A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “He doesn’t know who you are.”

  “Of course he does. I’m Mrs. Robert Newsome.”

  With everything her family was denied, I thought, the protection and largesse of the Newsome family. But not protected enough, it seemed.

  “And Mr. Charley?”

  At this question, Rose Newsome’s expression changed. Became empty somehow, as if she had been daydreaming during a particularly boring tea party and had been asked a question she had not quite heard and was trying to think of an answer.

  I said, “His face was destroyed, too.”

  “Only the eyes. I don’t like the eyes. You get so tired, don’t you? Of being looked at. Maybe some women feel flattered, but I’ve always felt the moment a man’s eyes settle on me, he’s halfway to feeling he can do anything.”

  Then she shook herself out of vagueness. “When Mr. Charley heard from his friends at the school who I was going to marry, he asked me back to his house to discuss what he called ‘the financials.’ He felt he deserved a reward—monthly and for the rest of his life. When I saw him, standing in front of that fireplace, when I thought about everything that had happened in that house, the way they laughed, pulled at me, left mess on me—I couldn’t breathe. As if he were standing on my chest, crushing my heart.”

  Her hands had begun to stir; now she settled them, said simply, “He had to go away.”

  “And then Norrie.” I looked back at her empty glass, filmy with the residue of egg white. “That wasn’t done in a flash of rage, was it? You knew you were going to kill him. That’s why you drugged him. His father had kept him short on liquor that night—was that your suggestion?”

  She nodded.

  “And when you met him in the library, you offered him your own drink.”

  “He was rude about it, sniffing at a silly girls’ drink. But I told him, ‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’ I think he was, right before he passed out. I think … he knew.” Her mouth quirked in satisfaction. “I like to think he was frightened. For the first time in his life.”

  “Why?”

  “… Did I do it?” she asked. “When I heard of Norrie’s sudden interest in Philadelphia, I knew he wasn’t concerned with business. So I asked one of the family … let’s call them associates … to keep an eye on him. Norrie’s behavior was so wild, nobody questioned it. The associate reported his journey to Phipps Academy and his overnight stay with a lady I guessed was Beatrice Tyler. That shocked me a little.” Half joking, she widened her eyes at me. “Weren’t you shocked? Such a fine young lady.”

  “And when Norrie came back?”

  “When Norrie came back, he told me that unless I got his father to change his views on his allowance, he would make a very different announcement at the ball.”

  “Did he go to Schuylkill?” I asked.

  “No. And he never made the connection with Coogan. That’s how clever he was. Still, talking to Mayles and Gilfoyle, he’d found out enough about Mr. Charley to guess that he wasn’t interested in my mother. I told him I needed time to think. But I knew Norrie would never keep his mouth shut—no matter how much money we gave him. When my husband decided to hire extra security for the party because of the death threats, I thought, Oh. Yes.

  “I put Norrie off until the night of the party. So many people, anyone could get in. That night—you saw us arguing—I said I would meet him in the library and give my answer. And I did.

  “While the drug took effect, he told me everything he thought he knew about me. As if he were important, so very important. And I thought, You—you’re absurd. You haven’t done anything. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it feels like. What old hands feel like. Slack, dry lips. Swollen, arthritic fingers pulling at you. You feel all that, then tell me how important you are. You feel it…”

  I had a vision of her bringing the fire iron down on Norrie’s head, jabbing the eyes with the curved hook. To clear my head, I said, “You were still in the room, weren’t you? When I found him.”

  “I was. It took Norrie longer to pass out than I had thought. But then, thankfully, you left, and I could take my place beside him, having made the dreadful discovery…”

  “That’s why no one noticed the blood on your dress.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where did you hide the poker? It wasn’t there when I found the body.”

  “Behind the bookcase. The police were so convinced the anarchist had taken the weapon with him, they didn’t look very carefully. And no one in this house reads books.”

  “But of course you had to put it back. Any scullery maid would have noticed it missing when she went to clean out the ash the next morning.”

