Death and the Courtesan (12 page)

He dropped a teaspoon onto the table. The bird reproduced the sound exactly. “No parrot can do
that!
”

The girls were speechless with astonishment.

“Where should we put his cage?” asked Belinda, at last.

“Why not set him free in the aviatory?” Arabella suggested. “He would probably like that.”

“I shouldn’t advise the aviatory,” said Sir Geoffrey. “He will imitate the other birds and fuss them. Fisto is much more stimulated—not to mention amusing—when he lives amongst people.”

“Well, Bunny’s a light sleeper,” said Arabella. “So I shouldn’t like to put him in her bedroom, but I suppose we might keep him in mine.”

Her uncle shook his head, again. “I wouldn’t, you know. Think what might happen if the bird were to call out a certain name, in your voice . . . when someone
else
is . . . visiting you.”

“
Ho!
I begin to see why you named him ‘Mephistopheles’!” she exclaimed, laughing. “That would be too awkward, would it not? Never fear; he shall stay in the breakfast room, and liven us up in the mornings.”

 

It was Cook’s night off. Sir Geoffrey, having apprised his friends some weeks earlier of his imminent return, was being feted that evening at his club, and Neddy and Eddie, under the care of Mrs. Janks, were attending a children’s party. Arabella and Belinda were on their own.

“Sister mine, what would you say to burgundy and oysters with a nice, plump chop at Grillon’s?”

“Ooh! Yes, please!”

“We shall go incognito, public sentiment being what it is.”

“What is it?”

“Unpredictable.”

In addition to their glamorous traditional wardrobes, courtesans generally kept a wide selection of theatrical costumes. For the tendency toward erotic obsession found in
Homo sapiens
so sets our species apart from every other that it may one day become determinative in gauging relative degrees of humanity in any yet-to-be-discovered intermediary primate groups.

On this particular night out, Arabella and Belinda easily disguised themselves with the aid of wigs, false eyebrows, and foreign clothing—creating an impression that they augmented by assuming Russian accents. All these precautions would have been in vain, however, had the sisters been seen in one of Arabella’s distinctive carriages. So they walked out to the Brompton Road and Constable Dysart hailed them a cab.

“Why don’t we simply walk to Grillon’s?” Belinda asked.

“Because I want to stop someplace else, first. Do you mind?”

“I should have known there would be a catch.”

“This won’t take long, Bunny,” said Arabella. “And it is something that I need to do.”

The windows in the hired coach were open, for the evening air was cool after the heat of the day, almost as soft and fresh, on this particular evening in filthy old London, as it is every night of the year in the unspoilt English countryside. Arabella filled her lungs with the sweet-smelling atmosphere. “What an evening!” she exulted. For, ever since her near arrest earlier in the week, she had suddenly become much more observant and appreciative of her surroundings.

“Have you noticed, Bunny? The way everything seems to stand out sharply against the light of yesterday, like memories made more vivid when illuminated by the intensity of retrospection?”

“Bell,” said Belinda after a moment. “I am glad that you have decided to embrace life after all, but I really don’t think it can be healthy for you to be spending quite so much of your time with intellectuals.”

A quarter of an hour later, the cab was obliged to halt for a massive procession: A hearse was making slow and stately progress along Fleet Street, followed by at least a hundred people shuffling silently in its wake and carrying torches. Less silent, but no less solemn, a veritable mob waited on both sides of the road to witness the funeral procession on its way to the churchyard at St. Bride’s.

“Who gets buried at night?” Belinda wondered aloud, remembering to use her accent.

“Euphemia Ramsey,” said Arabella quietly. For she had read about this in
The Tattle-Tale:
Euphemia had left particular instructions with regards to her interment, the expenses of which her impoverished estate was unable to meet. Fortunately, some of her former clients had stepped in, and the funeral was being handled by subscription.

“Is this why you’ve come here?”

“Yes,” said Arabella quietly. “She used to be my friend, you know, and I cannot very well attend her funeral, suspected as I am. Farewell, Euphemia.”

