Death and the Courtesan (17 page)

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Authors: Pamela Christie

BOOK: Death and the Courtesan
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“You’ll break it off with the duke and marry a nobody.”
 
On her way home, Arabella rapped on the carriage window with her ruby ring. “Greek Street, Trotter. Thomas Lawrence’s studio, if you please.”
She found the artist at his easel, putting the finishing touches to a portrait of Sally Siddons, who was not present, having died some eight years previously. His left hand held a long stick, tipped with a soft ball of cotton wool wrapped in chamois leather. This was pressed against the canvas, so that his right hand, resting on it, remained absolutely still whilst he added the eyelashes.
“Arabella!” cried the artist. “You’ve come to sit for me at last! Come on, then; off with your clothes!”
“Not now, Thomas; I’m here on business.”
“Wonderful! Strip for me, darling!”
“Not business of that kind.” She studied the portrait on his easel. “Still painting Miss Siddons?”
“Always. Forever. I am as true to her memory as I was to the woman herself and won’t you
please
remove your clothing, Arabella?”
“Later, perhaps; just now I am in rather a hurry—I need to ask you about a portrait you painted of Oliver Wedge. Do you remember it?”
“I should think so—I only finished it ten days ago! It’s hanging in the editor’s office at
The Tattle-Tale,
if you want to see it.”
“I know. I have just lately come from there, and could not help noticing that, though it’s an uncommonly wonderful portrait, as all your paintings are, it does not actually look like the subject. Which isn’t your style, Tom; your portraits are very like, as a rule.”
Lawrence had returned to his work and was now painstakingly adding the light to Sally’s eyeballs.
“Hmm. Well, it looked like him at the time. I only paint what I see, except when I need to improve on reality. I cannot be answerable for sitters who go and change their appearance afterward.”
Arabella thought about this on the way home, but her thoughts were interrupted when, as the coach waited at the corner for a herd of cattle, no less a personage than Lady Ribbonhat herself came up to the window.
“You have lost him!” she exulted, and for a moment Arabella didn’t know whom she meant. “Now that my Henry is free of you, he shall marry a woman of high standing! A woman beyond reproach!”
“Ha!” Arabella replied. “The only difference between Miss van Diggle and myself is that I am open about who I am, and she is not. Also, I cannot be absolutely certain about this, but I think she may have had even more lovers than I.”
Whereupon Lady Ribbonhat smacked her stick smartly against the wheel of Arabella’s coach and took herself off.
Chapter 14
H
IS
R
OYAL
H
IGHNESS
, THE
F
AT
G
IT
In which Fisto earns his keep and the regent holds
his right and left fetes, proposes a name change
for Arabella, and discusses a cunning peace plan.
General conversation embraces the Sphinx’s nose
and the originality of Mrs. Cornelys.
“M
rs. Janks, would you send the gardener’s boy in to me, please?”
“Gardener’s boy. Into me please. Gardener’s boy,” Fisto repeated.
Arabella had recently had his cage moved into the library. She had shut herself in there, too, for several hours. Now she sat at one of the tables and reviewed her investigation notebook whilst Belinda reclined on the window seat, writing in her diary.
“What do you want with the gardener’s boy, Bell?”
“It’s an idea I had from Casanova.”
“But, Bell! The lad’s not fourteen!”
“Exactly. Boys that age have twice the stamina of adult males. Now don’t speak for a moment, Bunny; I’m trying to concentrate.”
Arabella started to go over the contents of her notebook once again. Every time she added some new piece of information to it, she had to read the collection as a whole, and not in any particular order, for in this way she sometimes gained startling new insights. Thus, flipping back and forth between pages, she read:
 
 
Things Found Out
 
A sailor, Jack Furrow, paid (by a gentleman) to steal my knife.
ER was going to publish her memoirs
ER was Wedge’s mother
ER was blackmailing her victims
 
Helpful Persons & Their Uses
 
Belinda—anything I ask
Mr. Kendrick—ditto
Mr. Wedge—(?)
The Duke—custodían, found me a lawyer
Sir Corydon-Figge—criminal defense
2 Bow Street Runners—misc. errands
 
Clews
 
a ledger remnant
a death threat letter (probably Lady Ribbonhat’s)
dead horse, dead sheep
cartloads of human shit
 
Persons to Talk To
 
my staff
Euphemia’s landlady
Euphemia’s neighbors
Euphemia’s blackmail victims
(ER had no family, friends, or recent lovers.)
Scene of the crime: ER’s room
Condition of location: already messed about and emptied when I got there
Look for: documents, letters, notebooks, diaries
 
Suspects
 
The Duke of Glendeen (via his mama)
Motive for killing ER: keeping his father out of the memoirs.
Motive for framing me: making his mother and fiancée happy.
Whereabouts at the time: with me.
Attended my party? Yes.
Behavior: distant, lately.
Other factors: got me a reprieve (could be guilt). Hired a lawyer.
 