  “That’s right. It was a little tricky—the police took so long to leave. But around four in the morning, I was able to find Charlotte’s dress, clean off the poker, and put it back in place.”

  “And you spilled the pills on the floor. To incriminate Charlotte.”

  “Or you.”

  Remembering how she had deliberately sent me off with Norrie, I felt chilled.

  She explained, “I knew that death by beating wasn’t really like anarchists. I thought about a bomb in one of the cars.”

  My surprise must have shown, because she smiled. “I grew up in a mining town. I know about dynamite. But I could never get the timing to work. So I wanted to make sure the evidence pointed elsewhere. I, of course, had not forgotten my gloves, so my fingerprints weren’t on the bottle.”

  “Did you send the notes?” I asked her.

  “No.” She looked at me quizzically. “Can’t you guess who did?”

  I shook my head.

  “Norrie. He kept telling his father the notes were a joke, and they were—his joke.” Her face darkened. “I told him I knew it was him. But of course he wouldn’t admit it.”

  “And your husband’s medicine? Was that an accident?”

  She twisted the middle finger of her glove. “When you went to Philadelphia, I panicked a little. I didn’t know what you’d find out. I may have told the new nurse to be sure Mr. Newsome took his sedatives. And I may have told Lucinda she must do the same. It was a very difficult time. I can’t be sure whom I spoke to. Thankfully, the mistake was discovered. And then, of course, the anarchist was arrested, so…”

  So Mr. Newsome was safe—for the time being. “Are you sure you’re thankful?”

  “This might surprise you, but I don’t wish Mr. Newsome harm. The current arrangement is very livable.” She smiled. “Sometimes when he’s sleeping, I go in and lie beside him. I put a hand over his mouth, just under his nose. I see how long it takes before he struggles. But I always take my hand away.”

  Then she took a step toward me. “Jane, I want you to know I’m very glad I didn’t have to point the finger at you. I … I know that wouldn’t have been fair.”

  Fair. Her tone was earnest and simple, as if the worst thing she had done was to think of incriminating me. She hoped that having heard her story, I would understand and not punish her. And the terrible thing was, I did understand. But it wasn’t enough to understand.

  “You didn’t have to kill Norrie,” I said. “You could have left. Taken the jewelry, sold it, gone to live in Europe. I can’t speak to Mr. Charley. But Norrie, there was a choice. You didn’t have to take that life.”

  “Oh, such a worthy life,” she jeered. “Who misses him?”

  “His sister. Who was kind to you.”

  “Not recently. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”

  “It matters because there’s a third life—one you can save.” I saw from her expression she had no comprehension as to whom I meant. “Josef Pawlicec.”

  “The anarchist? But he confessed.”

  “But he’s not guilty. You know he’s not. He lost his nephew. Don’t let him suffer any more.”

  Her eyes hardened, and I saw I had made a mistake. In mentioning Josef Pawlicec’s nephew, I had reminded her of the children in Schuylkill. Now she had her ston
e, heavy and lethal, to throw right back at them.

  “I won’t ask you to confess,” I told her. “Just one call from you to the governor, asking for clemency. The Newsomes asking for mercy for a man many would say was harmed by the family? It would be very admirable.”

  “Too admirable,” she said. “The kind of admirable no one believes, so they pick at it. Find the hidden selfish motive.”

  “Then tell them the truth. Tell people what they did to you. Let the right people be punished this time.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes. That’s just what happened when Evelyn Nesbit told the world what Stanford White did to her when she was sixteen. I’d be the depraved slut who robbed the nation of a fine, upstanding young man.”

  That was impossible to argue. Still, I picked up the soiled dress. “If you don’t call the governor and save Josef Pawlicec’s life, I will go to the police.”

  “With that?”

  “The stains look as if someone wiped off the poker. Would an anarchist do that?”

  “There’s no proof as to who did the wiping.”

