Death of a New American--A Novel Page 6

  Mabel sat up eagerly. “I know—I’ll interview you about the wedding.” Putting on an adult voice, she said, “Tell me all the details, Miss Benchley.”

  “Yes, tell her, Miss Louise,” I said.

  “Oh, well…” Louise began, prefacing every statement with, “Mother decided” or “Mrs. Tyler thought.” Within a few minutes, we heard a snore. Snuggled into the velvet recesses of the chair, Mabel was fast asleep.

  “I can take her back to the nursery,” I said.

  She smiled. “No, leave her. Charlotte and I used to share a room. I miss it sometimes. And if I’m going to have so many children, I ought to practice.”

  I was not even aware of passing from consciousness to dreams when I was broken out of sleep by a frantic knocking on the door. Disoriented, my first thought was fire. Pulling on my robe, making a mental list of what must be saved, I opened the door to see Louise and Mabel wide-eyed and out of breath. Louise held a candle, which made me realize there was no smell of smoke. No roar of flame …

  Mabel grabbed my hand. “You have to come…”

  I looked at Louise who said, “It is strange.”

  I allowed Mabel to pull me down the hall and to the stairway. There was no light except for the flickering illumination of Louise’s lone, thin candle, and I wondered if I were still dreaming or if this was one of Mabel’s games.

  “Mabel, what is this?”

  “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Hear—”

  But now I could hear it, muffled by distance, but unmistakable: the alarm of a baby crying.

  Relieved and irritated, I said, “Sofia is there, Miss Mabel. She’ll take care of Frederick.”

  “But that’s just it. He’s been crying for forever.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t feel well. Maybe he’s teething.”

  “No, something’s wrong, I know it. Come see, just come see.”

  I looked at Louise, who said apologetically, “I told her we could check on him.”

  As we made our way up the stairs, I listened for the sound of Sofia’s voice, a snatch of humming or song. But all I heard were Frederick’s cries. I felt the prickle of foreboding down my neck and spine.

  When we reached the nursery wing and there was only silence except for Frederick’s frantic howls, my stomach twisted. Staving off panic, I knocked at Sofia’s door and called her name.

  There was no answer. I wrenched the door open, saw that the little bedroom was empty. I turned toward the nursery itself, called, “Sofia? It’s me, Jane.”

  There was no answer.

  “We have to go in,” said Mabel. “Freddy’s hurt, I know it.”

  She was right. But I also had the uneasy sense that what lay beyond that door might not be something a child should see. I knew Mabel would argue if I told Louise to take her downstairs; she must be made to feel she was helping her brother.

  I knelt. “Miss Mabel, will you do something for me?” She nodded, eyes darting to the closed door. “Take Miss Louise to your father. Tell him he must wake up and he must come here.” I looked briefly to Louise. “Tell him to bring the gun he keeps by the bed. Can you do that?”

  “… Yes. But you’ll help Freddy?”

  “I will, I promise.”

  Mabel grabbed Louise’s hand and began pulling her down the hall. Louise glanced back at me, worried, but I raised a hand as if to say I had everything well under control.

  Which I didn’t. Knocking on the door, I called, “Sofia?”

  The wailing increased in intensity.

  “Sofia, are you in there?”

  The baby’s screams were coming in compulsive gasps now. On instinct, I twisted the doorknob and leaned against the door, which opened easily.

  For some reason, the first thing I understood was the open window, the curtains blowing wildly into the room. A lamp lay overturned on the floor, a little china dog in pieces nearby. The baby was on his stomach near the rocking chair, his little arms stiffly outstretched. His head was raised and there was … mess on his pajamas. The billowing curtains obscured and restored the moonlight, making it hard to judge. Crossing to him, I put a hand on his back and felt no injury. Gently, I picked him up and felt a wave of relief that he seemed to be whole. Just hysterical and exhausted.

  But there was something damp on his romper. Sticky. Placing my fingers around the back of his head, crooning tunelessly, I became aware of the smell of copper. The floor felt wrong. The quiet whisper of carpet had given way to something ominously different: heavier, wetter. I forced my gaze around and down. And saw what I had, on some level, knew I would find when I opened that door.

