And that’s when I realized: Charlotte was wearing her dress from dinner.
Tugging at her gloves, she said, “That awful Beatrice Tyler, I can’t believe—”
She looked up. Her sharp eyes took in the faces of the Newsomes and her father. Noted the absence of Norrie.
“No,” she said. “Oh, no…”
7
There were eleven major newspapers in New York City, and every one of them carried the story of the Newsome murder on the front page. Among the glad holiday tidings and the stores’ colorful enticements to spend, the announcement of death in one of the city’s most prominent families struck an ominous chord.
Some of the accounts were sober and matter-of-fact, stating only what was known. Others took a more dramatic tone. The Herald, for example, reported:
Robert Norris Newsome Jr. was found murdered in his family’s Fifth Avenue mansion last night. The identity of the assailant is unknown, but authorities suspect the horrific Christmas Eve slaying may be the work of ANARCHISTS.
The Herald has learned that the Newsome family had received several death threats in recent weeks. The notes made reference to the Shickshinny Mine disaster, which resulted in 121 deaths, including 8 children. While Mr. Newsome was absolved of all blame, the incident has become a rallying cry for subversive elements.
Killing and anarchists are inseparable in the minds of most of us. Mysterious destroyers of life and of property, merciless men who have pledged their lives to some nefarious cause or another.
Silence pervaded the Benchley household. Both mother and younger daughter were sedated under doctor’s orders. Mr. Benchley was barricaded in his study. On the street outside the house, a ragged group of reporters waited in the cold for some vulnerable member of the household to emerge. The cook had found herself surrounded when she tried to attend Mass, and a delivery boy had been pulled off his bicycle. I was glad for once that we were short-staffed.
Louise was not sedated. Or rather, it was as if she had naturally sedated herself when she heard the news. She had not come to breakfast, but spent the morning in her room, taking each of her dolls in turn on her lap. She fixed their hair, drew their sleeves down to their wrists, straightened the fronts of their smocks. Once as I passed, I overheard her murmur, “You’ve been a bad girl. It was wrong what you did—”
I waited to hear more, but Louise went quiet.
As I unpacked Charlotte’s case from the party, I cursed to see that only one of the dresses had come back with us, the one she had worn to dinner. Probably it didn’t matter; Charlotte would never want to see the dress again. But I was exhausted and irritable, and wanted to take my frustration out on someone. So I went in search of Mary, the new maid who had been so excited to attend the Newsome ball.
I found her in the drawing room, halfheartedly polishing a brass lamp. As a junior member of the staff, she had not been granted a day off, and the downstairs’ Christmas festivities had been canceled along with the upstairs’. Her dull, slack demeanor coupled with the missing dress angered me, and I snapped, “Where is Miss Charlotte’s dress?”
Blinking, she said, “Miss Char—”
“She had two dresses,” I reminded her. “One for dinner, one for the ball. Where is her ball gown?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“But it was ruined, miss.”
“Ruined?”
“Yes, miss. That’s why she had the other one on. Someone’d spilled on her. She was upset because it was midnight, and she kept shouting at me to hurry up.”
So that was why Charlotte was late to the library. Unwilling to relinquish my outrage, I said, “You should have packed it. Perhaps it can be cleaned.”
“I don’t think so, miss. Red wine all down the front, soaked through.”
Surprised, I asked, “Did Miss Charlotte say what happened?”
“No, miss. But she was in a real rage about it.”
I could imagine. If someone had spilled wine on Charlotte’s dress, it was a miracle there hadn’t been two murders last night. But who would have done such a thing? A memory flickered of Beatrice Tyler, her hand reaching for Norrie’s.
I nodded. “All right. Thank you, Mary. I’m sorry I shouted at you.”
Unwilling to go back to polishing, she said, “It’s awful to think, isn’t it, miss? That we were in a house with a murderer.”
