A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “A lot of people came to Mrs. Armslow’s,” I hedged.

  She fell silent, closing her eyes as I pulled the brush through her long, light hair. There were things I knew about Norrie Newsome that I had not shared with the Benchleys. By now, I told myself, Charlotte must know what kind of man she was marrying. But seeing her distress, I felt guilty that I had not been more honest.

  I said, “Miss Charlotte, if you have any misgivings, perhaps it’s best to wait. You haven’t known Mr. Newsome for all that long.”

  Her eyes opened, hard and suspicious.

  “Oh, I shan’t wait,” she said to me. “The engagement will be announced at the Newsome ball on Christmas Eve, and I don’t care who doesn’t like it or what they have to say. I am marrying Norrie Newsome, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  Sadly, all three of those predictions would fail to come true.

  5

  Now I must give my account of the events of Christmas Eve 1910. I am not the first person involved with the case to do so. Thomas J. Blackburn, the inspector in charge of the investigation, has written his memoir. The sister of the person convicted of the crime told her story. For a time, one of the Newsomes’ footmen, a Daniel O’Reilly, made his living taking groups by the house and regaling them with the “dark and bloody doings” of that night. I suspect he sensationalized. For one thing, he claimed it was he who found the body. Since I am the one who found it, I know that is not true.

  The schedule for the evening was as follows: an early, intimate dinner at the Newsome house with only the two families attending. Then everyone would retire upstairs to change for the ball, which was to begin at nine thirty. The engagement would be announced at midnight with a champagne toast. Prior to this, Norrie was supposed to present Charlotte with his grandmother’s engagement ring in the Newsome drawing room so the young couple could have a moment of private joy before the celebrations.

  In a triumph of tact, I persuaded Mrs. Benchley to forego Maude’s services for the evening, on the grounds that it was too much pressure for the elderly woman. I would supervise the dressing of all three Benchley ladies, with the help of Bernadette and a new girl, Mary. Bernadette’s housekeeping skills might have been lacking, but she moved quickly when she had to and could not be flustered. And Mary was a sweet girl, excited to be at such a splendid party and determined to prove herself.

  Household and servants took separate cars. I had never been to the Newsomes’ New York home. The mansion took up one-quarter of an entire city block. It was gray stone, four stories high, its dark shingled roof rising in spires and turrets. Staring up, I counted twenty double windows. The front courtyard was large enough to accommodate a carriage and horses. Girded by massive wrought-iron gates, it seemed a fortress, proof against whatever ills lay beyond its walls. A crowd, kept back by police, had gathered on the street to watch the glittering arrivals.

  As we walked to the servants’ entrance, I wondered what the house looked like to Rose Briggs when she first saw it. Did she feel she had entered a fairy tale? If so, was she Cinderella or the bride of Bluebeard? To me, there was something forbidding about a house so absolute in its power. But maybe it was just the gray December evening.

  I did not see the Benchleys again until the break between dinner and the guests’ arrival. Bernadette, Mary, and I waited for the Benchley ladies in a third-floor guest room. Mary was beside herself, unable to believe the splendor of the house. Had I seen? They had pine garlands, threaded with gold all throughout the place! Had I seen? The gold ballroom with four grand chandeliers? Four! Had I seen? The silver punch bowl you could bathe in! Had I seen? The marble staircase, curved and rising two floors? Had I seen, had I seen, had I seen? Mary’s excitement made the work easy, and I felt less oppressed by worry.

  A very different mood took hold of the room when the Benchley ladies returned from dinner. Mrs. Benchley was talking a great deal, Charlotte barely, Louise not at all. From the tension, I guessed the dinner had not gone well.

  As she was yanked out of her dress by Bernadette, Mrs. Benchley babbled to Charlotte, “Isn’t she lovely? Not at all what I expected. She’s very sweet with him, really.”

  Standing stiff as I removed her dinner dress, Charlotte said, “I don’t know what you mean, Mother.”

