A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “I have a feeling Norrie Newsome might have jogged his memory,” said Behan.

  It was true no law firm would turn down a meeting with a member of such a wealthy family. We might learn what the lawyer had told Norrie Newsome—or that he had refused to tell him anything. I admit that was what I hoped. I had decided not to tell Michael Behan about Mr. Newsome’s medicinal mishap. In the light of day, I felt there was every chance it had been an accident; sedatives were tricky to manage. Surely, a hired nurse was responsible. Although I did not remember seeing any such nurse at the Newsome house …

  The firm’s offices were handsome and respectable, but not of the first class, and I didn’t feel shy approaching the front desk. Still, an officious clerk demanded to know our business.

  I said, “One of your attorneys was recommended to us. We hoped to speak with him.”

  He peered at us through his glasses in a way that indicated doubt as to whether we could pay the firm’s fees. “Which one, please?”

  “Mr. George Gilfoyle.”

  The clerk frowned, looked from me to Mr. Behan and back again. Either I had named a senior member of the staff—or the janitor.

  “A client recommended him, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Behan firmly. “He was recommended by Robert Norris Newsome Jr.”

  I could not tell whether it was that young man’s wealth or death that spurred the clerk to action. But he told us to wait a moment and went through the dark oak door.

  “He seems less than impressed by Mr. Gilfoyle’s abilities,” I said.

  “Newsome’s name got a reaction, though.”

  A few minutes later, he was back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gilfoyle isn’t in at the moment.”

  This was an obvious lie. There was only one entrance, and the sharp-eyed clerk would be able to see everyone who came and went.

  “Can we make an appointment to see him?” I asked.

  “He isn’t taking clients at this time.” The clerk began shuffling papers around the desk with no particular purpose other than avoiding our eyes.

  “Did he just tell you that?” Behan asked. The clerk glared at him. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot, he’s not in. Tell me, was he in when Mr. Newsome called?”

  “I can’t divulge—”

  “Did he meet with him sometime in December?” I asked. I knew the clerk wouldn’t give me a verbal answer, but from his startled look, I knew for certain that Gilfoyle and Norrie had met.

  “I’d like you to leave now,” he said.

  * * *

  “We should have told him we were a charity,” I said when we were out on the street. “Hoping to approach the benefactor for a needy case. That might have been less threatening than tossing Norrie’s name around.”

  “They would have thrown us straight out if we were a charity,” said Behan, gazing down the street. “Now what?”

  We walked for several blocks, thinking as we went. If we could not meet with the lawyer, we couldn’t find out the name of the benefactor or what he might have told Norrie about Rose Briggs/Coogan. I was wondering if perhaps we could ask Mrs. Ramsay if she knew the local great and good, when Behan stopped dead in the street.

  “What was the name of that store? The old lady said the mother worked there?”

  “Wanamaker’s.”

  He pointed. And there it was, across the street.

  * * *

  It was not a shop for men. If we were going to learn anything about the Coogan family after they left Schuylkill, it would be up to me to find it out. I wandered the aisles, looking for the sort of woman Behan and I had agreed would be most likely to know anything. I found her straightening shirtwaists on a table. A saleslady, perhaps in her early forties, plump and rather genteel looking. Approaching her, I said, “Excuse me.”

  She turned with a “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a woman who might work here. Or did in the past.”

  The smile dimmed but did not disappear. “Who might that be?”

  “A Mrs. Coogan,” I guessed. “Or she may have gone by her maiden name of Briggs; she was widowed.”

  The reaction was instant: the woman raised her eyebrows in sharp surprise and said, “I’m afraid that woman went on to her reward several years ago.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Yes, I knew her.” She picked up a swathe of brocade that had been left in disarray by a customer.

  “You didn’t like her?”

  “It’s not for me to like or dislike, I’m sure.”

  I launched into my prepared story. “My mother and she were friends as girls. She said if I was ever in Philadelphia, I must get in touch. My mother will be so sad to hear of her passing. The last we heard she had come into some money.”

