A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  Only when Mrs. Armslow asked if he saw a lot of Norrie, as he was at the same school, did William’s good humor falter. But he recovered, saying, “Yes, he’s tremendously popular, but I manage to see him sometimes.”

  He happened to catch my eye as he said it. In that moment, I knew that he had lied, and was worried about being caught in the lie—even by a servant. Out of sight of Mrs. Armslow, I smiled and he relaxed.

  One morning from Mrs. Armslow’s bedroom window, I caught sight of the pack racing outside. Norrie and the Tyler girls ran ahead. Lucinda lagged a little behind. Then I saw William, hands in his pockets, head down, walking down the path. Lucinda called, “Come on, William!” and Norrie shouted, “Yes, move, you slow old Willy Billy Bear,” and there was a burst of laughter. At that, he took one long step forward, but then slowed again, as if he wanted to please, but the heart wasn’t in it.

  Another day, I heard crying near the carriage house. I looked around the corner and saw William crouched there, his face red and damp with tears and mucus.

  “Mr. William?”

  Panicked, he knuckled his cheeks as if that could hide the evidence of tears. I had a clean washcloth I had meant to use for Mrs. Armslow’s bath. I held it out to him.

  He took it gratefully, rubbing his face as he rose to his feet. He wore long shorts, a white shirt, and a light seersucker jacket. His straw hat lay on the sand.

  He said, “I’m sorry.”

  Embarrassed, I said, “You don’t have to be sorry, Mr. William.”

  Then, on impulse, I added, “And don’t let them bully you. It’s only because they’re bored and can’t think of anything more intelligent.”

  Then I froze. I had insulted one of … them was the only grouping I could think of. I would be shouted at, probably fired. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  But William smiled. “He isn’t very intelligent, is he?”

  We didn’t speak again for the rest of the visit. But at the end of the month, William sought me out and handed me five dollars. “For your kindness,” he said stiffly. Then he stammered, “I’m sorry it’s only money. It seems vulgar to … I’m not good at putting things…” He blew air in frustration. “I wish it was more.”

  Then he burst out triumphantly, “I’ll see you at Christmas!”

  * * *

  Louise broke into my thoughts. “Do you know William Tyler, Jane?”

  I saw that she had gone pink. “Somewhat. I think he’s an excellent young man, Miss Louise,” I said truthfully.

  Charlotte was surprisingly calm at the prospect of seeing Beatrice. When I went to her room to dress her, I found her fussing at her jewelry box. “Did you pack my onyx earrings?”

  “Yes, Miss Charlotte.” I pointed them out.

  Holding them to her ears, she said, “If that old woman asks me about Scarsdale one more time, I won’t be responsible. And of course, she’s invited the Tylers to dinner. Just to remind everyone who Norrie should have married.”

  Her tone was light. But her jaw was set, her eyes fixed, and in that moment, I saw a very young girl who was fighting for composure.

  Looking at her jewelry box, I asked, “What color were you wearing when Mr. Newsome proposed?”

  “Blue. Norrie liked me in blue.”

  I selected a pair of sapphire earrings, brilliant and flashing. “Then perhaps you could wear these for him.”

  The earrings would invite comment from the elder Mrs. Newsome. But Charlotte smiled. As I fixed them in her ears, she said softly, “Thank you, Jane.”

  When the ladies had gone down to dinner, I set out their slippers and nightgowns and settled into a chair in Louise’s room for a nap. I woke hours later, to hear Charlotte’s voice. I opened the door to see Louise pale and shaking and Charlotte bright with rage.

  She hissed, “I hope the Newsomes throw him out of the house.”

  Louise gulped. “He only said what was true.”

  “How dare you…”

  As she took a step toward her sister, I said, “Miss Charlotte. Miss Louise?”

  “Yes, ask her,” Charlotte told me. “Ask her to repeat what that criminal idiot said.”

  “Miss Charlotte, your voice is raised.”

  She wheeled on me. “I don’t care. I don’t care who hears me. It can’t be any more obscene than…” Crying, she made her way to her room and slammed the door.