  “The sister’s a drab creature, isn’t she? So different from Norrie. He seemed in high spirits. Talked so much during dinner.” From her tone, I guessed that his conviviality was fueled by alcohol. “Nice for you, Charlotte. Not all men like to talk. I don’t think I got three words from Mr. Newsome. Of course, things did get awkward with Norrie’s teasing. You can’t blame Mr. Newsome for losing his temper…”

  “Mother,” Louise interrupted, “do you think these earrings are right?”

  “Oh, yes, dear, lovely.” Then, “I mean, those notes are terribly frightening.”

  Charlotte said sharply. “Mother…”

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I think Mr. Newsome is right, Norrie shouldn’t joke about the notes. When you think of what happens these days. Bombs, assassinations.”

  Starting, Mary said, “Bombs, ma’am?”

  Pleased to have someone take an interest, Mrs. Benchley said, “Yes, the Newsomes have received these awful notes, threatening all sorts of things. Mr. Newsome says it’s the work of anarchists.”

  “And Norrie says it’s a prank.”

  Oblivious to the threat in her daughter’s voice, Mrs. Benchley said, “The last note actually mentioned tonight’s ball. Mr. Newsome wouldn’t say what was in it, but I overheard him telling your father he’s arranged for extra security, and I should think so.”

  So the notes were not love letters from Beatrice or bills from outraged vendors. The image of the Times building, a charred shell, came to my mind. How many do we have to kill, to make an impression?

  Arranging Charlotte’s hair, I said, “Why should anyone want to harm Mr. Newsome?”

  Mrs. Benchley said, “Lucinda said it was to do with some mining accident…”

  “Mother.” Now there was no mistaking Charlotte’s tone, and Mrs. Benchley fell quiet. Like a scolded child, she pulled at a button until I stilled her hand under the pretense of adjusting a bracelet.

  That brought the discussion to a close. As we added the last touches, I was quite satisfied. Mrs. Benchley was absolutely correct in dark green velvet. Louise’s hair was high and proud. A lavender dress gave her figure elegance—at least when she remembered to hold her shoulders back—and her silver slippers demanded to dance.

  Charlotte was breathtaking in a Worth gown that alternated swathes of ivory and rose. Discreet threadings of pale green silk in the skirt and her gloves enhanced the impression of a flower in bud. Her bright hair was up in a Psyche knot, to reveal the slender length of her neck, and bound by a band of cream satin, also embroidered with filaments of green, which changed her eyes to sapphire. Heartbreakingly beautiful, I thought, then wondered why I had chosen those words.

  Mrs. Benchley said, “Charlotte, dear, you look pale. Take one of my Pep Pills.”

  I have spoken of Mrs. Benchley’s enthusiasms. That month, the Object of Desire was Dr. Forsythe’s Pep Pills, which promised brighter eyes, better breath, and a general return to youth and vigor. The pills had come into fashion after being championed by Mrs. Talmudge, and Mrs. Benchley swore by them.

  Charlotte snapped, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother, I don’t need your silly pills!”

  Ever the peacemaker, Louise said, “Here, Mother, give them to me. I’ll see she takes one.” Mrs. Benchley smiled and handed the little box to Louise, who put it in her reticule. Then they followed Charlotte out.

  I stood, my mind emptied of all the tiny details that had until seconds ago filled it completely. Perhaps it was the anxiety that comes with the start of any gathering, but I could not get Mrs. Benchley’s story of the notes out of my head. The words of Galatians drifted through my mind: “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

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nbsp; But fears loomed large when you were tired. Norrie was probably right and the notes were just a prank. The whole city knew the Newsomes were giving a ball tonight. Easy enough for any disgruntled employee to make mischief.

  “Miss?” I looked up to see Mary standing on tiptoe. “Miss, I was wondering…”

  She glanced at the door. Bernadette said, “She wants to watch them come in.”

  Mary said, “From the balcony, no one’d see. Just to see how they look and all.”

  Grateful for the distraction, I said, “I think it’s a fine idea, Mary. Let’s go.”

  She gave a gasp of happiness and ran to the door. “Are you coming, Bernadette?”

  “Me?” Bernadette reclined on the bed. “It’s enough to dress ’em. I don’t have to stand around and clap.”