  The saleswoman smiled sadly. “She didn’t come into any money, dear. She came into a man.”

  “She married again?”

  “I don’t believe I mentioned marriage.” The lady began folding, taking her discomfort out on the brocade. “That gentleman wasn’t the marrying kind.”

  Up to this moment, I had had a clear picture of Rose Coogan’s savior. He would be an older man, not unlike my uncle in appearance, but obviously wealthier and better groomed. He would have that rather vague benevolence, a dotty otherworldliness, that was common among the rich who chose to do good by sharing God’s blessings among the less fortunate. Now I saw how wrong I had been.

  Shaking her head, the saleslady said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s just that Mrs. Briggs shared with me her terrible story, how her husband fell to drink and met his end. We had things in common, let me say that. Although my trials continue.”

  So that was why a woman like her was working behind the counter; her husband was a drunkard.

  “And your hope,” I said.

  She tried to smile. “The poor woman did have a child. But she was also the kind of woman who’s known comfort and can’t give it up, no matter what the cost.”

  “Perhaps the gentleman was kind…”

  “He was neither kind nor a gentleman. Does a gentleman send his carriage and driver to a store after-hours? As if she were a … well, I suppose she was. Two nights out of every week, she went to his house. And she took that poor child with her. Said she’d no one to leave her with. Well, if you’ve no one to leave your child with, you stay home if you’re any kind of mother.”

  “Maybe the child liked going,” I tried.

  That made her angry. Setting her fists on her hips, she said, “I remember one day the little girl told her mother she didn’t want to go. Started crying. Do you know—that woman shouted at her. ‘What do you not want? Do you not want to eat? Have a roof over your head? What is it you don’t want?’ Then she took that little girl by the arm and pulled her out to the carriage.”

  Her mouth twisted. “Once I got up the nerve to tell her she should be ashamed of herself. She got sick and quit a few months later. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

  “And the gentleman? Do you remember his name?”

  “She never said. But I once overheard the driver telling her that Mr. Farragut wouldn’t like to be kept waiting.” Her hands hovered over the cloth, even though it was now folded and there was nothing left to do. “I still think about that little girl sometimes.”

  I was about to say she shouldn’t worry, the little girl had landed just fine. But then I wondered, had she?

  Before leaving, I said, “May I ask one more question?” The woman didn’t say no. “Was a young man here about a month ago, also asking about that lady?”

  Surprised by the question, she said, “We don’t get young men in here, dear. Although I do remember one older man. Said he was from Cincinnati. Bought a lovely beige peignoir for his wife.” She smiled. “Size 40.”

  * * *

  Behan had told me to meet him at a restaurant a block down from Wanamaker’s. As I walked, I assembled the pieces of what I had learned: that Rose Coogan’s mother had been … several wor
ds presented themselves, and I rejected all of them … the friend of a wealthy man who paid her bills. Which meant she might have, if she were so inclined, taken a room at my uncle’s refuge.

  But Norrie had not gone to Wanamaker’s, so he would have been unaware of Mrs. Coogan’s financial arrangements. Unless Gilfoyle had told him. I could see it, the two men, smirks barely suppressed. So, the widow Briggs charmed Mr. Farragut out of his cash. Wonder what she offered as collateral …

  Behan was not sitting at a table when I entered the restaurant. Puzzled, I asked the waitress if she had seen a tall, dark-haired man. I almost said, “Good-looking,” but from the way she said, “Oh, yes, he’s here,” I could see I didn’t have to.

  “He’s on the phone,” she said and pointed.

  At the back of the restaurant, Behan leaned against the wall, the receiver to his ear. I raised a hand, wanting to let him know I was here. And as I did so, I heard him say, “No, darling, I’ll be home soon. Nope, promise. Tomorrow or day after. I know you have. Me, too.”

  Then he looked up and saw me. Adding a last “Good-bye,” he hung up the phone and looked at me. He seemed embarrassed, as if he had been caught out. But really, what did it matter? Michael Behan was married. Most men were married. I should have expected as much. No wonder that button had been so well sewn.