  It all came out as I brushed Louise’s hair, as she sat in her nightgown, her head swaying under the force of the brush. “It is my fault,” she began. “I never know what to say, and I always end up saying the wrong thing.”

  “I’m not certain there are many ‘right’ things to say on such an occasion, Miss Louise.”

  “But I said the exact wrong thing.” She looked up at me, a swath of light brown hair banding across the side of her face. “Because I wanted to impress him.”

  “Who, Miss Louise?”

  “William Tyler,” she said, blushing. “He was talking about workers’ difficulties and strikes and how they’re not really treated very well. I thought he was being sort of marvelous. So I wanted to show him, I don’t know, that I understood—even though I don’t. Like an idiot, I blurted out, ‘Oh, like the notes.’”

  I suppressed a sigh. Of all the wrong things one could say at a dinner after a funeral, Louise had indeed chosen one of the very wrongest.

  “And then Mrs. Newsome—the old one, not the new one—said she wouldn’t have it talked about, that the notes were just malice and envy. People who were jealous because I don’t know, they hadn’t got what the Newsomes did because they were lazy…”

  “And then?”

  “Well, then it got very quiet for a while. Charlotte asked old Mrs. Newsome if she’d had a good crossing, and Mrs. Newsome didn’t answer her, and new Mrs. Newsome said yes, the sea had been very calm, and then William said…”

  She swallowed.

  “What did he say, Miss Louise?”

  “Then William said, ‘I forget now. How many children died in that mine?’”

  That stopped my breath.

  “Then poor Mr. Newsome stood up and shouted that William was a guest in his home, and William said yes, and he was sorry, but it was absurd to pretend that Norrie had died because people were jealous over candlesticks. Then Charlotte said that Norrie was the finest man alive and the scum who murdered him would get the chair. And Mr. Newsome said William wasn’t too old to thrash, and for a moment it looked like he was going to try, because he started struggling out of his chair…”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “But then new Mrs. Newsome had the servants clear, so no one could really say anything. And William apologized. But Mr. Newsome said, ‘I do not accept your apology.’ So we all sat there.”

  I resumed brushing. “It’s not your fault, Miss Louise.”

  “But I mentioned the notes.”

  “Mr. William would have found a way to make his point whether you mentioned them or not.”

  She nodded absently, and for a while seemed to put the evening out of her mind as I worked the tangles out of her hair.

  But as Louise slid under the covers, she said, “When you see Charlotte? Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

  Her tone was so serious that for a moment, I wondered what she was talking about. But clearly, Charlotte had made her feel she had committed a terrible wrong. “I will, Miss Louise. Don’t worry about it any more.”

  Going across the hall to Charlotte’s room, I found her sitting at the dressing table, already in her nightgown. The dress she had worn that evening had been left on the floor like a bad memory. I gathered it up and laid it across a low bench by the door.

  “Miss Louise is very sorry, Miss Charlotte.”

  Charlotte sighed, her head on her hand. Under her breath, she said, “Louise.” The way you might refer to a dog who has soiled the carpet. And might have to be shot because you cannot teach him otherwise.

  When Charlotte was settled into bed, I turned down the lights. In the da
rkness, I heard, “I did love him. No matter what anyone says.”

  “I know you did, Miss Charlotte.” I eased the door closed.

  A moment later, I saw William coming up the stairs.

  He smiled with relief on seeing me. “Jane.” He looked toward Charlotte’s room. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “I think you’d get something thrown at you if you tried.” I lowered my voice. “What were you thinking?”

  He looked guiltily at the doors of the two sisters, then said, “Care for a cigarette?”

  9

  It is here I must confess a great weakness, one that might have gotten me arrested in New York if I had done it in public. I—very occasionally—smoked cigarettes. In my defense, I only smoked in the company of one William Tyler. The habit started one Christmas a few years back when the family was visiting Mrs. Armslow. I had found William in the backyard, furtively inhaling. “Don’t tell your aunt,” I said. “No,” he said. “You neither.” Then he offered me a fresh cigarette from the box.

  We wandered out onto the grounds of the Newsome estate, our breath turning to clouds. Catching sight of the mausoleum, starkly pale in the moonlight, we turned and took a different direction.

