Death and the Courtesan (20 page)

“Certain of his
what?
”

“Certain that he will accept my invitation.”

“Oh.”

“Do you not see the logic of it? If my plan incommodes you too much, I shall devise another, but that will take time, and he may leave town.”

“Well,” said the rector, gritting his teeth. “I think I had better hear your plan in its entirety before venturing an opinion.”

“Thank you. At the right moment, I shall confront him. And when I am satisfied, ... of his guilt, I mean, I shall call out to you and the others to come in and arrest him. What do you think?”

“I think it a very dangerous plan, Miss Beaumont. Perhaps you
should
try to invent another—one incurring less personal risk to yourself.”

“But what risk could there possibly be, with you and the Runners right there in the next room? Really, Mr. Kendrick. Sometimes you act like a mother hen!”

“Where your safety is involved, I feel I cannot be too cautious. You can have no conception, Miss Beaumont, of what I would suffer if you should ever be harmed.”

“I think I might have an inkling.”

“Can you tell me why
you
suspect Wedge?”

“Well, at first I did not think he could have done it, once I learnt that Euphemia Ramsey was his mother.”

“What!”

“Fantastic, is it not? Yet it is true; I have seen the proof. And in the social circles in which you and I are accustomed to spin, Mr. Kendrick, people do not murder their mothers. In other orbits, however, they are evidently less particular.

“Once I was disabused of my prejudice, I realized that Mr. Wedge must have left his gold dental plate with Euphemia as security for the memoirs. But of course, she didn’t
have
the memoirs, had in fact never written them, as nearly all her victims had bought their way out in advance. I am guessing that she gave him something in return, however—perhaps a parcel of unpaid bills, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string—knowing that he wouldn’t open it until he got back to his office.

“Imagine his thoughts when he discovered he’d been duped: ‘That duplicitous cow!’ (If one could conceive of such an animal, Mr. Kendrick.) ‘She has spent the advance and taken my teeth, giving me nothing in return! I shall kill her!’ And then he realizes that the sensational story of her murder will sell newspapers, so he writes up the article
before
committing the crime, to make sure that his version is the first to hit the streets. I must check this, but I am fairly certain that
The Tattle-Tale
account will be found to contain details of the murder to which no other papers were privy at the time.

“Finally, there is the problem of his being caught. He won’t be, of course, if the crime can be blamed on someone else. ‘On whom can I blame it, though?’ he wonders. ‘Whom did she hate?’ Me, of course. I’m told that Euphemia was in the habit of cursing my name several times a day. ‘If I frame this Arabella Beaumont,’ thinks Wedge, ‘I can run serialized special editions about the wicked lives of the two courtesans. I shall get Miss Beaumont to tell me her life’s story, including the history of their feud. Then I shall cover the trial and visit her in prison, for the exclusive story of her final thoughts on the eve of her execution. I shall also, of course, cover the execution itself in detail, with a carefully observed description of her death throes at the end of the rope. Then, finally, I shall write a glorious book about the whole thing, from start to finish, based upon the articles I have written. From all these ventures I shall earn a fortune, and set myself up as a gentleman, at last!’

“That is what I think happened,” said Arabella. “But of course, I cannot know for certain, until I ask Mr. Wedge.”

A
rabella’s bedchamber was sentimentally adorned with fat little candles and sweet-smelling flowers from the garden, so that it more resembled a grotto or a forest bower than an upstairs room in a private house. And Doyle had turned down the bedclothes and strewn rose petals between the sheets, before setting out a decanter of cherry brandy and two Venetian crystal glasses.

“By heaven, what a sweet place you have here,” murmured Oliver Wedge, looking about him appreciatively. He sat upon her bed and poured out the brandy, handing one glass to Arabella and raising the other to her in silent tribute.

She sat beside him, and man and woman smiled at one another in the semi-darkness. Neither spoke. They took small sips, unconsciously synchronizing their breathing, whilst the throb of cricket song washed over them through the open windows.

At length, Oliver took Arabella’s empty glass and set it down upon the tray beside his own. When he turned toward her, easing the gown from her shoulders, Arabella suddenly found she had no strength in her neck; the muscles seemed to dissolve, and her head fell back, as he planted hot kisses on her mouth, her throat, and her exposed breasts.

“All of you,” he whispered in her ear. “I want to see all of you!” She remembered the remark he’d made when introducing himself: “Have you seen all of her, Wedge?” and realized that he had probably said this to every woman with whom he had ever enjoyed intimate relations. But that scarcely mattered, now. She allowed him to remove her gown. Arabella seldom wore a chemise, obscuring, as it did, the finer points of her figure. Nor did such ineffectual garments offer protection from wandering hands or thwart eager and unlawful glances. Her gown had in fact been all she was wearing, and now she wore it no longer.

“Turnabout is fair play, Mr. Wedge,” she said, tugging at his shirt. And he obligingly removed everything
but
that article. She lay back on the bed. He knelt between her knees, his body levered over hers, when she said softly, “Darling, would you oblige me . . . by wearing something?”

He smiled above her in the darkness. “To give you pleasure is my one and only wish.”