  Half hidden behind the crib, Sofia on her side, arms akimbo, eyes staring. Her throat had been cut. Some of the blood had sprayed, spattering the walls and the white rails of the crib. The front of her nightgown was a slick of gore. The rest had soaked the rug where she fell, the blood pumping from her artery, weaker and weaker until it would have dribbled and stopped. One hand, I realized, had been stretched toward the baby, a last, pathetic attempt to reach him.

  5

  “You must call the police, Charles.”

  “I agree, Uncle.”

  William’s mother also agreed. As did Louise. Only Mrs. Benchley differed in her priorities, loudly insisting that “Mr. Benchley must be informed.”

  I agreed the police should be called, but no one had asked me. Which was probably just as well; my mind wasn’t working very well. I had a dim memory of Mr. Tyler’s sudden arrival in the nursery, his bellows to me to stand back, touch nothing, then the sense of Frederick being taken from my arms. Murmuring, “Dear God, dear God…” Mr. Tyler had guided me out of the room, down the long hallway, and into his study. I had been placed in a large, comfortable chair by the fire and been given a brandy. For some time, I listened to the crack of the logs, the rush of flames, and the argument taking place around me. And thought about Sofia, that hand desperately reaching …

  Then I heard Mr. Tyler say, “I’m not calling the local hawkshaws, they’re only good for missing livestock.”

  “Then your people in the city,” insisted his sister-in-law. “Call them.”

  “They may not have jurisdiction,” William said.

  “Hang jurisdiction,” shouted Mr. Tyler. “I want good men on this. Reliable men. Honest men.” He sat at his desk, elbows planted on the edge, his large hands held aloft as if he would shape that honest man. I sensed an exchange of looks in the silence that followed, but no one had the courage to point out that his “good men” had been on duty tonight and yet here we all were.

  “Charles.”

  Up to this moment, Alva Tyler had chosen to remain silent. She had sat gazing at the darkness beyond the window as she waited out the fretful, quarrelsome chatter. Now with a word, she commanded her husband’s attention.

  “We must send the children to my mother’s. It’s not safe for them here.” Her voice was thin with exhaustion; she stroked her throat as if to ease it. But her fingers tightened around her windpipe, and I had the sense she was choking off feelings far less measured.

  “Not safe?” Mrs. Benchley asked. “Are we in danger?”

  “No,” barked Mr. Tyler. “We are not.”

  The mood in the room remained tense. Finally, William said, “I’m afraid I agree with Aunt Alva. After all—there’s no reason to think the kidnappers won’t try again.”

  “Kidnappers?” gasped Mrs. Benchley.

  “The window was open,” William explained. At this information, Alva Tyler closed her eyes. “The doors were all locked, so it’s the only way he could have gotten in. He would have been hiding in the woods. Probably he’s been watching the house for some time, learning the routes of the perimeter guards.”

  I had a sudden jagged vision of Sofia walking toward the woods as she sang.

  William continued, “Once he was on the grounds, it wouldn’t be difficult to climb up to the nursery if you used the window ledges and drainpipes for footing. And it would explain wh
y poor Freddy was on the floor.”

  “And who opened that window?” Alva Tyler demanded. “Who … opened it, Charles?” Her eyes were sharp with strange emotion; her entire aspect was that of a woman who has been dismissed as foolish, and had been proven right in her fears—too late.

  Mrs. Benchley broke in, saying, “I must call my husband. I must call him right now.”

  Charles Tyler rose from his seat. “I’m afraid I must insist you not call anyone, Mrs. Benchley, until we have decided on a course of action. It’s essential that we keep one step ahead of the kidnappers…”

  Kidnappers. The word struck me as odd. In fact, this entire conversation struck me as odd. They were all so focused on the danger to themselves that they had forgotten the poor girl lying dead upstairs.

  “Killer,” I said.

  Louise laid a hand on my shoulder. “What, Jane?”

  I was barely aware I had spoken out loud and it was hard to put my thoughts together. “Surely the man you’re looking for is a killer.” I took in the puzzled expressions around me. “Someone killed Sofia. Doesn’t that matter?”