  “I have Norrie’s jacket from that night. There’s a stain on the lapel.”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, well, you’d better clean it, then.”

  “Traces of opiate were found on his clothes. Also albumen, a protein found in egg white. Which, of course, gives the Rose Blush its unique froth.”

  “Norrie drank out of several glasses that night. Hardly surprising he chose mine as well.”

  “But yours was the only one he spilled on himself. Maybe the opiates and the egg white aren’t enough to convict you. But it would make people ask questions, questions you don’t want asked.”

  Something flared in her eyes as I said that, and I was reminded this woman had taken two lives. Both times when she felt cornered and helpless.

  I said quickly, “I don’t want to cause you any more pain. I swear to you, I won’t tell a living soul what I know. But I won’t let Josef Pawlicec die. Just call the governor. Please, Mrs. Newsome. Rose.”

  For the briefest moment, there was a look of uncertain hope in her eyes; she was a child who has been found out, but senses that this time, there might be no beating. This time, perhaps, someone will understand that it is not her fault.

  But the hard lessons of the past had taught her otherwise, and I watched as the child Rose Coogan faded from view, to be replaced by an altogether different creature.

  Drawing herself up, she said, “My husband expects the murderer of his only son to be punished, and my husband’s wishes come first.”

  I knew it was the time to be hard, to make threats. But I found myself still wanting to reach her. “Hasn’t that been the problem? That the wants of men like your husband always come first?”

  She went to the mirror. As she checked her appearance, she said, “Have you heard of this theory, social Darwinism? My husband explained it to me several months ago. The theory states that the rich are rich because they are better, smarter, more hardworking, and so more able to survive. The poor, unendowed with such fine qualities, perish. And the strong feel nothing.” She glanced at me in the reflection. “Because no matter how much we have, we hold on to every last bit of it. And we treat any threat of diminishment as a threat to our existence.”

  Turning, she said, “We are not talking about lives of great value. So perhaps we might call this survival of the fittest?”

  I asked, “Did the miners at Shickshinny have value? Did your father?”

  Gathering her skirts, she said, “I must get back to my guests. I’d be grateful if you left.”

  “I think they did. Josef Pawlicec’s life has value. If you won’t speak for them, I will.”

  She looked up, and for a moment I was able to look fully and clearly at this young woman who was the ninth child victim of the Shickshinny Mine disaster. The child who had held her father’s hand as he stumbled in the dirt only to see him fall from her world completely, leaving her to the gleeful vengeance and savage use of others. Some might say she was the luckiest; once abandoned and abused, she was now resplendent. But she had brought the taste for blood with her.

  My uncle had said it: someone must speak for the dead.

  I said to Rose Newsome, “And I will speak for you.”

  23

  That night, in my room, I wrote. Page after page of what I knew about the murders of Charles Farragut and Robert Norris Newsome Jr., and the person who had killed them. When I was done with the first letter, I made a copy. One I would give to Michael Behan, the other to my uncle. In case. I didn’t know what Rose Newsome would do, and I thought it wise to write everything down.

  I would give her a week, I decided. If in seven days I did not see headlines announcing that the Newsomes had called for mercy, I would find a way to the police.

  I was in a strange, raw state, torn between feeling that I should act now, point the finger now, and a sense of despair when I imagined the outcome. Josef Pawlicec saved or Josef Pawlicec denied his role as righteous avenger. Rose Newsome exposed or Rose Coogan destroyed for the sins of others. When I saw a man give a girl an approving look on the street, I thought of Rose’s blank look when she spoke of the stares of those men as she stood on the table. I thought of what was left of Norrie’s skull when she had finished with him.

  Michael Behan called the house several times. I didn’t take his calls. For the first time in my life, I did not trust myself to act correctly.

  Toward the end of the week, I was taking a pair of Louise’s shoes downstairs for cleaning when I overheard Mrs. Benchley say to Charlotte, “I expect the Newsomes are in Rhinebeck by now.”

  I paused outside the door.

  “I hope they stay there,” said Charlotte.