“It is.” For a moment, I thought of asking Mary if she had seen anything unusual—a wild-eyed man covered in blood shouting Death to the bosses! for example. But she had been upstairs, and the killer would have likely left by the kitchen or cellar. That was the Pinkertons’ theory, at any rate, when last night’s search for the murderer—or the weapon—had turned up empty.
I looked out the windows at the group of reporters outside. “You know not to speak to them, right? Whatever they offer, it won’t be worth your job.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, miss, I wouldn’t.” She added regretfully, “I don’t have anything to tell ’em.”
“That wouldn’t matter, they’d just make it up.”
I wandered into the kitchen, where the cook listened as Bernadette read aloud from a newspaper.
“‘The dashing young man, known as Norrie to his family and many intimate acquaintances, was one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. While he has squired several of society’s loveliest debutantes, it was recently reported in these pages that young Newsome’s heart had been won by Scarsdale siren Charlotte Benchley. This dark and bloody tale is still unfolding, and Town Topics will be the first to get you the whole truth and nothing but!’”
Settling her chin on her hand, the cook said, “Miss Charlotte won’t like them saying that about Scarsdale.”
“She’ll be lucky if that’s all they say about her,” said Bernadette.
Giving her a sharp look, I said, “Get rid of that. What if the family sees it?”
But it was not the last newspaper to make its way into the house. That night after dinner, Mr. Benchley handed me a fistful of grimy paper and said, “Dispose of these, please, Jane.” He did not look at me as he said it.
“Of course, Mr. Benchley.”
I turned to go upstairs, but he added, “And Jane? A detective is coming tomorrow to speak with Miss Charlotte. I would like you there.”
“Will I have to answer questions, sir?”
He shook his head. “Only if asked. I would prefer to keep the members of this household out of the investigation as much as possible. But you will be more aware of Miss Charlotte’s actions that night than I am. She’s in a state of shock and might not be able to recall everything correctly.”
“She wasn’t near the library when it happened—what can she remember?”
He said, “Exactly.” And that was all the explanation I got.
I meant to throw out the newspapers. Yet when the family had gone to bed, I took them to my room. I washed, got into my nightgown, and under several blankets. Then I laid the grisly sheet out on the bed.
NEWSOME DEATH THREATS MADE PUBLIC!
Dark Vows of Revenge for the Shickshinny Mine Disaster Which Claimed 121 Lives, Including 8 Children
On January 19, 1899, 121 workers died in the Shickshinny Mine in Schuylkill Township, Pennsylvania, when an explosion caused a cave-in shortly before noon. The roof collapsed, choking the galleries, and making rescue difficult. One man who managed to escape reported hearing the voices of several boys trapped near a ventilator shaft. A cry went up to save the boys, who ranged in age from 7 to 10 years old. But the Elkins Mining Company, a subsidiary of the Newsome family holdings, said it would be unsafe to attempt rescue in that part of the mine. The boys’ bodies were discovered a week later; all had suffocated. Claw marks in the tunnel wall and bloody, broken fingers gave evidence of their fight for survival. A witness reported, “They were lying together, arms around one another for comfort, as if asleep. You never saw such a pitiable sight.”
COULD THE BO
YS HAVE BEEN SAVED?
Many accused the Elkins Company of saving money over lives, arguing that the boys might have been saved. An investigation was launched, and the manager of the mine, Howard Coogan, was fired for negligence.
MURDEROUS NOTES
This paper has learned that on the 10th anniversary of the disaster, a note arrived at the Newsome home in New York. It bore the date of the mine collapse and a bloody handprint, a symbol common in anarchist circles. “They began to arrive on the 19th of every month,” said a source close to the family. The next one read Blood for Blood. Another, Justice for the Shickshinny Eight. The next listed the names of the boys who died. The final note, which was delivered just prior to the Newsomes’ Christmas Eve Ball, read, You murdered our children. Now we’ll murder yours.
To some, it will seem that a terrible vengeance has been taken.