  Mr. Tyler got no further than “My dear young woman” before Alva Tyler said, “Jane is right.” She looked at her relatives. “They are all … right. We must call the police. No, don’t argue with me, Charles. For once, listen. Someone got into the house. A woman has died. It’s time we stopped pretending that we are safe.” She turned her gaze to him. “It is time you stopped pretending that you alone can keep us safe.”

  I thought I saw Charles Tyler shake his head, rejecting the very idea. “Alva…”

  “We almost lost Freddy!” she cried. “We almost…” She covered her mouth, turned tear-bright eyes to the window again.

  A painful silence followed. Feeling partly responsible for it, I asked, “Has the rest of the staff been told? Mrs. Briggs?”

  Mr. Tyler answered. “We gathered the staff in the kitchen and made the announcement. With strict instructions to say nothing to anyone, of course.”

  The injunction to silence was strong enough to quiet everyone in the room. Until Mrs. Benchley yelped, “The wedding!”

  Louise looked horrified. “Mother, we can’t think about that at a time like this.”

  “No, no, no.” Mrs. Benchley waved an agitated hand. “No, we must think about it. It’s only weeks away. How on earth will the guests feel, being invited to a house where … well … it’s bound to dampen the mood,” she finished forlornly.

  I could see both William and Louise were embarrassed, but Charles Tyler seemed to take Mrs. Benchley seriously. “Dear lady, I am also anxious that we keep this as quiet as possible. We must proceed as though nothing has happened. Sofia’s killers must not be allowed to throw us off course. The only answer to intimidation is defiance.”

  “It might be difficult to keep it out of the papers,” said William.

  “I’ll handle the papers,” said Mr. Tyler grimly.

  “What about Sofia’s family?” I asked. “Don’t they have to be told?”

  There were glances around the room; once again, I sensed a sullenness around the subject of Sofia. Finally, Mrs. Tyler said, “I’m not aware that she had family.”

  Mr. Tyler pulled a face to indicate an appropriately masculine ignorance of matters domestic. I was about to suggest the agency might have that information when Mrs. Benchley announced that she was worn out and must retire.

  “Louise, would you come up with me? And stay? To think that a murderer was here at Pleasant Meadows, and all of us in the house with him!”

  And might still be, I thought. Or close by. I remembered Aldo, the way he fixed his tongue in his cheek when he spoke to Sofia. I also remembered Sofia’s words, “He don’t want to hear anything against that one, believe me.” Stronger souls than mine had trembled at the thought of telling Charles Tyler he was wrong. But someone had to ask.

  I said tentatively, “Mr. Tyler?”

  “Yes, Jane?”

  I began badly. “Of course you know best, but I wonder if maybe we aren’t deciding things too quickly.”

  The Tylers exchanged looks. William said, “What do you mean, Jane?”

  “Yesterday, Sofia had an argument with the chauffeur. I had the impression that he was attracted to her, but she did not return his affections.”

  Mr. Tyler took this in. “That’s absurd.”

  Startled that he wouldn’t hear me out, I stammered, “It’s not unheard-of—”

  “What are you saying?” he roared.

  “Charles…” Alva Tyler raised a weary hand, rubbed her eyes.

  Coming around the desk to stand in front of me, he said, “No, Alva, I want to understand quite clearly what this young woman is saying.”

  I saw no choice but to be frank. “She told me he wanted what all men want, those were her words. Some men can turn violent when rejected.”

  “And you think that’s what happened.”

  “I think you should consider it.”

  Mr. Tyler’s eyes widened at the novelty of being questioned. “And is there a particular reason you suspect him rather than, say, my gardener, whose name is Wilson?”

  Somehow to be accused of prejudice felt nearly as shaming as being caught in prejudice; perhaps we always feel undeservedly accused of such things. For a few seconds, I could not remember a single thing Aldo had done that would make me suspect him.

  Then I gathered myself. “Sofia said he was bothering her. I witnessed it myself. They spoke mostly in Italian—”

  “Which you speak, do you?”

  “His interest was clear from his tone. As was her lack of it.”

  “And being a violent, impulsive Italian, he butchered her.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Uncle, you needn’t badger her,” said William.

