“William’s devastated,” said Louise. “To see them go through what he went through as a child. We’re hoping they’ll stay with us for the summer break.”
At the site, the two boys were joined by William, Louise, Mr. Grimaldi—and myself. As we observed the hideous ritual of dropping earth on the coffin, I could not help expecting Charles Tyler to leap from the grave, large as life, roaring that it had all been a ridiculous mistake. But the coffin stayed meek and closed, the dirt landing with a hollow thud.
It was William’s idea that we all walk after the burial. His uncle loved nature and was never still. Vigorous activity seemed the best way to remember him, far closer to his spirit than hymns. William and Louise walked with the boys. Mr. Grimaldi and I followed at a distance.
“And how are you today, Mr. Grimaldi?” I asked.
“I am confused, Miss Prescott.” He gazed up the hill at the boys. “How is a man great and terrible at the same time?”
“‘Fire both gives life and destroys,’” I said, quoting something my uncle had said. “I am very sorry that you have lost two people you cared for. But thankful that you told me where he was the night of the murder. May I ask you a personal question?”
He nodded.
“How did you come to work for Charles Tyler?”
For the first time since Charles Tyler’s death, Aldo Grimaldi smiled. “You can’t guess?” I shook my head. “I was a policeman. I worked for Charles Tyler in the city. He was good to me, promoted me.”
“To the Italian Squad?”
“Before he started the squad, they were trying to stop the Black Hand with Irish cops.” He snorted to underscore the idiocy of that approach. “Charles Tyler knows I am Italian and he also knows I am honest and there are many who are not. So he said to me, ‘Aldo, you watch and you tell me who these men are.’ I do. I give him the names of the men who are always around the corner when the crime happens. Or when they’re going to arrest someone, they make a lot of noise, let the whole neighborhood know, the cops are here, give the criminals time to get away.
“One time, we see a couple of guys on the corner. Now, everybody knows, these guys stop women on their way home from work, and they take a cut of their pay. One woman finally says she’ll testify. So, I say to this cop, You going to arrest him? He says, You do it, I don’t speak Italian. I tell Mr. Tyler, Either they’re lazy or they’re bought.”
“What happened?”
“What happens is, they framed me. You remember the bomb in his car?”
One of Charles Tyler’s greatest moments, the narrow escape from death, played so insouciantly for the papers.
“It was my job to watch his car, so this cop and his friends, they make it seem like I did it. That day, I’m standing by the car outside the mayor’s office. Two of the ‘we don’t see nothing’ cops are with me. One of them says, ‘Hey, take a look across the street, something’s going on.’ I say, I don’t move from Mr. Tyler’s car. But he keeps arguing, until I start to think, This makes no sense. And I know something’s going to happen. I can feel it. When Charles Tyler comes out of the mayor’s office, I say to him, You don’t get in the car, we go around the back, I get you another car. A minute later—boom.
“Right away, the two cops say it’s me—the guinea did it. We saw him. He looked under the hood, put something in. Mr. Tyler knows it’s not true, he says he’ll go to the papers if they charge me, but his boss says, Get rid of him. Charles Tyler says, Aldo, you come work for me for a while.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “When Sofia was killed, I think, That foolish girl, she went back to the city, she gave herself away and they found her. I am upset, not thinking right. It’s only a few days later when Charles Tyler says, Aldo, I feel terrible. I was in my bedroom, I didn’t hear that poor girl—that’s when I remember the light in his study, and I know he is lying. But I don’t want to believe … what the lie means. I go to the city to find proof it’s someone else. But inside, my gut tells me. And I also know nothing will be right for Charles Tyler now. He can’t live with this. He is a murderer who has also been very good to me. So, I tell you and not him, because I’m a coward.”
“Your gut sounds very intelligent,” I said. “Maybe you should go back to work for the police.”
A shadow fell over his face. “It’s not good to say, but I don’t trust them.”
“Then maybe the Pinkertons. I’m sure Mr. William would be happy to recommend you.”
When we returned to the house, Louise took the boys inside for tea. William lingered on the lawn, his attention drawn by the nursery tower—its flag still bravely waving. I was about to leave him to his thoughts when he said, “He killed her, didn’t he?”
From the tone of his voice, he hoped I would say, No, no, it wasn’t him.
“Yes. He took her life.”
“I didn’t know him at all, did I? He was just a figment of my imagination … this hero.” He looked at me. “Why?”
Part of me felt it was not my place to reveal his aunt’s sorrow. But it was also unkind to let William wander in darkness. And so I told him the full truth, as much as I understood it. I did not exonerate Charles Tyler. But when I was done, William could at least feel that he was not wrong in what he had seen in his uncle—but that he had not seen everything.
He was silent for a long while after I finished. Then he surprised me by asking, “Tell me honestly. Should I let Louise go?”
“Let her go?”
“Call off the wedding. After what’s happened, no one could blame her. My half of the bargain was my family line.” He shrugged painfully. “Not much of a bargain. Some might say bad blood.”
