Death and the Courtesan (13 page)

The stunned look on Arabella’s face told the story for her.

“How is it possible you have not heard of this?
A Clean Breast,
it’s called. One of those tell-all scandalous things which names names and goes into salacious detail. I expect it will be doubly spectacular, now that the author has been martyred for it.”

“Sir, I beg you will excuse me, I feel . . . rather . . .”

“Good lord, madam! You are as white as a sheet! Pray, put your head between your knees! I’ll ring for brandy!”

Arabella was unaccustomed to placing her head between her
own
legs, and the novelty of this position soon had the effect of restoring her to herself, whereupon she was ushered back out to the carriage.

Memoirs! Of course! Why had she never thought of it before? People don’t get murdered for private reflections in their private diaries! But the threat of
publishing
those private reflections . . .

“Good lord,” she said aloud. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“What do you mean, Aunt Bell?” asked Eddie gravely. “You are the cleverest person in the whole world!”

Neddy clapped one hand over his mouth and pointed at his half sibling with the other: She had broken the silence edict; therefore her fruit ice was forfeit.

“No,” said Arabella. “Eddie not only gets her ice; she gets
two,
for being such a darling. Now hush, both of you; Auntie needs to think.”

But it was too close in the landau for that. Arabella had the top put down, to the children’s joy—it wouldn’t matter
now
if her frock was soiled. The world’s cleverest woman put up her parasol, to ward off that unseen yet dangerous sun, whilst Eddie blew kisses out the back to Constable Dysart, who had seemingly managed to win her heart in a mere hour and a half.

The rest of the way home, Arabella stared straight ahead of her, like any properly bored aristocrat, as she thought about Sir Corydon-Figge’s reply to her final question:

“Do you know who the publisher is?” she had asked him.

“Yes, that damned fellow who runs
The Tattle-Tale
—Oliver Wedge.”

A
s has been seen, the domestic staff at Lustings was a small one, for the house was not large, nor was Arabella fastidious. Hence, a lot of details (dusting, andiron polishing, rug beating) were ignored until they reached the state where something
had
to be done about them. Extra help was frequently brought in for parties, though. Belinda’s birthday dinner, for example, required no fewer than six girls to assist Mrs. Molyneux, for the cook had outdone herself, as usual.

“I wouldn’t be here, of course, except that I want the money for a new gown,” sniffed one of the kitchen assistants as she sat, snapping green beans into a pot.

“Is that right?” asked her companion. “I was only too glad to get this job! We haven’t et proper in a couple of weeks!”

“Well, I suppose I mustn’t blame you then,” said the other munificently. “People must eat, after all.”

“But why ever
shouldn’t
I want to work here? For the matter of that, why shouldn’t
you?
”

“Well, I mean to say! Those Beaumont sisters are no better than they should be, are they?”

“Oh, yes, but you have to admire their style! You know you’d do what they do yourself if you had half the courage.”

“What, me? Live a life of sin? Not likely, my girl, not likely!
They
may be lapping in the life of luxury now, but
I’ll
go to heaven when I die.”

“Hmph. That must be a great comfort to you.”

“Here, look sharp, you two! And mind what you’re doing!” cried Mrs. Janks. “You’ve mixed about the green beans with the strings you’ve just pulled off them!”

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling and muttered, “Nothing in all creation so empty-headed as a couple of girls!”

Up until now, little mention has been made of the male members of Arabella’s staff—the grooms and gardeners who lived over the stable and carriage house. They don’t really come into our story very much, but they were there, just the same, and for Belinda’s birthday party they were all brought into the house and pressed into service as footmen, which assignment they quite enjoyed. For it not only gave them the excuse to wear livery (something they usually did only when driving one of the coaches) but also afforded the opportunity to flirt with the household servants. Not much of an opportunity, though, for Mrs. Janks was very much on top of things.

All this running about downstairs has quite tired your narrator. Let us therefore go up to the quiet haven of Arabella’s bedroom, where we shall find the Beaumont sisters calmly trying on their evening wear and making last-minute adjustments thereto. They were not alone, for Constance had dropped in, ostensibly to see whether she might be of assistance with wardrobe selections, but actually, Arabella thought, she was probably only there to be irritating.

