This is the Edweena I encountered in the middle of August. I was now able to be a more frequent guest at Mrs. Cranston’s in the late evening. Edweena served tea every afternoon at four-thirty in the “garden apartment” and I was duly reproached when I failed to appear. Edweena loved conversation. Often we were joined by Mrs. Cranston when her duties permitted. After dispensing tea Edweena would stretch out on the long sofa, her shoulder resting against Henry’s—Henry sitting straight and proud.
I remained reticent about my encounters on the Avenue. I had little doubt that Mrs. Cranston had received partial accounts of my involvements with the Bosworths, the Granberrys, the Vanwinkles, perhaps—as she had had of my involvement with the Skeels. But she respected my silence. Then when I was beginning to feel that my summer tasks were coming to an end I was confronted with the nearest and weightiest of them all: the matter of Persis and Bodo.
What had I meant when I said to Bodo, “You will be back in Newport on August twenty-ninth”? I don’t know. That’s the kind of irrational impulse to which I am prone. I knew that something had to be done quickly and if it had to be done, it could be done.
From the moment Bodo left Newport my imagination began groping for a solution; it continued to grope even while I slept. I have said before that both despair and hope invoke the imagination. In response to hope the imagination is aroused to picture every possible issue, to try every door, to fit together even the most heterogeneous pieces in the puzzle. After the solution has been found it is difficult to recall the steps taken—so many of them are just below the level of consciousness. I began to feel that somewhere there must be public confirmation of Major Michaelis’s obsession with Russian roulette. I began to be visited with images of Bodo’s return to Newport to create a divertissement at the Servants’ Ball in Mrs. Venable’s own cottage. I began to see that in some way, somehow, Edweena could help me.
The very day after Bodo left I appeared punctually at the “garden apartment” for tea.
“We’re going to have a visitor today, Teddie. . . . Yes, a most respected one—Chief of Police Diefendorf. Mrs. Cranston and I have a little matter to discuss with him. Poor helpless women though we are, we have been able to be of real service to the Chief on a number of occasions and, of course, he’s been many times of service to us.”
“Edweena, my love, before you returned from shipwrecks and sharks I took the liberty of telling my old pal of what a wonderful detective you were.”
Indeed, he had. It was a blood-warming story.
Servants live in terror of being unjustly dismissed from a situation without a letter of recommendation. This usually takes the form of being charged with having stolen objects of value. As the reader knows I shrink from making a generalization, but when I do it’s a bold one: persons endowed with enormous inherited wealth tend to be more than a little unbalanced. So would you or I. They know they are marginal citizens—a very small portion of the inhabitants of this industrious or idle, mostly starving, often much-enduring, often rebellious world. They are haunted by the dread that what destiny, chance, or God has given them, destiny, chance, or God may as mysteriously withdraw. They are burdened by the problem of their merits. They assume (often with reason, often with none) that they are the object of envy (one of the uglier sins), of hatred, or of ridicule. They herd together for company. They know that something is wrong, but who began it? Where will it end? Hysteria lurks under the surface.
Masters and servants live under one roof in a close symbiosis, a forced intimacy. A woman’s jewels (precious stones) are the outward and visible symbol that someone loves her, even if it’s only God. A number of the ladies on Bellevue Avenue no longer trusted the safes in their own bedrooms. They had what Edweena called “the squirrel complex.” When they returned from a ball they hid their emeralds and their diamonds in old stockings or behind picture frames or in electric light sconces and then forgot where they’d hidden them. (There’s something in one of Professor Freud’s books about that.) The next morning they’d be frantic. They’d give orders that every servant in the house be present in the dining room at ten o’clock. “A thing I value very much for association’s sake has disappeared. You are to remain in this room while the housekeeper and I search through your rooms. If it is not found by us or restored by one of you—by noon today—every one of you except Watson, Wilson, Bates, Miles, and the kitchen staff will be dismissed without a letter of recommendation. While I am gone now you may sit down.” In some cases the lady called up the police, but most of the ladies regarded the police as bumbling yokels. One of the suspected criminals would creep out of the dining room and call up the police. But the police could do no more than ring the doorbell and ask permission to enter. Chief Diefendorf then telephoned “Miss Edweena” who was permitted to enter and who, with transcendental tact, was permitted to join the searching party. Four times out of five she found the missing object very soon, but pretended for a whole half hour—to save the poor woman’s face—that the case was hopeless. In many ways the Chief was deeply indebted to Edweena and treated her with an old-world admiring deference, as he did Mrs. Cranston.
Edweena lowered her voice to tell me that this expected visit of the Chief did not have to do with a supposed theft but with another problem that appears from time to time in this Seventh City. “It concerns a housemaid Bridget Trehan who is being persecuted by the master of the house where she is employed. She has resigned from her position, but the Chief and I have ways of extorting from her former mistress—who is furious—an excellent letter of recommendation!”
“Golly,” I said in awe. We both nodded. “Edweena, can I ask you what your plans are for the Servants’ Ball this year?”
“You know in general what it’s like, don’t you?”
