to understand their history, but of course, you understood very well. Another blow-up between them would strengthen your story that Charlotte murdered Norrie out of jealousy. ‘Several witnesses reported bad feelings existed between the two young ladies.’”

  She continued on her odd journey, and I wondered if she would speak to me at all.

  “You once said I was easy to talk to. Will you talk to me now? I want to understand.”

  She had run out of rug and now stood blocked by the massive bed. Sitting on the edge of a chaise lounge, she brought her hands together like a nervous but attentive student. “Mrs. Benchley told me you went to Philadelphia.”

  “Yes. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Oh, then you went to Schuylkill.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not much of a place, is it?”

  I hesitated. “The people are poor.”

  “The people. The people are animals.” The hands in her lap began to twist. “Did you see any children?”

  “Some,” I said, remembering the little girl, her cheek bulging with candy.

  “They threw rocks at me, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “The children. After it happened. They’d wait for me after school—and throw rocks. At my head.�
�� She tried to smile as if she had made a joke. “They screamed, called my father a murderer. And the adults could hear them. They’d cross the street, pretend not to see. Or watch from their houses, peeking from behind the curtains. Did any of them come out of their ugly little hovels to say no, don’t do that? Of course not. I don’t think those children had lost anyone. They just liked throwing rocks.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Once? They hit me in the mouth. I had blood all down my front. They broke my tooth.” She touched her cheek. “I got dizzy and fell down. When I was lying on the ground, I thought, They’ll stop now. They’ll see I’m really hurt and stop. But they just started crowding around, shoving to be next. I can remember scrabbling in the dirt with my fingers, desperate for something to throw back. Something heavy and hard. But all I found was dust, and dust blows away into nothing when you throw it.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “I kicked at them so they had to step back. Then I ran. When I got home, my mother said, ‘Your face!’ And my father just stared at me. The next day, they found him by the river.”

  “Then you went to Philadelphia.”

  “That’s right. My mother got a job at Wanamaker’s. We got a discount on the clothes. Nice clothes were important to her. I went to the store after school. One day, I couldn’t be quiet and sit like she wanted me to, so she sent me outside to play. I was pretending to be on a tightrope, walking along a crack in the sidewalk, when a man came up to me and said, ‘Careful, you don’t want to fall. It’s a long way down.’ I thought that was very funny.” She pulled at the fingertips of her glove; it was odd to see she had the same bad habit I did.

  “He asked why I was alone. I said, ‘I’m not alone. My mother works in the store.’ ‘Does she? Is she as pretty as you?’ ‘Oh, prettier,’ I said. ‘Well, this I have to see. I’ll go in and say hello.’” She looked up at me. “I don’t think my mother ever realized that he had met me first. Seen me first.”

  She continued to stare at me, and I felt uncomfortably scrutinized. Then I understood that she wanted me to look away. She didn’t want me looking at her when I realized what I had known on some level all along.

  “It wasn’t your mother,” I said. “With Charles Farragut.”

  “He told me to call him Mr. Charley, so that’s what I called him.” She pulled her glove straight. “He started calling on her, taking her to nice places. She didn’t have the right clothes; he bought them for her. And for me. One day, he invited us to a party at his home. When we got there, he told my mother I would be happier upstairs; he had a surprise, something that would keep me occupied and out of the way. She needn’t come up. She should stay downstairs, talk to the other guests.”

  “Were you frightened to be alone with him?”

  “A little at first. But Mr. Charley told me it was a game. He said, ‘You know, I have some friends over to dinner. Well, my most important friends are upstairs. And I want your help playing a little trick on them.’ I liked that, the idea of playing a trick on someone. It felt so much better than being the fool who didn’t know what was coming. So he said, ‘When we get into the room, I want you to march straight over to the dining room table and stand on it!’” She smiled. “Well, that seemed very daring and naughty. My mother would have fainted if I scuffed her furniture.”

  “And then?”

  “Just before we got into the room, Mr. Charley got very excited, as if he’d had the most brilliant idea. Bending down, he whispered, ‘And when you’re standing there, on the table, with all these stupid men staring at you, I want you to pull down your bloomers. And leave them there, on the table. They’ll feel so silly, won’t they?’ Well, obviously, that was a little more daring. But he told me I didn’t have to do anything else. Just get up on the table and drop my drawers. And make those men feel silly.”

  Setting her arms straight, she trapped her hands between her knees. “I do remember—all of them staring. Breathing. I looked at their eyes and thought, They know what’s happening here. They wanted it to happen. If they felt silly, they’d look away. I’m … I’m the one who’s silly.”

  “Did he let you leave after that?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He even had his chauffeur drive us home. I kept waiting for my mother to ask what had happened. But she never did.”

  “And she made you go back,” I said, remembering what the saleswoman at Wanamaker’s had said.