There were images of the disaster. Men standing helplessly around the mine, women held back by local policemen, rows of bodies covered by tarps. At the bottom of one page, a row of bodies smaller than the rest; they were not under tarps, but their eyes were covered by cloths. The image recalled mothers putting a hand over their children’s eyes to shield them from things they should not see. I folded the paper, pushed it under the bed. Then I extinguished the light and pulled up the covers.
But in the dark, there was nothing to think about but death. Nothing but Norrie’s shattered face in the firelight, the fingers crooked and stiff on the rug. The boys, their eyes covered, hands crossed on their chests. My wandering thoughts caught and snagged: had Norrie’s eyes been destroyed as an echo of the boys’ covered eyes? That shadow I saw in the courtyard, searching for Charlotte. Josef Pawlicec asking, “You work for the Newsomes?”
Killing and anarchists are inseparable in the minds of most of us.
I sat up and lit a candle. My hands were shaking with cold and nerves, and it took me several tries. When I had achieved a weak, flickering light, I opened my door. The house was dark and silent. The candle threw shadows everywhere. As I passed the floor where the family slept, the stairs creaked, and I stepped as lightly as possible.
I made my way to the first floor. Right outside the kitchen, there was a low-ceilinged passageway that served as a pantry. It was also where the servants’ telephone was kept, as the cook could survey what she had while calling in orders to the butcher or the dairyman. (Mr. Benchley might have been penny-pinching in some things, but he was a firm believer in making use of the latest inventions.) This phone was to be used for household business only. But it was understood that the staff might make the occasional personal call.
I felt nervous as I reached for the telephone. I imagined tomorrow’s detective standing over me, demanding, “Did you call this number the previous evening?”
“I did, sir.”
“Do you know this number belongs to one Salvatore D’Amico?”
“I do, sir.”
“And that he is the uncle of Anna Ardito?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you aware that Anna Ardito is an anarchist?”
To which I would have to answer yes.
“What was your business with Anna Ardito?”
“I had no business. We are friends.”
Picking up the telephone, I asked to be connected. It was late, but Anna’s uncle stayed open late. It was some time before a man came on the line. It was not her uncle, who knew me. Faltering, I asked, “Is Anna there?”
There was a pause. Then, “No.”
“May I leave a message for her?”
Another pause. “Okay.”
Carefully, I spelled out my name and the number she could use to reach me. From the other end of the phone, I could feel the man was impatient to get back to his customers. Still, as I finished, I added, “Tell her…”
“Yeah?”
“Tell her I’d like to hear from her,” I finished, and the man hung up.
* * *
Some might find it surprising that a full day had passed before the police interviewed one of the key people concerned in the Newsome murder. But those people will be unfamiliar with the state of the New York City Police Department at that time.
It is true that twenty years earlier, the department had undergone a reformation under Theodore Roosevelt, who insisted that police walk their beat, refuse bribes, and be in good physical condition and not mentally defective. But Mr. Roosevelt had gone on to higher office, and New York’s police had once again fallen into bad habits. (Our current commissioner, James Church Cropsey, would resign the post, saying he was pressured to hire men of no competence whatsoever.)
The most visible policemen were the celebrity crusaders, those heroes of the tabloids who swore to bring the city’s villains to justice. One such warrior was Inspector Thomas J. Blackburn, who had pledged to the Almighty to rid the world of anarchists, because they were “the enemy of all right-thinking, law-abiding, decent people.”
For Inspector Blackburn, the murder of Robert Norris Newsome Jr. was a call to arms. It was, he informed the Herald, “a grievous, dastardly act, typical of the anarchist.” Why, hadn’t the anarchist Berkman attempted to murder Henry Clay Frick in his own office? The Newsome murder was proof that anarchists were growing stronger, bolder.
Even those who viewed Mr. Blackburn’s antics with distaste may have felt that the Newsome murder had shown he was not altogether incorrect. The brutality of Norrie’s death, that it had happened in his home, was shocking. Possibly Mr. Blackburn’s superiors decided there could be no harm in assigning a man able to look the part of a dauntless investigator. And so he arrived at the Benchley house.