  “Well, you know, they might. Mrs. Newsome did say at Lucinda’s party that they were simply worn out with the attention of the trial. She’s worried about Mr. Newsome’s health. Lucinda’s taking her grandmother back to Europe, so Mrs. Newsome thinks it will be better if they hide themselves away in the country.”

  The Newsomes did hide themselves away in Rhinebeck, rarely leaving the house except to see a few old friends of Mr. Newsome’s who also had homes along the Hudson. They left for one such visit on an early Friday morning, the day before I intended to speak with the police. Mrs. Farrell later told the newspapers she was struck by the exceptional tenderness shown by Rose Newsome to her husband as they got into the car. “It was cold, so she asked for an extra blanket and tucked it around him herself. And she gave him a kiss on the top of his head.”

  Sometime that morning, a farmer in Hurley reported hearing an explosion. He ran to see a car at the edge of a field, engulfed in flames. There was only one road that ran through the town, so it took some time for firemen to reach the doomed vehicle. It didn’t matter. The blast had been so strong, the Newsomes had died instantly, as had the chauffeur, whose name was Harold Greider.

  Naturally, suspicion fell upon Mr. Greider, who had started work with the Newsomes earlier that month. There were rumors that he had once belonged to a socialist organization, that his name was Galleani or Greenberg, not Greider at all. The police felt certain he had obtained the dynamite from the Newsome estate itself, where it was being used to blast through old tree stumps. One newspaper noted that this was a popular method of removal, especially for larger trees with entrenched roots that could resist less-explosive techniques. (DuPont also touted dynamite as an excellent additive to soil; its volatile, destructive properties were said to promote rapid growth.)

  There was no public funeral. Fearing for their safety, Lucinda Newsome and her grandmother remained in Europe. But the public was not as eager as it might have been to assign individual blame to Mr. Greider. The man was dead. Rather than focus on the killer who could no longer be punished, the hunger for vengeance was directed at the one who still lived: Josef Pawlicec. Calls for his speedy trial and execution were numerous and shrill.

  The day we heard about the most recent Newsome murder, Michael
Behan called. And this time, I answered.

  We met in Central Park a few days later on a damp, unseasonably warm February afternoon. As I walked down the path I saw him standing by a bench. He had his hands in the pockets of the same dark overcoat he had shared with me on the train. His derby was tipped slightly back. I was reminded of the time I had seen him outside the Benchley house when he sent the newsboy to draw me out. I tried to remember how I had seen him as an obnoxious, cheap tabloid reporter. I couldn’t match that memory to the man standing in front of me. But there was a shadow of him when he said, “She lives. I was worried Rose Newsome had taken a fire iron to you. I had to call my friends down at the morgue to make sure you hadn’t turned up.”

  I smiled an apology, and we sat down on a bench.

  “So,” he said. “They got her.”

  “Do you think so?”

  I told him about my conversation with Rose Newsome, including her comments on dynamite. When I had finished, he said, “Jesus.” After a moment, he said it again. Then nothing for a time.

  Finally he asked, “You really think she killed herself? Rather than save the anarchist?”

  “I do.”

  “But you said you wouldn’t turn her in. All she had to do was make a mercy plea.”

  “The truth was known. No matter what I promised, it could be told to someone someday. At any moment, she could be helpless again. It would have meant being that girl on the ground throwing dust against rocks. I think if she was going to be destroyed, she wanted to be the one to do it.”

  He sighed. “Well, there goes Josef Pawlicec’s last best hope.”

  “Not necessarily. I want to write to Lucinda Newsome.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. James Newsome is going to admit her son married a soiled harpy who then murdered him and her grandson.” He shook his head. “She’d let a hundred Josef Pawlicecs die to keep that secret.”

  “Lucinda cares about justice.”

  “Maybe. But the girl’s lost her whole family. You think she’s in any state to take this in? You’ve got no real proof. She’ll think you’re mad. Or out for money.”