  Tyler shouted, “I will not accuse a man who’s worked for me for years…”

  “You don’t have to accuse him,” said Alva Tyler, her voice loud and unsteady as she strove to be heard. “But we can’t ignore what Jane’s told us.”

  Charles Tyler turned on his wife. “You know what he’s been through, Alva. You know it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s accused him without cause.”

  But Alva Tyler was not afraid of her husband and she met his eye, saying, “Nonetheless. You should insist he speak with the police. For his own good.”

  And search his rooms, I thought. No weapon had been found in the nursery. Unspoken was the message that Alva Tyler was no longer willing to indulge her husband’s optimism—either about his staff or his own abilities. I felt sorry for encouraging her mistrust. But to see the way her hands trembled, the bone-deep weariness, the slackness and pallor of a once healthy complexion, I knew that his optimism had already cost her a great deal.

  Finally, Mr. Tyler said almost petulantly, “Very well. For his sake.”

  After that, it was suggested that we all follow Mrs. Benchley’s example and retire. I left the study and headed toward the servants’ stairs. As I did, William said, “Jane, will you be all right?”

  He approached, hands in the pockets of his night-robe, hair falling into his eyes. “I mean, you found her. That must have been…”

  I said, “Yes,” to spare him the trouble of producing a word that could only be inadequate. “I’ll be fine, Mr. William, thank you. You take care of Miss Louise.”

  He looked up the stairs. “I think she’ll be busy taking care of her mother.”

  “Then she’ll need you even more.”

  He smiled. “Good night, Jane.”

  * * *

  Perhaps I was exhausted or still unused to the house, but instead of my room, I found myself in the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Briggs ironing in her night-robe. Her jaw was rigid with the effort of pressing down as she worked the iron over a sheet.

  “You are very dedicated, Mrs. Briggs.”

  “I’m unable to sleep is what I am.”

  I suspected I would be, too, so I sat down at the kitchen table
and watched as she expertly folded the ironed section over and began on a new part.

  Finally, I said, “It’s terrible.”

  I wouldn’t have thought this a controversial statement, but Mrs. Briggs simply raised her eyebrows and kept ironing. Perhaps she was annoyed by my company or my statement of the obvious. But I felt the chill of differing opinion.

  “Mrs. Tyler wants to send the children to her mother’s.”

  “Quite right.” A wrinkle caught her eye and she went after it, arm bent, lips compressed.

  “Then you think it was a kidnapping attempt.”

  “Oh, I know it was, Miss Prescott.”

  Recalling the shadow figure I had seen the first night, I asked, “Did you see anyone strange on the grounds tonight?”

  She sighed, set down the iron. “Who says it has to be a stranger?”

  Did she also suspect Aldo? “You’re thinking of the open window…”

  “Yes, that open window. What good luck for kidnappers, eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked at me for a long moment. Then said, “Nothing. As I said, I’m not a nice woman after ten. It’s been an awful night. Time it came to an end.”

  And she took herself and the half-ironed sheet up the back stairs.

  6

  The next morning, the village police arrived and Sofia’s body was taken to a nearby hospital, where it would stay until it was claimed. I watched from a window as the ambulance drove off, wanting in some useless way to mark the moment. It was an incongruously beautiful spring day, just the sort of day Sofia would have liked. It seemed impossible that only yesterday she had been wheeling Frederick’s carriage across the lawn. One of the guards at the front gate removed his hat as the ambulance passed. The rest of the family and staff stayed indoors.

  Charles Tyler’s low opinion of the local police was not unfounded, but they were quietly and politely mediocre. They treated the great man with deference, allowing him to give his version of events he had not actually witnessed. When I was called into the study to say what I had seen and heard, Mr. Tyler stayed. I saw with disappointment that Sheriff Peterson was a young man with the awkward officiousness of the inexperienced. Beyond the city, it was left to rural towns to organize their own police force and apparently in Oyster Bay, many men had decided there were better jobs than corralling drunken joyriders and tracing lost spaniels. The sheriff had big hands, a big forehead, and looked one generation off the farm. Sitting opposite me, hands clasped between his knees, he said, “Now, you first became alarmed when you heard the baby crying.”