“I only know that Mrs. Venable lends her ballroom for the occasion and that you and Henry are chairwoman and chairman of the committee. And I know that you and Henry made the rule two years ago that no one of the summer colony can come and look down on you from the balcony as they used to.”
“Teddie, I have no plans. I have no ideas. We’re all tired of fancy-dress balls. We’ve had enough pirates and gypsy flower girls. We’ve had enough of the ‘Gay Nineties’ and the gas-lit era. There are fewer and fewer young people among the domestic servants. We all have a good time, but we need a fresh idea. Couldn’t you think up some idea, Teddie?”
Heaven sent me an idea. I pretended to be reluctant. “Well, I haven’t an idea . . . but I have a dream. The trouble with your ball and many of the balls I hear about is that the same people step out on the same floor with the same people they stepped out with the last time. In Vienna the most enjoyable ball is called the ‘Fiaker Ball’—the ball for the cabmen of the city. And the people from the highest society enjoy going to it and they all mingle together. . . . My dream is this: that you begin gradually and invite two guests of honor from Bellevue Avenue—a young man and a young woman—good-looking and charming and particularly admired for their friendly appreciation of servants. Honor them and they will feel honored. Tactfully make it clear to them that you would be much pleased if they wore their most elegant ballroom dress.”
“Teddie, you’re crazy. Would they want to come? Why?”
“Because that’s the kind of persons they are. They’ve long wanted to know the servants better. I know just such a gentleman who often comes to dinner at a house where I have a pupil. My pupil and I aren’t in the dining room, but I can hear him when he arrives at the front door chat with the man who takes his coat. I can hear him exchanging comradely greetings with all the staff. He’s never accepted a barrier between employer and employee.”
“Who is it, Teddie?”
“I know a young lady who dines twice a week at the very house where you’re holding your ball. The household staff has known her since she was a child. She calls them all by name and asks after their relatives. Edweena, she knows you well and loves you. She doesn’t call you ‘Miss Edweena’—at least not t
o me; she calls you affectionately ‘Edweena.’ Who—together with you—is the most attractive woman on Aquidneck Island?”
“Who is it, Teddie? Teddie, you’re like a child blowing soap-bubbles. Whoever they are, they wouldn’t think of accepting the invitation. Henry, ask Teddie who he has in mind.”
“Teddie, speak up. Who do you have in mind?”
“Baron Stams and Persis Tennyson.”
Henry stared at me for a moment, then he struck the table. “God help me, he’s right! I thought he meant Colonel Vanwinkle, but his wife wouldn’t let him come, and I thought he meant young Mrs. Granberry, but she’s expecting a baby. I don’t think the Baron and Mrs. Tennyson would come, but that’s the most happy-barmy dream I ever heard.”
“Do you give me permission to sound them out or must you consult your committee?”
“Oh, we’re the committee,” said Edweena. “You should remember that servants—as individuals or as a class—have very little experience in taking the initiative. They’re glad to leave all of that to us. But, Teddie, isn’t Persis—whom I love dearly and whom I practically introduced into society—isn’t dear Persis a ghost of herself since that tragic death of her husband?”
Mrs. Cranston had slipped into the room some time before, refusing tea, and had been listening to us.
“Mrs. Cranston, have I your permission to break a rule of the house and to name names while telling a story? The lady in question expressly asked me to tell the truth about something that had been unwisely hushed up.”
“Mr. North, I trust you.”
I told them of Archer Tennyson’s desperate compulsions and of their unhappy consequence. When I had finished they were silent a moment.
“So that’s what happened!” said Mrs. Cranston.
“Oh, the unhappy child!” said Edweena rising. “She’ll receive no proposals of marriage except from the wrong kind of man. Mrs. Cranston, I want to see Chief Diefendorf. I think there’s something that can be done about this.”
“Edweena, you forget. He’ll be here in a minute when he can get away from his office.”
And he knocked on the door. There were sedate greetings on all sides. He refused tea, but was given permission to smoke. He conferred with the two ladies about the Bridget Trehan matter and arrived at a satisfactory procedure.
“Chief, are you in a hurry or might we consult you on a matter we think you should know?”
“I’m completely at your disposal.”
“Chief, Mr. North has come across some very interesting light on the tragic death of Mr. Archer Tennyson. He wants you to know about it because you’re so resourceful and because you helped him so splendidly once before. Mr. North, will you tell the Chief what you learned?”
I told him the whole story. I made a point of talking quickly but very distinctly. At the end I said, “I wish Miss Edweena would now point out to you the consequences of that game of Russian roulette as they affect the life of Mr. Tennyson’s widow.”
She did so. He thought a moment and then said, “May I do what I would do if the whole thing had happened to my own daughter?”
“We hope you will, Chief.”
“May I use your telephone? . . . I shall make a long-distance telephone call using the code number reserved for the police. The rest of you can go on talking or remain silent, as you wish.”