The interview was conducted in Mr. Benchley’s study. The room was paneled floor to ceiling in dark wood. Heavy velvet drapes shielded us from the gaze of the outside world. Turkish carpets muffled distracting sound. Armchairs sat on either side of the fire. Charlotte was dressed in a gray day dress with a shawl around her shoulders for cold. She was pale, her eyes tired. Her face was drawn, her hands thin and fluttering. She was seated in one of the leather armchairs. I could see she was nervous.
Inspector Blackburn was on the small side, but quick and tightly knit. He was bald, with bright blue eyes and a sharp nose. Offering his handkerchief, he added his profound sympathies on her loss.
“I understand you were engaged to be married,” he said.
Charlotte nodded, tears in her eyes. The handkerchief was pressed, but it had been doused with an unfortunate cologne, and she declined.
“Had Mr. Newsome told you anything about these notes, prior to the night in question?”
Charlotte shook her head. “He didn’t take them seriously.”
“I see. And what time were you to meet your betrothed?”
“Around eleven thirty. In the library. He was going to give me his grandmother’s ring.”
“But you did not meet him.”
“No. I was…” Charlotte glanced at her father. “I was delayed.”
“By who?” said Blackburn sharply. “Someone you knew?”
“Yes. Beatrice Tyler.”
“Not an associate of anarchists,” Mr. Benchley informed Mr. Blackburn.
“What did Miss Tyler want?”
“Want?” Charlotte licked her lips. “Nothing.”
“But you must have told her you had to meet your fiancé.”
“She didn’t care,” said Charlotte. “We quarreled. Beatrice, Miss Tyler, was jealous, you see, she said…”
Mr. Benchley interrupted. “I’m sure the detective isn’t interested in personal matters not pertaining to the case.”
“No, indeed,” Blackburn assured Charlotte, as if she had spoken. “Can you tell me what time your conversation with Miss Tyler occurred?”
Agitated, Charlotte shook her head. “After eleven. But I can’t recall exactly.”
“And were you near the library before the tragedy occurred?”
“No. Miss Tyler saw fit to ruin my dress, and I had to change.”
&n
bsp; Blackburn turned toward Mr. Benchley. “Were you near the library, sir?”
“I was. I assumed my daughter would be there and wished to escort her back to the ball for the announcement of her engagement.”
This, I thought, was almost true. Or not untrue. Apparently, Mr. Benchley did not wish to tell the inspector Charlotte had been thought missing.
“But you didn’t see anyone leave.”
“I did not. There are two entrances to the library. I assume the murderer left by the other door. It leads to the kitchen and would have provided a quicker exit point.”
“And who found the body?”
If Mr. Benchley was going to mention the fact that I had discovered the body, he would do so now. I held my breath.
“Mrs. Newsome,” said Mr. Benchley. “By the time I reached the library, she and her husband were already there.”
Satisfied, the inspector turned his attention back to Charlotte. Did she know of anyone who had a grudge against her fiancé?
She shook her head.
Had he done anything out of the ordinary lately?
Glancing at her father, Charlotte said, “Well, he went to Philadelphia.”
Mr. Benchley explained, “I’m sure you’re aware that the family has mines in Pennsylvania.”
Had Charlotte noticed anyone suspicious? Anyone she didn’t recognize?
“There were so many people,” she whispered.
It seemed Inspector Blackburn was finished. But then he turned on his heel and said to Charlotte, “Forgive me for this personal question. But are you familiar with a medication known as Pep Pills?”
I kept my face still by staring at the clock. The pills. Mrs. Benchley had brought them. What had happened to them? She’d offered them to Charlotte. Charlotte refused.
Louise reaching. Here, Mother, give them to me.
I heard Charlotte say, “I am not.”
With that, the interview was over. Inspector Blackburn shook Mr. Benchley’s hand and gave him his card. I moved toward the door, ready to show him out.
A Death of No Importance--A Novel Page 7