I thought of the woman who had given me my first job, William’s great-aunt, Lavinia Armslow. Vastly rich, she had given a good deal of her money to charity, once saying to me, “Tiaras pall after a time.” She had fought through the after-effects of two strokes and had managed her financial affairs into the last week of her life. I thought of William’s mother, who had made a success of her family despite her husband’s collapse.
And of Charles Tyler, who did much good in this world and no small amount of evil. Strangely enough, when he thought he was doing good.
I rolled up my sleeve and examined the inside of my wrist. William said, “What are you doing?”
I traced my veins with one finger. “Trying to judge the quality.” I held up my arm. “What do you think? Good or bad?”
“Jane…”
“I don’t even know my parents. I can’t tell you a single thing about them. I have to look to myself, no one else. Maybe you should do the same.”
As we walked back to the house, he asked who else knew about the identity of Sofia’s killer. I said myself, his aunt, and Aldo Grimaldi.
“That’s not enough, is it?”
“It is for the children,” I said, having thought about this a lot over the past few days. “Though Rosalba Salvio’s father might feel differently.”
Thinking of Rosalba’s family and how they might never learn the truth of what happened to their daughter, I visited Anna at the Labor Hall. I found her at a desk, making notes on a typed speech. As she scribbled, she said, “Sit. I’m almost done.” Then to the paper, “Ah, why does he always—?” She wrote furiously in the margins, then set the pencil down. “Yes.”
“I saw Sandro.”
Her hand went back to the pencil, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “And?”
“He’s—” I was about to call him a good man, but he wasn’t a man quite, not yet. “I liked him. He’s not such a fool.”
“People learn, I suppose.”
“You should get him away from Moretti.”
“So he can do what?”
“He wants to go to California.”
“Oh, well then.” She nodded as if I had said her brother wanted to go to China.
“Maybe you know people out there. I have a little money…”
She snapped, “
That’s all it costs to go to California, a little money.”
Then she raised her hand, stopping herself. “I’m sorry. I apologize. For things to change for Sandro, he needs brains he doesn’t have or money I don’t have. I don’t know what to do for him and it makes me sick.”
“… Your uncle?”
“He has both my aunts to care for. And the people who work for him.”
She rubbed at her forehead, the other arm tight around her stomach. It was true, her helplessness was physically painful to her, and to change the subject, I said, “I imagine you won’t be going to the suffrage march.”
She laughed and the arm around her middle relaxed. “No, I will not be marching beside Mrs. Belmont. I have a previous engagement with some women at the Smithfield cannery. Why? Will you?”
I shrugged: probably not.
Then Anna said, “Don’t worry. They’ll give women the vote. As long as they pick the five people we get to vote for, it’s meaningless. So, why not?”
I thought to say, if it is so meaningless, why are they fighting so hard to keep us from doing it? But I knew what Anna would say. And I knew what I would say in return. We were old friends.
Standing, I said, “For Sandro. If you need…”
She looked up. Smiled. “I know.”
“Tell Maria and Theresa I think of them.”
“They think of you.”
* * *
The next day, William went into the city and met with a representative of Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo. He said later that he had the sense they expected him to discuss a tribute to his uncle, some memorial honor that might be bestowed. But he was there to discuss something quite different. The representative found his story deeply disturbing and told William he would have to give a full report to the commissioner and that charges might be brought. William said that was the precise reason he had come. But out of respect for the deceased, it was agreed that no one would say anything until it was decided how best to proceed—especially as Charles Tyler had already suffered the highest possible penalty for his crimes. They would, they said, be in touch.
The call never came. Rhinelander Waldo resigned the following year, his career damaged when one of the heroic officers in charge of the anti-vice “Strong Arm” squads was discovered to have collected nearly two million dollars from gangsters, in exchange for losing evidence and alerting them to upcoming raids. One of the cases where the evidence went mysteriously missing was the Forti kidnapping. As one of the key witnesses was dead, the prosecution’s case foundered. Dante Moretti was found not guilty and set free. His father told the newspapers he was very happy to have his son home.
* * *
Boys who are troublesome are sometimes sent off to experience what’s called “two years before the mast as a common sailor,” employment so arduous and unpleasant it makes men of them—or at least more appreciative of the blessings life has bestowed upon them. Clearly, caring for her aunt in Philadelphia had provided Charlotte with similar insight. The morning of the wedding, as I tried to arrange Louise’s dress—it was a great deal of silk to drape elegantly in the smaller space of her own room—there was a knock at the door, and Charlotte came in.
“Say thank you,” she told her sister. “I’ve just introduced Mother to the duchess of Chelmsford. No one will be able to pry her away until the I dos.”
Then Charlotte laid her critical eye on her sister, and I braced myself.
Finally, she said, “No—you look perfect.” And both sisters smiled.
Then Charlotte said briskly, “By the way, I’ve decided something: Jane should go with you. That’s my wedding present.”
Louise glanced at me. “That’s marvelous, but … shouldn’t we ask Jane?”
I hesitated, looking from one Benchley sister to the other. Then said, “I’m sure we can work something out.”
* * *
And so Louise got her quiet wedding at home.
Even minus many of the guests, it was a crowded affair. Mabel dropped her rose petals with great dedication and expert precision. Louise’s smile as she came down the stairs on her father’s arm was not captured by the photographer, but it lives in my memory to this day.