“Look, Bell!” said Belinda, pointing. “It’s that odious Oscar Widgehunt!”

“Do you mean Oliver Wedge? I
do
wish you would stop mangling his name. Your feelings about him are perfectly clear. Where is he?”

“Over there, halfway up a lamppost, writing in a notebook,” said Belinda, nodding in his general direction. “Mayn’t we go to Grillon’s now? I am hungry enough to eat the paving stones!”

At last their cab pulled into Albemarle Street, and when Arabella alighted and paid the driver he tipped his hat to her.

“God bless ya, Miss Beaumont,” said he. “You won’t be disappointing yer public now, will you? We’re all expectin’ you to go out in style.”

Suddenly the evening seemed a little less bright.

“So much for our disguises,” said Belinda. “But at least he didn’t try to tear you limb from limb.”

“No,” Arabella muttered. “You heard the man—he would rather wait and see me go out in style.”

After the ladies had been seated, Oliver Wedge entered the restaurant with three cronies and took a table near the windows. The Beaumonts had decided to begin their meal with oysters, but Wedge’s party dispensed with the formalities and immediately plunged into the main courses.

“That’s strange,” said Arabella.

“What is?”

“Mr. Wedge is eating beefsteak.”

“There’s nothing strange about that,” said Belinda. “It’s exactly what I am going to have.”

“Yes, but today is Friday.”

“So it is!”

“. . . and he’s a Catholic.”

“Well, perhaps he isn’t a very good one.”

“No, indeed,” she replied thoughtfully. “Not a very good one at all.”

Arabella sighed. “Constance . . .”

“I say, Constance, would you mind not reading aloud from that?”

Belinda entered the library with a fruit bowl.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, observing the pained expression on her sister’s countenance.

“I am very busy just now,” replied Arabella crossly, “but Constance
will
insist upon lecturing me about the minutiae of gallows etiquette. Who let her up here?”

“It wasn’t me. Perhaps it was Fielding.”

“Hello, Constance,” said Belinda. “Would you care for some grapes?”

“Ooh yes I adore them hello Belinda I’ve just come from Hookham’s where I found this,” she said, holding up her book with one hand and popping grapes into her mouth with the other. “You see?
Mr. Beaston’s Proper Deportment for Condemned Persons
—it wasn’t too expensive really not when you consider all the use we’ll be making of it and I thought dear me this is just what poor Arabella needs because I didn’t suppose she knew the first thing about what to do in a case like this none of her friends having been through it before so I nipped on over here quick as I could because it’s never too soon to start educating oneself, is it? Listen to this:

“Now I never knew that did you? I wonder if Arabella will be given a choice.”

“Bunny,” said Arabella, “why don’t you take Constance out of doors? The garden is particularly lovely, just now.”

“Come along, Constance,” said Belinda, pulling Miss Worthington by the elbow. “You can read to
me
—Bell has important business to attend to.”

But after they had gone, Arabella sucked the end of her quill for a few moments and then flung it down in disgust: Her concentration had fled, for the time being. She placed her CIN into the bag that Belinda had made for it, sharpened the pencil stub that she kept behind her ear, and began to dress to go out. Today, she would wear white, to underscore her innocence—in the murder of Euphemia, anyway—for she was about to consult a lawyer, and Arabella wanted him on her side. She stole a quick glance out of the window. If Constance should guess that Arabella was taking the carriage, she would clamor to be dropped somewhere very much out of the way or, worse, insist upon accompanying her friend, chattering mindlessly for the duration of the journey and reading aloud from that macabre book of hers.

However, Constance was fully engaged in reading to Belinda, who had taken her workbasket outside with her and who now sat demurely upon the stone bench, listening, whilst threading satin ribbons through a stack of sheep gut condoms. Arabella saw with satisfaction that Belinda was engaged on the medium-sized ones—which they were always running out of—for she could see the silver ribbons from where she stood. (The small ones had pink ribbons, large ones gold, and the enormous-sized condoms had blue ribbons—like those awarded to first-prize stallions at horse shows.) Though the two women were seated some distance from the house, Arabella could still hear Constance reading, with perfect clarity:

So . . . Constance and Belinda were out in the garden and Sir Geoffrey had taken Mrs. Ironmonger to view the Elgin marbles. If Arabella left now, no one would notice, except whichever Runner was assigned to her today, and he would be coming with her in any case.