  The second-floor landing above the entry hall was high enough that we could watch without being seen, yet see everyone who arrived. Above our heads hung the vast crystal chandelier, now revealed in all its relentless glitter. The eye was drawn to it, but it hurt the eyes, and I kept my gaze focused downward.

  Mary said, “Ooh, what she’s wearing! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I searched the crowd gathering in the foyer. It was not hard to spot Rose Newsome—for, of course, that was who Mary meant.

  Rose Newsome may not have been the most beautiful woman I ever saw, but I can think of no one else to claim the title. She had black hair, as dark as in a fairy tale, her pale skin a wonderful contrast. She must have brought the dress back with her from Europe, for it was a style I had not seen before, shocking in its simplicity and boldness. It began as a column of unadorned white damask for the skirt, pale silk for the bodice. But over the bosom, there was a swathe of stark black velvet, arranged at an angle so that it extended from her shoulder like a raven’s wing. At the wing’s lower tip, her buoyant figure trembled dangerously high above the bodice edge. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, dark tendrils falling about her neck. Rubies glinted in her hair and at her wrists; idly, I wondered if those were the same rubies she was rumored to have received from Mr. Newsome. Yet for all her feminine abundance, there was a touch of the child in her full, expectant mouth and her wide long-lashed eyes; one could easily see how she had dazzled her husband—and every other man in the room—and still charmed so many of Mrs. Armslow’s friends.

  Of Mr. Newsome, I saw chiefly a bald head, broad shoulders, and an important stomach. The younger Newsomes stood aggressively apart. Norrie was resplendent in his evening dress. Lucinda looked uneasy in her ball gown, her earnest, plain face incongruous set above its satin puffs and swirls. She stayed close to her brother, I noticed, often touching his arm. Strange, I thought, in siblings so different, to see such affection.

  “Who’s that?” Mary perched on tiptoe to see the new arrivals.

  “That,” I said uneasily, “is Mrs. Tyler and her daughters, Beatrice and Emily.”

  I held my breath as I watched the Newsomes receive the Tylers. Everyone seemed cordial—at least from this distance. Beatrice had chosen a rather daring midnight blue gown, which set off her pallor and dark hair quite well. She did not, as far as I could see, linger overlong with Norrie, but quickly moved on to Lucinda, and the rest of the family.

  Then I saw a tall young man step in behind the Tyler ladies and smiled. This was William Tyler—or, as he had been known in the family, Willy Billy Bear. When Mrs. Tyler gave birth to William, a cousin promptly dubbed him Willy Billy Bear. The name stuck. Although he had the floppy clumsiness of the very tall, William was a handsome young man with reddish brown hair and the hopeful eyes of a spaniel puppy.

  The Tylers were soon swallowed up in a swell of arrivals. To Mary, I pointed out Vanderbilts and Van DeWalles, Astors and Armslows. Edward Lauder, Henry Pargeter, his cousin Edith, Eleanor Adams …

  Mary said, “You know everyone, don’t you, miss?”

  Then she put a hand to her pocket, perhaps to warm it, and went pale. Pulling her hand free, she showed me a small bunch of fabric. Frantic, she whispered, “Miss Louise’s gloves. She left them. These are hers, aren’t they?”

  They were. Obviously in the chatter about bombs and Pep Pills, we had all forgotten Louise’s gloves. Louise’s hands, large and strongly knuckled, were not her best feature, and she was particularly shy about them. Panic might prevent her from finding a suitable excuse to return upstairs. Someone—I—would have to go down to her.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Mary wailed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, Mary. We can easily find Miss Louise and return her gloves. You go back to the room and keep Bernadette company.”

  “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”

  I smiled. “It’s easily solved. Now stop crying, no one’s died.”

  6

  But it was not so easily solved. For one thing, it is no simple thing to remain inconspicuous in uniform when hunting for one lady in a crowd of hundreds. All the guests had arrived; everyone was gathered in the ballroom. As I approached the empty foyer, I could hear the music and happy chatter. Two footmen stood at every door. They might let me in, but given the Newsomes’ concerns about security, I decided to look for another way.