  “Yes. About once a month we would go. My mother would sit downstairs and wait. No more party guests. I think he told her it was dancing lessons. There was a man who played the piano—I’d forgotten that.”

  “But it wasn’t dancing lessons.”

  “No. The next time all I had to do was eat a cream cake while the men talked. A few times it was like that. Then they had me lie on a fur rug in front of the fire. Sometimes dressed, sometimes not. I usually fell asleep. It went on so long and it was so boring. At some point, they started to ask me to sit on their laps. ‘Up you get…’”

  Imitating the men, she strangled slightly. “Then one day, Mr. Charley said, ‘You know one of those men—this is so silly, you won’t believe it—but one of those men wants to see you drop your drawers again!’ I laughed. He made it seem funny. I would, of course, get a cream cake.”

  Something I will have to call a smile passed over her face.

  “Then he said, ‘But just him this time. And in a special room.’ Well, I went into that room and I ate the cake and a few hours later I woke up and there was blood all over the sheets. And it hurt. The next time my mother said it was time to go to Mr. Charley’s house, I said I didn’t want to. I screamed, actually. In the street.”

  She exhaled, folded her arms. “That’s when it was explained to me that Mr. Charley was being very kind to us. That we had nice things because of him, and that later, I might be sent to a lovely, fancy school. A school every bit as good as Robert Newsome’s own daughter went to. Didn’t I want that? I think I said no, but what I wanted was hardly the point.”

  “You must be very angry with your mother.”

  “I think she told herself something else was happening. That it wasn’t … that. She was sick. And Mr. Charley promised her he would provide for me.”

  She laughed briefly. “All that time, sitting, I would go off in my head. Somewhere else. I used to think about Schuylkill. Those children. My hands would be dangling or tucked in my lap and I’d play little finger games. ‘Where is Thumbkin? Here I am…’” As she sang, her fingers began to pull on one another.

  I said carefully, “But that’s not how you met Mr. Newsome.”

  “No. But he has the same eyes.”

  The question came before I could stop myself. “How can you live with him?”

  She looked amazed. “How could I not? I earned it. My father earned it. You have to understand: in our house, the Newsomes were everything. I think my father worshiped Robert Newsome more than God. At the very least he had them confused. I certainly did. As a child, I imagined God as a businessman in a dark suit and beaver hat. When the Newsomes blamed my father for the cave-in, he wasn’t even angry. He said if his taking the blame helped the company, then he was happy to do it. Of course, stupidly, he expected to be rewarded for his loyalty. When that didn’t happen, he was broken.”

  “And you wanted revenge.”

  “No, I wanted to be one of them. Not that stupid girl in the dirt—one of them.” The hands started to twist again. “I thought a lot about Robert Newsome during all that jiggity-jog. You see, some of those men had daughters themselves. I knew because they would talk about them. They’d stop off to see them at school, then they’d come to Mr. Charley’s. And of course, what do men also love to do? Brag. About what they’re doing, who they know. ‘You’ll never guess who I saw at Phipps. Old Bob Newsome visiting his gal.’ That’s what I wanted to be, one of those daughters, safe in her nice school, waiting for Daddy’s next visit.

  “So when Mr. Charley said, ‘Well, my po
ppet, you’re getting a tad big for my clients. What should we do with you?’ I told him straight off, ‘I want to go to Phipps.’ In some ways, he wasn’t such a terrible man, Mr. Charley. He saw the joke right away. He did like a good joke…”

  “How did he manage it?” I asked, thinking you couldn’t send any girl to Phipps, no matter how much money was spent.

  “Oh, he had a friend on the board. A man who attended his parties. He was quite willing to do him the favor. He said, ‘Now, you’ll be able to meet a nice man who’ll take good care of you.’”

  “And you did. Was it always your plan to…?”

  “Plan? When I left Mr. Charley’s, I wasn’t in any state to plan. Mr. Charley told me I should forget the past. Become someone else. Well, it’s not so easy to ‘become someone else.’ I was empty. Blank. Teachers asked me questions, and I didn’t know how to answer. One teacher asked if I had hearing difficulties; another thought I had been dropped on my head. The other girls didn’t care why. They just knew I was wrong. I thought if I got to Phipps, the place they were, I’d be safe. But it felt all wrong. As if I’d died and was stupidly pretending to be alive.

  “Then one day, Lucinda Newsome sat down next to me in class and began asking me questions in that blunt way of hers. Where was I from? Did I know how to read? What did I think of … I don’t even remember what. When I saw her, it was like waking up. Suddenly I knew just what I had to do. I started making up that new girl then and there, before her eyes. Shy, eager to please. A girl embarrassed by her looks; oh, people make such a fuss. What she admired, I admired. What she despised, I certainly didn’t care for. And when she asked, would I meet her father, she never knew what to say to him and it’d be easier for her to have a friend close by…”

  Rose Briggs smiled. “I saw Robert Newsome, saw how he looked at me, and thought, This will all work out just fine.”