Out in the carriage house, her foot upon the step . . .

“Aunt Bell, Aunt Bell! Where are you going? Mayn’t we come, too?”

Damn! She’d forgotten about the children!

“Not this time, my dears; I have some calls to make, and you would be left in the landau, perhaps for hours. You would be very bored.”

“No, we shouldn’t! We should love it! Please! It’s been ever so long since we’ve had an outing!”

This was untrue. They had only arrived yesterday.
That
had been an outing.

“No,” said Arabella. “Now don’t tease, or you won’t be allowed to stay up for the party.”

“In that case,” said Neddy, “I shall go round to the garden, and let Miss Worthington know that your carriage is leaving.”

“Don’t do that, you little bugger!” (How had he divined that she particularly wanted to avoid Constance?)

“You must let us come with you, then.”

She was trapped.

“Very well, Edward. But I would have you know that your conduct sits very ill with me. I shall remember this, and be inclined to do you a disservice one day in recompense.”

“Not me, though,” said Edwardina smugly, climbing in and settling next to her aunt. “I rape all of the benefits, and yet am not penisized.”

“What was that you said?”

“The benefits. I rape them, but I am not penisized, as Neddy is.”

“I think you mean that you ‘reap’ the benefits without being ‘penalized.’ ”

“That’s what I said. Oh, Aunt Bell, may we have the top down?
Please?
”

Landaus are uniquely constructed with two separate folding hoods, one at the front and one at the back. Usually, this means that the passengers may have either one up, or neither, or both, and the two hoods meet in the middle for total coverage. But just now there was something wrong with the mechanism. Trotter, who was tinkering with it in his spare time, had not quite resolved the problem yet, and for the time being one could only have both hoods down or both up. Arabella wanted both up today, for she was wearing white and London’s filthy air would scarcely have enhanced her appearance. It was going to be infernally hot under the hood, but the children were not to be dissuaded on that account.

The carriage was just clearing the gate when a horrific stench hit it like a slap in the face.

“Faugh!” cried Arabella, holding her nose. “What
is
that, Trotter?”

It was some moments before her coachman was able to reply, plagued as he was with retching spasms.

“Dead horse, ma’am,” he gasped.

“A dead horse? Next to my gate? Did you notice it there yesterday?”

“No, ma’am. And it’s not a fresh one, if you’ll pardon my saying so; been dead a week, at least.”

“So someone has put it there, have they?”

“I would say so, ma’am, yes, partly on account of its ripeness, but also because of the sheep.”

“Sheep?”

“The dead sheep on t’other side of the entrance, ma’am.”

The carriage having moved on at once, Arabella could not now observe this, but the stench seemed to cling to the coach for some little ways.

“I smell Lady Ribbonhat,” said the self-possessed Edwardina.

“Well, she reeks something
awful,
” Edward rejoined.

“How do you know about Lady Ribbonhat?” asked Arabella.

“Oh, I know all about everything,” said Eddie. “The murder charge and the duke’s engagement to Miss van Diggle and everything.”

“I did not ask you
what
you knew, but
how
.”

“Because I listen, Aunt Bell. Grown people, ladies especially, think children are stupid, so they talk freely in front of us. But we aren’t.”

“You can always tell a lady,” muttered Neddy, “but you cannot tell her much.”

“Well,
some
of us are stupid,” Eddie conceded, with a glance at her half brother, “but
I’m
certainly not.”

“No,” echoed her aunt faintly. “You certainly aren’t.”

Turning to look out the back window, Arabella saw both Frank
and
Tom, running along behind and coughing into their handkerchiefs. Generally, there was only one Runner at a time now, but both of them were on duty today, as the schedule at the Bow Street office had got muddled. Again.