  For a moment we stood there, awkward with each other. I was about to ask his wife’s name when he said, “Hungry?” and I said, “Yes,” and the time for talking about it was over.

  * * *

  “So, Ma was a kept woman,” said Behan when I told him.

  “I’m not sure she merited that status,” I said. “She had a job. She only seems to have asked for help for her daughter.”

  “The school.”

  I nodded. “Maybe when she died, she made the man promise to look after Rose.”

  I expected brutal sarcasm, but he considered it. “Sort of pathetic, when you think about it. ‘A Mother’s Sacrifice.’ Would that be enough of a scandal to make Rose Newsome bash Norrie’s brains out? I mean, it’s not the pedigree you’d ask for, but public sympathy might be in her favor.”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Newsome would want to be married to the daughter of a loose woman.” Hence his recent accidental overdose—the thought came before I could stop it. “But he may not have known. The saleslady said the man’s name was Farragut. We could find out where he lives, see if Norrie found him. Although he might be married, for all we know. It could be awkward…” I felt self-conscious and trailed off.

  If he noticed, Mr. Behan didn’t show it. “I’ve got a better idea. While you were shopping, I was talking to the doorman who works in that building. He said our Mr. Gilfoyle leaves every night at five on the dot. He notices it because most of the lawyers stay late sometimes. Not Mr. Gilfoyle. So I figure, we wait in the lobby and we get him on the way home.”

  “I suppose.” Maybe it was tiredness from yesterday, but I was sick of Norrie Newsome. Of sad, desperate women and the men who let them down. And Philadelphia, I was sick of that, too. I wanted to go home.

  And still, I followed Mr. Behan back to the law offices and waited with him on the street. The streetlights had just come on when the first men started leaving the building. I said, “How will we know him?”

  “The doorman described him—there he is.” Behan started walking purposefully toward a tall, thin man with stooped shoulders. “Mr. Gilfoyle?”

  I could tell from the fearful way the man turned that he knew we were the same people who had asked for him earlier. His appearance was unhealthy, his face drawn, with bruised pouches under his eyes. His hand shook as he lifted it to his hat. “What do you want with me?”

  “To talk to you, Mr. Gilfoyle.”

  “No.” Energized by fear, he started walking again. Moving quickly, I put myself in front of him.

  “We know you talked with Norrie Newsome.”

  “Please get out of my way, miss.”

  “If you could tell us what you told him—”

  “You must understand that I can’t.”

  “And you must know why we’re asking,” I said.

  Behan said, “We know you signed the checks for Rose Coogan.” Mr. Gilfoyle now looked more panicked than ever. “And we have a pretty good idea why. We want to know what you told Mr. Newsome about it.”

  “I can’t. Please. I don’t want to be rude—”

  “Well, perhaps we could talk to your client, Mr. Farragut,” I said.

  At that, Gilfoyle froze. “No, I don’t think you can.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Behan.

  “Because he’s dead,” said Gilfoyle. “Just as Mr. Newsome is dead. Now please—leave me alone.”

  I don’t know how long it was after the terrified Mr. Gilfoyle had disappeared that we first heard it, the shrill, urgent cry of a boy. Perhaps it was because we were stunned, or perhaps because it was such a common sound, blending in with the other sounds of a city—horse hooves, horns honking, men and women grumbling as they made their way home in the chilly dark. Who pays attention to one newsboy trying to sell the evening paper?

  But eventually, the words, repeated over and over, became clear. “Extra! Extra! Arrest in Newsome murder! Anarchist arrested in the killing of Newsome heir!”

  Oh, God, I thought. Anna …

  18

  Mary had quit.

  With both her regular maid and her sister/whipping boy out of the house, Charlotte’s irritation had only one target besides her mother. After the third day of faultfinding, pointless errands, and correction, Mary walked out.