Julia van Diggle
Motive for killing ER: memoirs would have spoilt her chance to marry DG.
Motive for framing me: jealousy.
Whereabouts at the time: abroad.
Attended my party? No.
Behavior during interview: Haughty, at first. Then frightened. Then compliant.
Other factors: I have dirt on Julia.
 
Charles Edward Beaumont
Motive for killing ER: unknown at this time.
Motive for framing me: annuity.
Whereabouts at the time: one never knows with Charles.
Attended my party? No, & wouldn’t have paid anyone to steal my knife, either.
Behavior: haven’t seen him in weeks.
Other factors: Not like Chas. to murder someone in order to frame me in order to get money. His mind doesn’t work that way.
 
Oliver Wedge
Motive for killing ER: None. Had every reason to want her alive.
Motive for framing me: great copy.
Whereabouts at the time: unknown.
Attended my party? No.
Behavior: inconsistent.
Other factors: Break-in seemed staged. Portrait doesn’t look like him.
 
Lady Ribbonhat
Motive for killing ER: keeping her late husband out of the memoirs.
Motive for framing me: thinks she’ll get the house.
Whereabouts at the time: unknown.
Attended my party? No.
Behavior during interview: Refused interview. Generally hostile.
Other factors: Enemy of long standing. Shall have to request magistrate’s direct involvement. Leave this for now.
 
 
Arabella looked up when she heard a knock at the open door.
“Hello, Moses,” she said, addressing the handsome, half-Gypsy lad. “Did you enjoy dressing up for my party the other night?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Would you fancy dressing up again? Like a rajah, this time, and earning nearly as much as a rajah does?”
“Why, yes, miss!”
“Good. Here is the costume. You may go put it on in the kitchen, and then come and show me how you look.”
The boy returned in a violet turban, a gold-embroidered vest, scarlet Turkish trousers, and crimson shoes with curly toes.
“Yes,” said Arabella with satisfaction. “You look splendid, Moses!”
Belinda was staring at her, goggle-eyed. “I must protest this, Bell! You yourself have said—and I agree with you—that children and animals are off-limits in this house!”
“I made that remark in reference to business, Belinda,” said her sister, unhooking Fisto’s cage from its stand. “This is a personal matter. Now listen, Moses: You’re to take Fisto here down to the Royal Exchange, and stand in a central spot, where everyone is certain to see you, holding this sign.”
Belinda got up to look at it:
TALKING MYNAH FOR SALE £50.
“Trotter will take you down in the barouche with a food hamper to see to your wants, and he will bring you and Fisto back again at six o’clock this evening. I shall pay you a crown a day to do this for as long as I wish you to.”
“A crown a day . . . ! And in the
barouche?
Crikey! But you’ll never sell him for fifty pounds, miss! No, nor even twenty-five!”
“I realize that. I do not actually wish to sell him. Now, here is the bird. Whenever he falls silent, urge him to speak by quietly saying the words ‘Lady Honoria Ribbonhat . . .’ ”
Thus prompted, Fisto launched into the verse Arabella had taught him:
“Lady Honoria Ribbonhat
Has bags and bags of gold,
But what is the possible use of that?
She’s so dreadfully ugly and old!”
“I want the bird to say his piece as much as possible throughout the day,” Arabella explained. “You’re to see that he does, no matter how tiring it may be to listen to him. Will you do that?”
She had to shout this last part, in order to be heard over Belinda’s laughter.
“Yes, miss!” cried the boy, grinning from ear to ear. “For a crown a day I can listen to him for the rest of my life!”
“Well, you need not go so far as that. I’m guessing no more than a week at the outside. And I shall change the verses from time to time, Moses, so that you . . . and the public . . . do not get too bored.”
 
