Death of a New American--A Novel Page 7

  “Miss Mabel heard him crying. She had fallen asleep in the second-floor guest room and came to get me.”

  “And you went to the nursery to see what was happening?” I nodded. “Did you hear anything other than the baby?”

  “I did not.”

  “And when you got there?”

  “Miss Bernardi was not in her room and the door to the nursery was shut. When I called to Miss Bernardi, she did not answer me.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I sent Miss Louise and Miss Mabel to find her father.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I was going to open the door and I did not want Mabel present when I did.”

  “Because you knew it would be pretty bad.”

  “I suspected it might be.”

  “And it was … pretty bad, right?”

  I told myself he was a nice man and I should resist the urge to echo “pretty bad” in a way that would make him feel foolish. “Yes.”

  “Now, how did you know that?”

  “Because Miss Bernardi wasn’t deaf,” I said. “She would have answered me if she had been able to. She wasn’t able to because she was dead.”

  Mildly alarmed, Sheriff Peterson looked to Charles Tyler, who, with a little gesture of his fingers, indicated that he wasn’t to take offense.

  Gathering himself, the sheriff said, “And the window was open, right?”

  “Yes, the window was open.”

  “And the baby was on the floor, as if he’d been dropped.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he lying near the … was he lying near Miss Bernardi?”

  It was the first interesting question he had asked. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “So, someone else dropped him on the floor.”

  “Possibly. Or she dropped him, then staggered.”

  “Any idea why she didn’t put him back in the crib?”

  “She may not have been able to reach the crib, but needed her hands to fight. Who knows what happens in a struggle?”

  “Still. Someone took him out of the crib.”

  Sheriff Peterson had been told it was a kidnapping attempt; therefore, he was interested in only the facts that supported that version of events. I could feel Mr. Tyler watching me through narrowed eyes.

  I said, “Miss Bernardi, I assume. If the baby were crying, she would have gone to comfort him.” I met Mr. Tyler’s gaze. “She loved him very much.”

  “She told you that?” asked Sheriff Peterson.

  “Not in so many words, but I could see it.”

  He glanced back at Mr. Tyler, then said to me, “You were friendly with Miss Bernardi? You talked?”

  “Only once, but she was an open person…”

  “Open.”

  He pounced on the word in a way that made me self-conscious. “Not reserved. She showed her feelings, her affections.”

  “So you knew her pretty well.”

  He was talking faster now; I felt pressured. “I know she was a good person. I know she cared for the children.”

  The men exchanged looks. Then the sheriff said, “Did Miss Bernardi talk about her family at all? Where she came from?”

  I looked at Mr. Tyler, who said, “As you suggested, we’re trying to find the poor girl’s relatives.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “What she did before she came to work for Mr. Tyler? People she might have known?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did she talk about letters from home, anyone she might still be in touch with?”

  “No, nothing like that. She seemed … alone to me.”

  Sheriff Peterson offered a suitably sad expression. Then said, “And no romantic attachments?”

  Wary at the sudden shift, I said, “Not that she mentioned. She did say something about wanting to be a mother, but … lacking a father.” My face felt very warm and I wished I had a glass of water.

  “Are you sure, Miss Prescott? I know girls like to talk about that kind of thing. Confide.”

  I suspected that everything Sheriff Peterson knew about girls’ confidential talks could be written on a postage stamp. “She confided nothing in me.”

  The men consulted each other through a look. Frustrated that there was clearly a conversation taking place to which I was not privy, I said, “May I ask why you want to know?”

  Confronted, the sheriff puffed, “A young lady leaves a window open … we want to know who she was expecting. She was pretty, the kind to attract attention. Even visitors.”

  I stared at this young man, who no doubt prided himself on his manners. “You don’t know that she left the window open. Even if she did, the only thing she was expecting was fresh air.”

  Chastened, the policeman said, “Of course. My apologies.”

  I smiled, teeth clenched. Then said, “Of course, you’ll talk to the rest of the staff. They would know Miss Bernardi much better than I would.”

  Putting his notebook away, Sheriff Peterson said, “Already done that. But thank you, Miss Prescott.”

  I was free to go. As I wandered out to the hallway, I heard the sheriff say, “Forgive me for asking, sir, but how well do you know the people you employ?”

  “I trust each and every one of them with my life,” said Charles Tyler stoutly, not answering the question.

  “Miss Bernardi was Italian. As is Mr. Grimaldi.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’s aware of it.”

  Failing to catch the sarcasm, Sheriff Peterson persisted. “In view of the threats, don’t you think it would be best to have only trustworthy people around the house?”

  A slam as a fist came down on the desk. “I do trust them. And it is important that people see that I do. In my position, it is vital that the public has faith in my integrity. That they understand that I fight the Black Hand not out of animosity or prejudice, but from an unwavering commitment to fairness and the rule of law. More than anyone, the Italian people suffer from the predations of these villains. How, then, shall I turn away from a deserving individual in need of a job?”

  I could disagree with Mr. Tyler’s defense of Mr. Grimaldi. But it was hard not to admire the sentiment behind it.