  We soon found a private spot, a wrought-iron bench under an arc of hedge. It was cold but beautiful, with the night sky filled with stars. Hugging our coats tight, keeping one hand free, we sat like the near-children we’d been when we met.

  William smoked the first cigarette in silence, then pitched the end into the darkness. Lighting the second, he said, “It was stupid, I know.”

  “It was stupid. And unkind.”

  William inhaled deeply.

  “I know you didn’t mean to be,” I said.

  “No, I did. They were all so … smug. As if Norrie Newsome was some saintly young hero. Do you know what I thought? When I heard he’d been killed? I thought, Good.”

  After inhaling and exhaling, I said, “He wasn’t very nice to you.”

  William smiled bitterly. “Charlotte doesn’t realize how lucky she is.” He sighed. “Or Bea. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, he’s dead.”

  He took another drag, then dropped the remains onto the grass. I reminded myself to pick them up before we went inside. It wasn’t like William to be thoughtless. Normally, he was at pains not to cause work for others.

  Lighting another cigarette, William smiled at the slim white tube in his hands and said, “Funny—Norrie preferred cigars.”

  “Did he?”

  “Oh, yes. Remember that summer at my aunt’s? He would steal them from his father and make a big show of ‘sharing’ them. ‘Take it, smoke it. What are you, a girl?’ The whole first two weeks of that visit, he ignored me. Then one afternoon, he said, ‘Let’s sneak out after dark and have an adventure.’” William’s mouth twisted. “I was thrilled.”

  “Most people would have been.”

  “The first time, I got sick. Threw up all over the sand after two puffs. Norrie laughed his head off. Then he offered me brandy and said, ‘Have this and try again.’”

  “You got sicker.” I guessed.

  “Eventually, I got the hang of it. I was so pleased with myself. Look at me, friends with Norrie Newsome.” He stared out into the darkness.

  Then, lifting his arm, he pulled back his shirtsleeve and showed me the inside of his wrist. In the dark, I could make out a small pale circle of flesh. I had a few on my arm from ironing; I recognized burn scars.

  William tugged the shirtsleeve back into place. “That was the first time.”

  “The first.”

  “It was a dare. The kind of things boys do. How long can you stand it? Does it hurt if I do it on your arm? Your leg?”

  He broke off. In the dark, I could see his hand was shaking.

  “Every so often, he’d do it to himself, touch it to his hand, his ankle. Once he pulled down his pants and held it over … Well.” He pitched the half-finished cigarette into the dark.

  Gathering himself, he said, “So I’m damned glad he didn’t marry Bea, and I’m damned glad he didn’t marry Charlotte, and I’m damned glad he’ll never marry anyone.”

  William kept his head down. But he edged closer to me on the bench; the broad stretch of his back curved near my hand. I found myself touching it in a strange impulse to see it not so abandoned.

  Then just as quickly, I pulled back. I turned slightly and considered my cigarette.

  “Thank you,” I heard him say.

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  For a blind, stupid second, I thought he meant my brief touch, then realized. “No, of course not. Never.” What a story that would be for Michael Behan. THE STRANGE PRACTICES OF WEALTHY YOUNG MEN.

  William stood. From the safety of height, he said, “Should I walk you back to the house?”

  “I think it’s best if you go on your own.”

  “I’ll leave the kitchen door cracked for you.” Giving me an extra cigarette, he turned to go.

  Then he turned back. “Maybe when I’m in the city, I’ll call on Louise Benchley.”

  “She’d like that.” Louise would disintegrate with joy.

  He set off toward the house, leaving me to smoke. Drawing on my cigarette, I wandered and mulled what William had told me. Tales related to tobacco and not. I shuddered at the memory of the pale patch of skin on William’s wrist. What a hell Charlotte Benchley had escaped.

  A question drifted into my head. Then, like the cigarette smoke wafting into the night air, it spread thin and vanished.

  “Pssst.” Startled, I turned, feeling I was back in the world of childhood, and saw Rose Newsome in a man’s overcoat, her head wrapped in a scarf. She might have been anonymous, but the large, shining eyes, the beautiful mouth, and the lock of hair blowing free of the scarf gave her away.