Whilst Arabella sat on her bed, chusing shoes from an impressive collection arranged upon the coverlet, Belinda tried on various jewelry combinations at the dressing table. Constance, like some gigantic non sequitur made flesh, amused herself by standing in front of the cheval glass and trying on Arabella’s traveling cloaks and winter bonnets.

“You know, Arabella,” said she, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. You’ll be up there, on the gallows, and the spectators will be down beneath you, won’t they?”

“Constance . . .”

“A lot of the men will undoubtedly try to look up your dress, the filthy pigs!”

“Constance, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

“So why not cheat them? Cheat them, I say! Wear gentleman’s breeches under your gown!”

“Constance, if you don’t get out of here, I shall shoot you,” said Arabella, taking the duke’s pistol from the nightstand drawer and pointing it at her.

Constance paled. “You . . . you wouldn’t . . . not
really!
”

“As they say, ‘might as well hang for two murders, as one.’ ”

“They don’t say that,” said Constance. “Do they?”

“Oh, Constance,” chided Belinda, who couldn’t properly see what was happening. “Why must you always be so pessimistic? Bell finds you intensely irritating, and sometimes I do, too.” She leaned in toward the looking glass, holding a pair of sapphire and diamond drops to her ears.

“I’m not a pessimist,” Constance replied haughtily. “I’m a realist.”

“O-ho! A realist, did you say?” asked Arabella. “Is that why you think Elliott Sheepleigh will come back to you? Is that why you affect the dress of someone a tenth your age? No, you are supremely annoying. I am going to count three, and then I am going to shoot you. One . . .”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Two . . .”

“Belinda! Make her stop!”

“Three!”

Just then, Neddy put his face round the door.

“Aunt Bell, I must speak to you!” he wheedled.

“Not now, Neddy. As you can see, Miss Worthington has a prior claim upon my attention.”

She sent a shot rattling past Constance’s head and out the open window. Constance screamed.

“Help! Help! She’s going to kill us all!”

“No—not everyone. Just you.”

Constance scuttled out of the room like a polecat on two legs.

“I wish Puddles would give me lessons on this thing,” said Arabella, peering down the barrel of the pistol. “I think I am supposed to clean it out now or something, and I haven’t the faintest idea how one does that.”

Neddy stood transfixed. “Oh!” he said at last. “The most wonderful things
do
happen at this house!”

“Go along now, Neddy,” scolded Belinda. “Aunt Bell and I are trying to get dressed for dinner. You should be dressing, too.”

Neddy left them reluctantly.

“Good-bye, Bell!” Constance called up from the garden. “See you at nine o’clock!!”

“Not unless you want to miss dinner!” Arabella called back. “The invitation said
eight
o’clock! Silly cow,” she muttered. Then she sighed and replaced the pistol in the drawer. “Tell me why we’re friends with Constance, again?”

“We grew up together . . . ,” said Belinda, dabbing a bit of scent behind her ears.

“I hardly think
that
sufficient reason.”

“. . . and there aren’t many women with whom we
can
be friends. Also, Constance has the most amazing connections when it comes to shopping.”

“Oh, yes, you’re quite right,” said Arabella. “I had forgotten that.”

In the brief interval that ensues before the official commencement of a dinner party, there inevitably comes an awkward lapse of a few moments to upward of half an hour between the arrival of the first guests and the household’s being ready to receive them. On this occasion, Arabella found herself seated upon a sofa with John Kendrick, who had presented himself early, from sheer excitement. She was shewing him her album.

As we know, all young ladies keep these. They serve as repositories for the sort of small, useless trash one finds oneself powerless to throw away, and prove extremely useful in awkward moments like this one. Arabella was fortunate in having a great many artists as friends and contributors, which automatically made her album a
little
more interesting than most, and the fact that these selfsame artists had filled it with naughty caricatures of the Beaumont sisters rendered it absolutely priceless. There were some poems, too, and a few pressed flowers and things, but Kendrick didn’t really mind what he looked at, so long as he was able to sit beside Arabella and be alone with her.