On the nineteenth of June, the Prince of Wales held a grand fete at Carlton House, in celebration of his ascension to the regency. He had never been a popular prince, nor, from the looks of things, would he be a popular regent, but his parties were popular—the
haute ton
had been talking of this one for weeks. Everywhere an atmosphere of excited expectation reigned, despite grumbling in some quarters about the financial strain on faltering government resources. There were also those who deplored the want of proper filial feeling. After all, George was only regent because his father had gone mad, hardly an occasion to celebrate. Nevertheless, the regent’s critics planned on attending, too. Everybody was coming who had been invited, for it was only a matter of time until poor, mad King George died and the regent would be crowned, prompting yet
another
large and expensive party.
 
“Do you know the difference between the king and the regent?” one buck asked another as they ascended the steps of Carlton House.
“I could tell you the difference, yes,” replied his companion, with a smile. “But I’ve a feeling that your explanation will prove more entertaining than mine.”
“Well, then, the king throws fits, and the regent throws fetes!”
A lady, overhearing this remark, struck the wag with her fan, and his friend laughed. But that laugh, uttered on the very threshold of the festivities, was the last one heard all evening. For the party, despite—or perhaps because of—its elaborate presentation, was a complete failure. There were several reasons for this, but the author will perhaps be pardoned if, instead of listing them, she escorts her readers thence and permits them to draw their own conclusions.
First, you will note the size of the throng. Around three thousand persons are gathered here, although, probably, the dining table being a mere two hundred feet long, not all of them will be entertained to supper. The enormous conservatory has been made up as a bower and planted with shrubs, flowers, small trees, and patches of grass in order to simulate the out-of-doors. The aforementioned table, set in the midst of all this, extends beyond the confines of the room—across the palace’s entire length, in fact—and at one end a silver fountain pours an endless stream of water into the moss-lined channel comprising the centerpiece. Come closer and observe the lotuses and other aquatic plants, floating on the surface. Pretty, aren’t they? And look—there, just underneath the lily pads—do you see the silver and gold fishes, swimming from one end of the endless table to the other? What do you suppose all this has cost?
The prince regent sits proudly at the head of this table, just back of the fountain, surrounded by his particular friends and personally waited upon by seven servants. Of course, many more servants attend to the guests, not one of whom has seven, or even one servant all to himself.
A man inside a suit of fourteenth-century armor walks jerkily about, attempting to bow at random and generally behaving like an idiot. Behind the regent, and indeed, all about the room, tables displaying pitchers, goblets, vases, urns, trays, and other decorations of gilt and sterling have been set up wherever there is space for them. The items serve no practical purpose in being here but are exhibited just for shew. Above the scene is a gigantic replica of a royal crown, with the initials “GR” all illuminated. You might be tempted to laugh at the pretentious absurdity—I know I am—but, as has been stated earlier, the suffocating pretentiousness of the setting prevents it.
The other mirth-suppressing element must be the guests themselves: foreign ambassadors, London’s principal nobility and gentry, government ministers, distinguished military and naval officers, prominent aldermen and magistrates, and even a number of church officials, who should have known better. The tone set by these worthies and their ladies is one of stiff-necked self-consciousness, with everyone intent upon preserving the illusion of flawless protocol, regardless of its effect on the human spirit. How could anyone, being present, laugh? And how could anyone, telling about it afterward in reassuringly familiar surroundings, fail to?
At precisely 1:00 am, the party was over and the high and mighty were abruptly shown the door.
“What industrious servants you have, sir!” sneered a departing guest, who’d had a half-finished plate of raspberry trifle practically snatched from her hands. “So remarkably quick to clear away the supper dishes!”
“Yes. They’re very efficient,” said the regent. “I expect they’d like to get to bed.” He yawned ostentatiously. “I know I would!”
Thus “Prinny” hurried the ladies out, not minding if he were rude, because he was practically king now and could behave as he liked. But a careful observer might have noticed that some of the lords lagged behind, studiously trying to look as if they, too, were on the point of leaving when, in fact, they weren’t.
After the last grand gown had swept from the room, the servants began dashing about in earnest. Prinny consulted his watch and showed it to his butler.
“Fifty-nine minutes, Enderby! I want everything cleared away and set up again exactly as it was at eight thirty this evening!”
Then he left to change his clothes.
A few moments after his re-entry, Lady Hertford was announced, whereupon a portly woman of middle age ascended the dais to curtsy before him.
“No, Izzy, darling!” cried the regent, raising her himself. “It is I who should kneel to you!” He kissed her hands with fervor and then, smiling lecherously, whispered something in her ear.
“Still,” Lady Hertford complained, “I am insulted that you have asked me to your second party, Prinny, rather than your first one!”

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