First he called his own office. “Lieutenant, Chevy Chase, Maryland, is on the border of the District of Columbia. Will you find for me the nearest station-house to Chevy Chase, its telephone number, and the name of the Chief of Police?” He took out his notebook and jotted down the information given him. He then called the distant number. He gave his own name, office, and code number. “Chief, I’m sorry to call you so late in the afternoon. I hope I have not caused you inconvenience. . . . A problem that has arisen in Newport requires my asking you what you can tell me of Major James Michaelis.” The conversation continued for almost ten minutes. Chief Diefendorf continued writing in his notebook. “Thank you again, Chief Ericson, and forgive me for intruding on you at this hour. If you will send me as much of that material as was rendered available for the public record, I shall be very indebted to you. Good evening, sir.”
Chief Diefendorf was very pleased with himself—and with reason.
“Ladies and gentlemen, two years ago Major Michaelis was asked to resign from the Chevy Chase Country Club, popularly known as the ‘golf club of Presidents.’ He had brandished a revolver in the billiard room and attempted to induce a number of the club members to engage in a game of Russian roulette with him. His resignation was also required of him by the Army and Navy Club in Washington. He was obviously becoming more and more unbalanced. He comes of an influential family and no reference to this appeared in the Washington papers. Last year his wife instituted a suit for divorce. She was interviewed by the reporter of a Takoma Park paper published near her home. Among the grounds for her suit she specifically mentioned her husband’s obsession with that desperate game. Official and unofficial copies of that material will be in my hands in a few days. I hope that will take a load off Mrs. Tennyson’s mind.”
“Yes, and take her out of Coventry, Chief,” said Edweena.
Three mornings later I telephoned “Nine Gables” and asked Willis, who answered, if I might speak to Mrs. Tennyson.
“Mrs. Tennyson is seldom here in the morning, sir. She is in her own cottage beyond the greenhouses.” He gave me the telephone number.
“Thank you, Willis.”
I had frequented “Nine Gables” all those weeks without learning that Persis had a residence of her own. She retained an apartment at her grandfather’s and spent much time there but even more with her son and his nurse and her books and her piano in her own cottage, “The Larches.” This was merely another example of the stifling reticence that Mrs. Bosworth had introduced into her father’s home. No words were wasted that could convey any intimation of a family existence. Coventry, indeed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tennyson.”
“Good morning, Theophilus.”
“This morning I am leaving some documents at your door. Might I call on you this afternoon about five to discuss them?”
“Yes, indeed. Will you give me a hint as to what I may find in them?”
“Is Frederick well?”
“Oh, yes—very well.”
“Some day he will be glad to know that there is official evidence that his father did not take his own life in a fit of depression but in one of foolish but hopeful high spirits.”
“Ah! . . .”
At five o’clock I drove my bicycle to her door. “The Larches” was built in the style of “Nine Gables” and was often referred to as the “little cottage.” Diminutives were constantly misapplied in Newport. The door was open and Persis came forward to greet me. Again she was wearing a linen dress, this time in crocus yellow. There was a string of pale amber beads around her neck. My expression involuntarily expressed my admiration. She was accustomed to such expressions of admiration and met them with a light disculpatory smile—as much as to say “I can’t help it.” Her small son peered at me from behind her and fled—a sturdy young citizen with enormous eyes.
“Frederick’s shy. He’ll lurk about and gradually try to make friends with you later. . . . Let us have a cup of tea first and then discuss the surprising material you left at my door.”
I was led into a large sitting room with tall windows open to the sea air. I had often seen them when passing on the Cliff Walk. Two elderly maids were busying themselves with the tea urn, the sandwiches, and the cake.
“Mr. North, this is Miss Karen Jensen and Miss Zabett Jensen.”
I bowed. “Good afternoon, good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Your name is very well known in this house, Mr. North.”
“I think I have had the pleasure of meeting the Miss Jensens at Mrs. Cranston’s.”
“Yes, sir. We have had that pleasure.”
A
s Mrs. Cranston had said, I was a very famous person “in certain circles.”
When the tea things had been cleared away Persis asked, “Please tell me what I am to think about these clippings and documents.”
“Mrs. Tennyson, you will soon become aware that the climate that surrounds you is undergoing a change. Those who enjoyed—enjoyed—putting a malicious interpretation on your situation at the time of your husband’s death must find some other victim for their spite. You are no longer a woman who drove her husband to desperation; you are a woman whose husband was imprudent in the choice of his friends. Mrs. Venable has received a copy of these papers; Miss Edweena, who is in and out of many cottages these days and who has always been your devoted champion, is hard at work clearing the air. You are in the situation of many women a century and a half ago whose husbands were killed in duels over foolish quarrels about racehorses or card games. Do you feel that the climate is changing within yourself?”
“Oh, yes, Theophilus, but I can scarcely believe it. I must have time.”
“Let us not talk about it any more,” I laughed. “We can be certain that a considerable number of people are talking about it at this very moment. There is something else I want to talk to you about. But first!” I rose. “I am incapable of seeing music on a music rack without wanting to know what has been studied or played.”
I walked over to the piano and saw Busoni’s transcriptions of six Bach organ chorale preludes. I glanced at her. With her same “disculpatory” smile she said, “My grandfather’s very fond of Bach. For the coming winter evenings I’ve been preparing these for him.”
“There is very little good music on the island of Aquidneck. I’m starved for it. Could you try these on me?”
“Oh, yes, if you wish it.”