  I heard all about it from Bernadette over breakfast the morning after we got back. “They expected me to do their hair, wash their clothes, and make a fuss. After ten minutes, I wanted to slap her with the back of the brush.”

  “Maybe Miss Charlotte’s mood will improve now that there’s been an arrest.”

  “That Inspector Blackburn stopped by personally to give her the news. Miss Nose in the Air was in high spirits when he left.”

  As casually as possible, I said, “He didn’t mention the name of the person they’ve arrested, did he? The papers didn’t say.” I had searched every newspaper I could find in Philadelphia for mention of Anna. They had referred to the anarchist as “he,” but with no other evidence, they would assume the killer was a man.

  She shook her head. “Might have. Something foreign, I’m sure.” Putting her dishes in the sink, she added, “By the way, Mister wants to see you. In his office.”

  “Now?”

  “Now is usually when they want it.”

  When Louise and I had arrived last night, it had been too late for me to speak with Mr. Benchley. Now it seemed it was time to make my report. As I walked downstairs, I tried to assemble a suitable narrative of everything Michael Behan and I had learned. Then wondered: did it matter? The anarchist had been caught. Whatever happened in Rose Newsome’s past—who her father was, what her mother did to get her an education—was no longer important. Norrie might never have learned his stepmother’s full history; he might have only found out that her great benefactor was dead. Which wasn’t shocking. Benefactors died all the time—it was one of the most beneficent things they did; look at Mrs. Armslow.

  Only they didn’t usually leave their lawyers in a blind panic when they did so. Michael Behan had made that very point to me on the day he told me he would stay in Philadelphia until he could find out what had happened to Mr. Farragut.

  I reminded him he had told his wife he would be home tomorrow. He went quiet, then said, “She’s used to it.”

  Then he either said my name or was about to say it, and I knew something would follow that shouldn’t be spoken.

  So I said, “Please give me the registry sheet for Mr. Benchley.”

  The door to Mr. Benchley’s study was closed, as it always was. When I knocked, I heard, “Yes?” and said, “It’s Jane, sir.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Yes, come in.”

  When I
entered, Mr. Benchley was writing something. Without looking up, he said, “How was your trip?”

  I stepped forward and placed the envelope with the registry sheet on the desk. A hint of a smile crossed Mr. Benchley’s face, and I wondered if it gave him pleasure to think of the Tylers’ embarrassment.

  “We found nothing that would reflect poorly on Miss Charlotte,” I said. “But we did learn…”

  He waved a hand as if everything else was irrelevant. “Now that the murder has been solved, I trust that Charlotte’s name will no longer be appearing in Town Topics. Astonishingly, Inspector Blackburn was right. The man is an anarchist. They found pamphlets in his room.”

  “It is a man, then?” I said, then corrected myself. “One man?”

  “Oh, yes. Witnesses place him at the house the night of the murder. Apparently he gained access by delivering ice.”

  My heart felt as if it had stopped beating. Working my mouth so that my speech would sound normal, I said, “Did he send the notes?”

  “It would seem. He had a nephew who died in that mining accident.”

  Accident, I thought, remembering Anna’s words. When poor people die, it’s an accident. When rich people die, then it’s murder.

  I said, “Still, they don’t know for sure. Simply because he was there…”

  “They do know. The man’s confessed.”

  I took this in. “And they think he acted alone?”

  “The man says he did, but of course they’ll look at his associates.”

  He took up the pen again. Able servants know when they are dismissed without words. It’s vulgar to continue to be present after the point of dismissal; it breaks the contract of invisibility.

  Mrs. Armslow had once said of me, “I never know she is there until I need her.” Her friend agreed. “That’s as it should be. The best staff should be like the plumbing. You couldn’t do without, but you certainly don’t want to see it.”

  And yet I had a question. Moving my foot slightly on the rug made a gentle brushing sound. Mr. Benchley looked up.

  “Do you think it was a genuine confession?” I asked.

  “Genuine?”

  Frustrated that he was pretending not to know what I meant, I said, “Coerced.”