  If the exterior suggested an English country house, the interior was a fever dream of extravagance modeled on the palaces of Louis XIV. The homes of Mrs. Armslow were extremely fine, but she was of an older, more austere generation. Here, wealth was everywhere on display, every surface gilded, marbled, brocaded, or tasseled. It was a house built for giants, with fireplaces as tall as a man, the ceilings twenty feet high, rugs so thick they muffled every step, making you feel as if you didn’t exist. The rooms were endless, and it made me dizzy to look at it all.

  The kitchen offered a possible entry. Waiters would be going in and out with food, fresh bottles, and glasses. Extra hands had been hired for the occasion, so no one would be likely to challenge me if I came from that direction.

  The scene in the kitchen was of a well-organized chaos. Cooks stood at the massive stoves while maids and waiters rushed about. Trays flew in and out held at the waist or high overhead. Fresh provisions were still arriving, as delivery men yelled through the door, “Ice!” “Lobster!” “Scotch!” I stood in the corner, watching for an opportunity. Then I saw a man at the delivery entrance, a large pair of iron tongs in his hands. Overwhelmed by the scene, he called weakly, “Ice, I have ice…” It was Anna’s friend from the restaurant.

  I approached him. “Mr. Pawlicec. Isn’t this funny?”

  Starting, he smiled his odd smile. “Miss Anna’s friend. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I said, dodging to avoid a roast turkey. “Do you have ice to deliver?”

  “Yes. I should bring … where?”

  A few inquiries and we learned that he could bring the ice to the cellar. As he turned to go back to his truck, I said impulsively, “It was nice to see you again.”

  He looked at me. “You work for Robert Newsome?”

  “No, for the Benchleys.”

  The answer seemed to cheer him, and he went to the truck for the block of ice.

  Turning, I spotted a waiter headed into the ballroom with a crate of liquor. I managed to follow at a discreet distance through the crush of staff, then out the door, and down the hall that was the service way to the ballroom. We were almost at the entry when the door opened and Robert Newsome Sr. appeared. I fell back into one of the recessed doors.

  He grabbed the waiter by the arm. “You know who my son is?”

  Buckling slightly, the waiter nodded.

  Mr. Newsome tapped the crate. “I see him with one more drink, someone’s going home empty-handed. And they had better think about a change in profession.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  I hung back until Mr. Newsome returned to his party. Setting the crate down, the waiter sat upon it and said to no one in particular, “Typical. Young master’s getting soused and who’s to blame? The hired help.”

  Worried for Charlotte
, I asked, “Is Mr. Newsome…”

  “Drunk, sozzled, loaded, yes, ma’am.” He looked me up and down. “Who might you be?”

  “Jane Prescott. I work for the Benchley ladies.”

  “One getting married? Or one looks like a Pekingese?”

  Moving around him, I said, “It’s Charlotte Benchley who is getting married.”

  “So, you got the Peke. Too bad. Can’t be easy getting that gussied up.”

  This remark would have been obnoxious from any man, but it was particularly so from him. The waiter was unfairly good-looking, and he knew it, grinning up at me, as if to say, Think my black hair’s attractive? Have a look at my big brown eyes. My sharp black brows. The slight cleft in my chin and my strong, even white teeth. From the way he spoke, he sounded of Irish extraction and I thought he was lucky not to be working for Mrs. Benchley.

  But if he had noticed Louise, he might have some idea of where she was. “I’m trying to reach Louise Benchley now. Do you know where she is?”

  “Last I remember, surrounded by well-meaning girlies, wanting to be a solace to her in this difficult time.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Near a plant of some kind?”

  Giving up on him, I headed toward the ballroom. To my surprise, he picked up the crate and followed. “What’s it like, then, working for the Benchleys? Big wedding coming up. Louise’s the older one, right? No joy for her…”

  “Excuse me, I have to find Miss Benchley.”

  “Hold on a minute, I’ll help you look.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Well, you can follow me in,” he said, lifting the crate and stalking straight through the doors into the ballroom. When he had set the crate down, he nodded toward the curtains that covered the vast windows and said, “Plenty of places to hide around here.”

  Now it was a grin and hints of disappearing into the drapery for an intimate game of hide-and-seek. Giving a brief smile of thanks, I left him to search for Louise.