  The clock chimed twelve; luncheon would soon be served by the ever-capable Mrs. Briggs. I went outside in search of Louise and found William alone on the lawn, staring up at the nursery tower.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “I can’t stand to be inside and I can’t stay out for long either. Did you talk to the police?”

  “Yes. They seemed more interested in whether Sofia had a lover than anything else.” William winced. “Honestly—does no one consider the possibility that the window was open because the killer climbed out of it to get away?”

  “How did he get in, Jane?” William’s voice was low. “That’s the question.”

  And not one I wanted to answer in my present mood. I could see happy fluttering sails out on the bay, hear the thud of hooves and shouts of excitement as carefree hunters set out across the fields, the toot of a car horn. The sky had no right to be so blue. Not today.

  Glaring at the garage, I said, “I don’t expect they asked Aldo Grimaldi about his past.”

  “Aldo Grimaldi has told us everything he remembers from last night. And one of the things he told them was that he saw the window open at eleven. The police believe Sofia died sometime after midnight. The blood was still … she was…” Unable to articulate the more grisly details, William shrugged unhappily.

  Eleven o’clock—before she was killed, but well past the time she should have been in her own bed, given the erratic schedule of babies. It was disobedient, without doubt. And stupid. Still, we only had Aldo Grimaldi’s word that it was open before the murder.

  “Did they ask him why he was staring at the nursery late at night?”

  “He doesn’t have to stare. He can see it from his room.”

  “Did the fact that he argued with Sofia earlier in the day come up?”

  “No, it di
dn’t, because we don’t know what they said and we don’t even know that they argued. They might have been discussing the weather.”

  “You might find out if you asked him.”

  This, I knew as I spoke, was too far. William might accept being bullied by his mother and sisters, but not from me. “Jane, I know you don’t like Aldo. And maybe he was … forward with Sofia, I don’t know. Italians are different in those things. But I was there when they told him Sofia was dead. He was distraught.”

  He wanted me to feel sympathy for the ugly little man. But all I felt was impatience; there were too many questions. Where had Aldo been when Sofia was killed? What had their argument been about? Had Charles Tyler even told Sheriff Peterson about the argument? Why had William introduced Aldo as his uncle’s new chauffeur when Mr. Tyler said he’d worked with him for ten years? And perhaps most important, Mr. Tyler had said Aldo had been accused in the past. Of what and by whom?

  One look at William’s wary expression told me I wouldn’t get answers from him. His uncle trusted Aldo. He was, as Sofia had said, “one of his people.” Anyone taken up by Charles Tyler would be protected by William as well.

  Stymied, I wandered to the spot that lay under the nursery. The window was closed now. I gazed up the side of the house as if it could tell me something.

  “Does that window open from the outside?” I asked William.

  “No,” he said pointedly.

  I took in the four stories. “It seems a long way to climb without help.”

  “Actually, it’s easy,” said William. Happy to be off controversial subjects, he pointed to a first-floor window. “You use the window ledge to get the first foothold, struggle up the drainpipe until you get a rest”—he swung his arm to point to a Juliet balcony that led off Mr. Tyler’s private study on the third floor—“and from there, you’ve got a good purchase on the nursery window.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I used to do it all the time as a boy. That was my room when I stayed here. When I went exploring, I had to leave it open a crack and put a book as a stopper in case it slipped down. Part of me wanted Uncle Charles to catch me so I could impress him with my adventurousness.”

  I smiled, but my mind was still on Sofia. I looked back at the woods that surrounded the back of the property and thought back to the first night we arrived. The dense forest would make for excellent cover, but could you reasonably carry a baby, who would no doubt be crying, through it undetected? Unless there was a way to make sure the baby didn’t cry. Someone to soothe them. My mind caught again on the memory of Sofia singing to Frederick as she walked him along the grass.

  Discarding that memory, I looked at the ground. Around this side of the house, there was a border of tiger lilies and azaleas. It was nicely tended, an excellent balance struck between wildness and order. Fixing my eye on the nursery, I took several steps until I could almost touch the wall of the house. Then I looked down. Tiger lilies and azaleas in a lovely unbroken row.

  Except when you looked under the blooms and at the dirt. Then you saw one small spot where the soil was trampled, the edge of the lawn broken.

  “Mr. William, look at this.”

  William frowned. “Could have been the gardener.”

  “Would a gardener have trampled these azaleas?” I pointed to the bruised petals and broken stems. I knelt down to look more closely. And saw a footprint.

  Stepping well out of the way, I said, “Look. Don’t step.”

  William did, his eyebrows telling me he saw what I did.

  “We should tell my uncle.” Then as an afterthought, “And Sheriff Peterson.”

  “We will.” Carefully, I raised my own foot and let it hover above the print. Not much bigger than mine. Small for a man’s foot. Digging in my pocket, I pulled out a tape measure—always in my possession, as any fluctuation in Louise’s waist span necessitated frantic communication with the dressmaker.