Arabella was gratified to know that she was not the only one who was having a difficult day.

“I need to speak with you, Aunt Bell,” said Neddy, “on a rather urgent matter.”

“I see. Well, there is no time like the present, I suppose. Bear in mind, though, that I shall probably be disinclined to oblige you, after the sneaking way in which you insinuated yourself into my carriage.”

“No,” said Neddy. “I must talk with you in
private
.”

“Well, you shall just have to wait, then, won’t you?”

“Who are those men, Aunt Bell?” asked Edwardina. “And why do they follow us wherever we go?”

“Those men, my poppets, are going to be your new fathers.”

“Are they, really?”

“Yes, indeed, provided your mothers have the wisdom to be guided by me.”

 

It was the kind of summer afternoon that begins beautifully, with three tender cumulus puffs in a clean, blue gentian sky, and which, inside of an hour, turns a solid dirty white, after the clouds have merged and knit themselves together into one continuous lint blanket. Hidden behind this vaporous veil, the sun beats through with all of summer’s vigor and none of its benefit, so that the air turns oppressive and muggy and people sit about listlessly longing for naps. It was beastly inside the landau. Neddy and Eddie fidgeted uncomfortably.

“I advised you to stay at home, but you wouldn’t hear of it,” Arabella reminded them. “Now, you can put your heads out of the windows, if you like; there’s a bit of a breeze to be got that way, but you’re not to make a sound. If you behave to my satisfaction, I shall buy you each a fruit ice when we are finished.”

The carriage arrived at last, and Arabella alighted from it, beckoning to the two officers.

“My young charges are hot, thirsty, and bored, as I suspect are you. If I send my coachman out to find refreshments for you all, would you consider sitting in the park for an hour and entertaining the children?”

They nodded gratefully, and Frank added, “God bless you, ma’am,” under his breath.

Sir Corydon-Figge’s library/office (for Arabella’s meeting was at his house) was lit by three soaring, arched windows. The great man was seated at a polished wooden table, piled with books and papers, writing in a ledger that looked like Euphemia’s. But Arabella reflected that it was a common commercial ledger, the sort that might be purchased from any stationer’s.

Corydon-Figge stood up and bowed, with a somewhat distracted air. He was stern looking, solidly built, and Arabella surmised that he made a wonderful impression in peruke.

“I shall defend you when the time comes, Miss Beaumont,” he said, “but I am afraid I shall not be able to do you much good. Circumstantial evidence is quite sufficient to hang a man—or a woman—under our present amateurish and practically non-existent police system. And, after all, you are a highly celebrated courtesan.”

“What has that to do with it?” she asked, feeling herself on the defensive.

“I am not judging you,” said the attorney. “I am merely giving you the benefit of my experience in these matters. Executions of women are always popular, and the execution of a rich, beautiful woman of a certain reputation is bound to be the sensation of the year. There are also certain . . . political considerations.”

“Pray, sir, elucidate.”

“The regent spends enormous amounts of money on himself, as I’m sure you’re aware. Money which might otherwise be used for the public good. People are seething over this, and over the length of time it is taking to pass a reform bill, to say nothing of the Catholic question. The weather is hot just now, and everyone is irritable. Summer is riot season, you know, always a dangerous time. So, if the government gives the people a spectacle—the execution of a famous courtesan, for example—complete with fireworks and free gin . . .”

“Are they planning to do that?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if they were . . . it would certainly please the rabble. And a pleased rabble is, by and large, a peaceful one. I am sorry, my dear. I do realize that you are innocent. Glen
deen
has told me everything. But barring the apprehension of the real murderer, I am afraid that you will be selected as the one to pay the price for this crime. It
is
a deuced interesting one, isn’t it? Several people have been to see me already about this business of the memoirs.”

“I do not comprehend you, sir.”

“Miss Ramsey’s memoirs. You are supposedly featured in them, which is presumed to be the reason you killed her. All of London is looking forward to reading her book. It’s expected out this winter.”