She turned the page to a ribald sketch by Thomas Rowlandson, featuring the prince regent and bearing the caption: “London Britches Falling Down!” It was decidedly improper, and Kendrick laughed heartily at it.

“You’re such a puzzle, Mr. Kendrick,” said Arabella. “One moment you appear to be shocked by impropriety, and at the next instant you laugh at it! I don’t believe there could be another such churchman in all England.”

“That is probably true,” said he. “For if I could have chosen my profession freely, I should never have set my sights upon the church.”

“What would you be then, if you could?”

“Oh, nothing! Like my brother! I should be rich and indolent, and spend all my time in amusing myself. Although I suppose I would spend
some
of it on worthy causes. Actually, I would spend a
lot
of time . . . and money, on worthy causes. Rather like I do now, in fact, only I shouldn’t always have to bring God into everything.”

“And do you bring God into everything now?”

“No, I don’t. But I feel damned guilty whenever I leave Him out.”

“I believe you do more good than you know, Mr. Kendrick, with or without invoking the Deity. But a great many poor people find solace in religion, you know; people who might otherwise give way to despair.”

“Yes,” said Kendrick. “The church’s main advantage to the aristocracy is that it keeps the destitute humble, quiet, and out of the way. I feel such a hypocrite sometimes.”

“I can understand that,” said Arabella. “This century has got off to a dreadfully wicked start. Wouldn’t it have been interesting to live back in the days of man’s innocence?”

“When was that, precisely?”

“In the time of Lucretius, for example. The Romans strike me as having been particularly good at enjoying themselves.”

“My dear Miss Beaumont! The Romans were
dreadful
bounders!”

“But how could that be? I am referring to the time preceding the birth of Christ, so they cannot be accused of un-Christian-like behavior. After all, you can’t expect them to become Christians retroactively!”

“No, but . . . if you attended church once in a while, you would know this: The church teaches us that man was innocent, until he tasted the apple.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“No, indeed!” cried the rector, with sudden passion. “It is
extremely
unfair, as a matter of fact! I have good reason to know that man was innocent until the church told him he
wasn’t
.”

Arabella closed her album. “I think the other guests have started to arrive. Let us go and greet them, shall we?”

The dinner party was a great success, largely owing to the hostess’s inspired practice of engaging the entire table in a general discussion, rather than insisting that her guests limit their conversation to the persons seated to either side of them.

The dining room also played a part in the general conviviality, for its unusual color, a pale yellow, faintly tinged with green, looked very well by lamplight, like a warm patina on a bronze canary. A large and extremely opulent chandelier hung from the coffered ceiling, its swags and pendants of crystal drops reflecting the light from the oil lamps upon the dark-oak side table, a piece of furniture that was varnished and polished until it looked like milk chocolate. And the profusion of wine goblets gathered at each place promised that no one should have to wait for one glass to be refilled without refreshing himself from another.

They were twelve to dinner. In addition to the family, Mr. Kendrick, and Constance, Arabella had invited Thomas Rowlandson, hero of Ackerman’s front window, and sporting something of a bay window himself, now that he’d reached his fifties; Leigh Hunt and Charles Lamb, two handsome young journalists; Richard Brinsley Sheridan, author of
School for Scandal;
and the Right Honorable John Ward, 1st Earl Dudley.

It had not been easy to find enough clever people for her table at the end of the season, but Arabella had managed: Rowlandson, Hunt, and Lamb, who all worked for the newspapers, had to stop in town late in order to earn their bread. Sheridan was on the point of leaving, and the earl was taking a holiday from his demanding mistress, who had gone on to Brighton ahead of him.

Naturally, everybody wanted to know how Arabella was getting on with her investigation. She told them about Euphemia’s memoirs and was shocked to hear that most of her guests had known about them all along.

“Some of us were fair quaking in our boots to think what Miss Ramsey might decide to share with the world!” Leigh Hunt confessed. “Not anymore, though. Thank you, Miss Beaumont, for dispatching her when you did.”

“I have not killed Miss Ramsey, Mr. Hunt.”

“Haven’t you?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, whoever it was killed her must have been a blackmail victim.”