  The Greek myths are full of stories in which gods appear to astonished mortals. I had some sense of how those mortals felt as she approached, saying, “A fellow sinner! Thank God.”

  She held up a small box. “Care to try these? Gauloises. They’re hideously strong. My husband objects to the smell, so I have to sneak.”

  I held up my own half-finished cigarette as an excuse. “No, but thank you, ma’am.”

  Thinking Rose Newsome would want to enjoy her gardens in peace, I nodded a deferential good night and made to step away.

  “You needn’t go.” There was something in her voice beyond kindness, an actual need. “Stay. Please.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure. You might be the one person who isn’t furious with me this weekend.”

  Lighting her cigarette, she murmured, “I’m always babbling at servants. Robert tells me I must stop. But part of me keeps feeling I should be one of you. A girl from Schuylkill in a house like this? She belongs in the kitchen, doesn’t she?”

  I felt that those words, or words close to them, had been spoken to her, probably by a member of her new family. “You’d be very out of place in the kitchen, ma’am.”

  “Tell me, how is poor Charlotte?”

  I thought, then answered truthfully, “Mourning.”

  “I was going to her room, but I found myself waylaid by Beatrice Tyler, who was also in a dreadful state because I had asked Charlotte to stay. I almost told her, ‘You should speak with my mother-in-law. She agrees with you entirely.’ I thought the Tylers and the Benchleys were such great friends.”

  “They were.”

  “I see.” She inhaled. “No one’s really explained it to me, but I gather there was a romantic misunderstanding?”

  She was fishing; clearly Mr. Newsome had not thought his new wife worthy of hearing the complicated histories of the Tyler and Newsome families.

  I said, “The Newsomes and Tylers have been close for many years. There was an expectation that young Mr. Newsome and Miss Tyler…”

  She nodded. “That’s the difficulty with expectations, they’re so seldom realized. Apparently, the young ladies had w
ords at the ball.” Taking my silence for ignorance, she added, “Things were said, dresses damaged. Hair may even have been pulled. All I know is there’s a great, horrible stain on my carpet.”

  The wine Beatrice threw at Charlotte, I thought.

  “And of course,” she continued, “Lucinda’s been angry with me since … well, my wedding. And Norrie just hated me from the beginning. Stupid of me to think that if I took his side over Charlotte, he might think better of me. All it did was enrage everyone else. Of course Lucinda would never have been rational about anyone he married.”

  Then she smiled. “Oh, dear, that wasn’t very discreet of me. You’re very easy to talk to, Jane. People must tell you that all the time.”

  I smiled. And wondered what Mrs. Newsome meant when she said Lucinda wasn’t rational on the subject of her brother.

  I asked, “Have the police made any progress?”

  “They have the notes. A handwriting expert’s looking at them. They took fingerprints. Another expert’s looking at them. But since the man got away … well, it’s hard to find one anarchist in an entire city. They’re almost certain he had help, a network, they call it. So he could be in Chicago by now. Or Canada. Inspector Blackburn says his informants will hear if anyone boasts about it.” She inhaled agitatedly. “He says there’s a good chance they’ll try it again.”

  “Have there been more notes?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. One. It arrived yesterday. It said, ‘Now your son is dead.’ And the police aren’t really sure, does that mean they won’t stop there or—?” Suddenly she seemed to feel the cold and pulled her coat tight around her. “Please don’t tell that to the Benchleys. I haven’t even told my husband. His doctors say it’s essential he be kept calm.”

  “How is Mr. Newsome?” I asked.

  “Not well,” she said. “He and Norrie had their fights, but there’s no stronger bond, is there? I lost my father young. It was the end of the world.”

  Finishing her cigarette, she said, “I had better go back. Come—I’ll open the back door for you.”

  As I followed her to the back of the house—what an unusual sight she made, wandering the grounds in her man’s coat—she said mischievously, “I saw William Tyler coming in as I went out. Was he your smoking companion? He seems to have quite a passion for the working classes.”