Surprisingly, the wedding was even something of a social success. Having sailed all the way from England, William’s cousin decided to attend the wedding, no matter where it was held. And she was particularly taken with Charlotte.
“Such a glorious, glorious girl,” she told Mrs. Benchley. “You must let me take her to Europe. I could do so much for her.”
* * *
A week after Louise and William left for their honeymoon in London, John Jacob Astor was buried at Trinity Church Cemetery. Two days later I took Mabel to The New York Herald, where she was given a lively tour of the city room. Whether Michael Behan had alerted his colleagues that the little girl was to be treated with special kindness or whether her black dress and famous name provided the clue, reporters, editors, and pressmen alike went out of their way to answer her questions and consider her points. There was one disappointment when the child asked to meet Emma Bugbee. The men glanced at one another, puzzled, until one snapped his fingers and explained that Miss Bugbee’s desk was on another floor. Women reporters were not allowed in the city room.
At the end of the visit, Michael Behan presented Mabel with a piece of metal type stamped with an M. His father had given it to him, perhaps she would like to have it for a while. But he said, “Your first day at the Herald, you’ll give it back, right?” She promised.
As we waited for Mr. Grimaldi to bring the car around the street, Mabel looked up at me, her eyes anxious under the straw brim of her black hat, and said, “Mother wants to go to France. But she says Freddy and I are to stay with Aunt Florence.”
I could understand Alva Tyler’s desire to leave Pleasant Meadows and its dark memories behind. Of course, it was harder for her daughter. “Perhaps that’s best. With Frederick so young and your brothers in school.”
“She says we’ll visit her in summer. But that means she’ll be gone a long time, doesn’t it?” I had no answer for her. “What if she doesn’t come back?”
“Why on earth wouldn’t she come back?”
Mabel’s small, sharp eyes fixed on me and while I knew it was impossible for her to know what had really happened to Sofia, I had the sorrowful sense that she understood that her death, her father’s disappearance, and her mother’s desire to abandon her life in America were somehow tangled in one miserable snarl of loss. Kneeling, I gave her a hug. It was a poor substitute for her happiness. But she put her thin arms around my neck and pressed her head hard to mine.
Swallowing to gain control of my voice, I adjusted the collar of her coat and said, “Now, if you do go to France, you must write to me all about the Paris fashions. Since Miss Louise is married to your cousin, I’ll have to be informed of the latest styles. We can’t have her looking like a frump.”
Mabel both smiled and wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Can I write about other things, too?”
“Of course.”
She brightened at the sight of Mr. Grimaldi, who opened the car door and guided Mabel inside. His manner with her was gentle, almost clucking, and he spoke to her in a mix of English and Italian as he asked about her visit and admired the piece of type. As we shook hands goodbye, I had the odd thought that Aldo Grimaldi would see to it that Mabel Tyler got to where she needed to go. As would her aunt and cousins.
When they had left, Michael Behan asked if I would like to enjoy the beauties of Herald Square Park, a miserable patch of grass with a semicircle of a bench, squeezed between the elevated and the trolley line. I said I would like that very much.
He had sandwiches, cold beef on brown bread with butter and Worcestershire sauce, and a thermos of coffee. “First Keens, now this,” I said. But the sandwich was very good and I complimented Mrs. Behan.
A newsboy passed, calling out the latest details of the Astor funeral. I turned my head to listen. Not
icing, Behan said, “Strange, you don’t seem like one of those women who suck up the details of other people’s tragedy as entertainment—”
“Is that a different breed than the people who read about slit throats and severed heads?” I wondered.
“Possibly related, but there’s something odd about the way we weep over the death of certain individuals”—he waved a hand at the picture of Astor on the cover—“when hundreds of people die every day, and they’re lucky if they make it onto the back pages.”
“Like Rosalba Salvio.”
“For example.”
He waited. I made him wait.
Finally, I said, “She shouldn’t be famous because of the man who killed her. She should be famous for what she did.”
He raised a finger. “Speaking of that. I saw Officer Sullivan the other day. I gave him your regards, of course. He says William Tyler visited recently. They didn’t arrest him, though. And they let him leave the country. So, I’ll assume they don’t think he’s guilty.”
“He’s not.”
“But he’s related to someone who is. Or … he was.”
“Remember Mabel,” I said.
“I will,” he promised. Then asked, “Why’d he do it?”
“That’s a strange question, isn’t it? We always ask it when someone is killed—why? As if there should be a reasonable explanation.”
“I didn’t say reasonable. Just that men don’t usually wake up one morning and decide to take someone’s life and destroy their own if they’re not in the habit of doing so. Why?” He repeated the question as if it were a chess move.
I looked at the paper. “‘One of the world’s wealthiest men, he sacrificed himself for the sake of others.’ Charles Tyler loved his wife,” I said. “He felt it was his job to protect her—at all costs.”
“So, it was an affair.”
I shook my head, unsure as to how to explain the Tylers’ pain and Charles Tyler’s ruthless, disastrous quest to keep it secret.
Death of a New American--A Novel Page 23