  I didn’t want to touch the print itself, but I judged the length to be about seven inches. How much did soft earth spread when you stepped on it?

  “Mr. William, could you step there, please?” I pointed to a turned-over patch of ground near the fence at the side of the house.

  Uncertain, he moved toward the spot. “Step?”

  “As if you meant to climb over the fence.” One foot would have borne the full weight of the body as the man made his way up the house.

  William did as he was asked, although climbing was a little more difficult for him as a grown man. Puffing he said, “Now what?”

  I went and looked. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Eleven. Do you need my collar size as well?”

  “I could guess that. You’re about a fourteen.”

  I measured the print he had made—almost a foot. Which equaled an 11 shoe with a man who weighed—I would guess—150 pounds. As carefully as possible, I measured the depth of the prints as well. They were roughly equal, which meant the killer was just as heavy if not more so than William. But William was a slender man. It could also simply mean the dirt in this spot was looser than the patch I’d used for William’s print.

  But seven inches. That was still a small shoe. You might send a small man to break into a house if it meant climbing. Aldo was barely my height. But was he fit enough to manage the climb? And even so, would Sofia have let him in? Perhaps if he knocked loudly, threatened to wake the baby …

  Almost to myself, I said, “I just can’t imagine why Sofia opened it.”

  William sighed unhappily. “Neither can I. But other people have stronger imaginations.”

  That brought to mind Mrs. Briggs’s strange comment about the kidnappers’ luck. “Did people dislike Sofia?”

  He sighed. “I know my mother thought she was unqualified.”

  “She was wonderful with the children.”

  “Yes. But most women want their nannies to have worked for at least a minor member of royalty before they’ll let them near their children. If Sofia had any prior experience, I didn’t know about it.”

  “How did Mrs. Tyler find her then?”

  William shrugged. “I assumed Mrs. Briggs took care of hiring staff.”

  If Mrs. Briggs had had a hand in bringing Sofia into the house, she probably regretted it now. She took pride in working for the Tylers; ties to anyone who brought trouble to the house would be threatening to her. Perhaps that explained her strange mood last night.

  From inside the house, we heard Mrs. Tyler instructing Mrs. Briggs to have the children’s things packed and ready by evening.

  “She’s sending them today?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow. Doesn’t want to give the kidnappers another chance.”

  At that moment, a car drove up and several men with rifles got out and headed toward the back of the house. “Who are they?” I asked.

  “More of Uncle Charles’s men. He must have called them this morning.”

  Armed policemen at the wedding—that would throw the mothers-in-law into fresh panic. “Can’t you talk your mother into a simpler ceremony in light of what’s happened?”

  William shook his head. “It’s not just my mother. Uncle Charles is adamant everything go on as planned. He thinks once you show fear of any kind, you’ve as good as lost the battle.”

  In the distance, I heard the creak of metal—a breeze had caught the weather vane and swung it suddenly north. It called to mind the sound of the carriage wheels on the grass, that walk with Sofia when we had talked about the quiet life in the country and the things that men want.

  What had Aldo said again? I know what you’re doing! Many a jealous man had said those words. And many a jealous man had committed murder.

  William broke into my thoughts, saying, “You can’t dwell on it. If you do, the Black Hand wins. That’s what Uncle Charles says.”

  I nodded as if I agreed, then said, “Why don’t you go find Miss Louise? I did her hair a new way and it looks exceptionally pretty. Perh
aps you could tell her so.”

  And then I went up the servants’ stairs to the nursery.

  7

  When I first came to Mrs. Armslow’s, there had been another new girl who shared a room with me. She was homesick, often ill—at least she didn’t leave her bed—and was generally thought lazy and unsuited for the job. Everyone had expected her to leave or be dismissed when her trial was up. But instead she had taken a spoonful of rat poison. I remember standing in the hallway of the servants’ quarters as they carried her out, the sense of irritation and disgust that filled the house. That girl—I can’t even remember her name now—was never mentioned again. A few days later, a Polish girl arrived, I had a new roommate, and that was that.

  I remembered that girl as I climbed the stairs to Sofia’s room, or what used to be her room. Servants came and went; traces of them were quickly erased. So what I expected to find, I wasn’t sure. The police would have taken anything of interest, a family photo, letters, keepsakes. Then I remembered pink-faced Sheriff Peterson and thought perhaps I gave them too much credit. I hoped so anyway.

  I listened carefully as I climbed the stairs to the tower; the children had been moved to their parents’ room, but I didn’t want to run into Mrs. Briggs or a policeman. Just as I stepped onto the landing, I heard the creak of hinges, the gentle click of a latch. And saw Mabel standing outside the door of Sofia’s bedroom.

  “Miss Mabel.”

  “Hello.”

  For a long moment, we gazed at each other warily.

  “You shouldn’t be in Sofia’s room.”

  “I know. I just wanted to think about her a little.”

  “I see.”

  Sensing I was not going to punish her, Mabel drifted a few steps toward Frederick’s room. “No, don’t,” I told her. “It’s not the way you want to remember her.”