Arabella half-turned under him and pulled open the drawer of her nightstand. The duke’s pistol lay there, sullen and murderous in the candlelight, but her hand fluttered over it and pulled out instead a set of very realistic porcelain teeth, affixed to a palate of gold.

“If you would be good enough,” she said, handing it to him. “I should like you to take out your teeth and try these instead.”

Wedge froze, and his eyes slid to meet hers in a moment of naked recognition.

“You killed Euphemia,” she whispered. “Didn’t you.”

It was a statement, not a question.

His shocked glance hardened to a glare of piercing resolve, and he should have pierced her indeed had he still had her paper knife. This was the confirmation she wanted, and Arabella opened her mouth to call the men in from the boudoir. But swift and deadly as a barn owl grasping a mouse in its talons, Wedge seized her by the throat. And she was unable either to breathe or to mobilize her vocal cords to produce a single sound.

A
rabella struggled for breath, twisting her neck in Wedge’s grip as she tried to break free and clawing frantically at his wrist with both hands. But the reader will doubtless feel no surprise to learn that her efforts were wasted. Wedge was using only one hand—he was leaning on the other and seemed not even to be trying very hard—but Arabella was completely incapable of breaking his grip.

In the general course of polite day-to-day interactions between the genders, women seldom have cause to be conscious of men’s superior strength. They know that this is so, accept it as an article of faith, but with the sad exception of abused wives and lovers, rarely experience it firsthand. Because when a man genuinely wishes to overpower a woman physically—unless he is ill or dying and she is an Amazon—there is no contest. The difference in physical strength between the sexes is enormous and unfair. A woman like Arabella can struggle with all her might against a man like Wedge and accomplish nothing. Which is doubtless why Nature, in the interests of evening the odds, has arranged for women to have superior
mental
strength that outstrips men’s to an equal degree.

Now, as Arabella struggled in Oliver Wedge’s stranglehold, she thought fleetingly of the pistol, theoretically so near yet in reality so distant. For though it lay mere inches from her head, getting it into her hand would have required her to shove off her attacker, turn over onto her left side, pull open the drawer, pull out the gun, ask him how to clean it, do so, ask for directions on reloading, accomplish that, and then aim it at him, with a fair amount of accuracy.

Almost as near and equally as inaccessible, John Kendrick and the two Bow Street Runners stood quietly waiting on the other side of the door, listening for Arabella’s call. In time, they would doubtless sense something amiss and burst open the door without her summons, only to find her lying dead and Wedge escaped out the window.

All this flashed through her mind as she thrashed about in a panic, completely unable to breathe and beginning to black out, when in the corner of her eye she caught the gleam of candlelight on deep-red glass. Her elephant stood upon the nightstand, a silent witness to her last moments.

With all the strength that remained to her, Arabella flung out an arm, hitting the elephant broadside and smashing it against the wall with the explosive report that only five pounds of solid glass can produce. Wedge, startled, relaxed his grip for a moment, and as Arabella drew in a life-prolonging gulp of air the door of the boudoir burst open, admitting Kendrick and the constables into the room. A few moments later, the servants ran in, too, with lamps, and the darkened room was suddenly bathed in light. Wedge was manacled after a brief struggle, and Kendrick ran to Arabella, who was lying exposed upon the bed without so much as a ribbon to cover her nakedness. He yanked the coverlet from beneath her feet and cast it over her, before shifting her gently up and onto the pillows.

“Arabella,” he cried. “Can you hear me? Arabella! Say something!” She began to cough, putting her hands up to her throat. “Quickly!” he barked at Doyle. “Bring water for your mistress, and fetch Miss Belinda!”

“She isn’t here,” Arabella rasped. “She’s with the princess.”

“I shall send someone to fetch her directly,” said Kendrick. “Pray, do not try to talk, Miss Beaumont; water will be brought you shortly.” And he poured out a glass of cherry brandy, to tide her over while she waited for the water.

The Runners, meanwhile, were helping Wedge get his breeches back on—a thing that is impossible to do alone with one’s hands manacled behind one’s back. Once they had made him presentable, he looked over at Arabella.

“You clever little vixen,” he said admiringly. “Figured it all out and saved yourself, too, didn’t you? My heartiest congratulations! I wonder if I might ask you a favor?”

“A favor, sir?” said Kendrick. “A
favor?!
You just tried to kill this woman! Take him away, officers!”

“No, wait,” croaked Arabella. “What do you want, Mr. Wedge?”

“My teeth. They’re the most comfortable set I own, and from what I’ve heard, prison is a most
un
comfortable place.”

“Give them to him, would you, John?” she whispered. “Mr. Wedge, did you ever discover who vandalized your office?”

He smiled affably, as though the two of them were sitting on a pleasant terrace having tea.

“As a matter of fact, I did it myself,” he said. “I had just published a scathing article about you, and I knew you would be stopping by before long to have it out with me. Do you remember what happened after you arrived, brimming with indignation and finding my place a shambles?”

Arabella looked at him.

“We had sexual congress on top of my desk. You see, madam, the successful womanizer knows how to set up the type of scenarios which are generally favorable to his success, and then exploit the results to his own advantage. Emotional, situational, and seasonal factors—everything plays a part, and all must be brought together with a light but steady hand.”

Mr. Kendrick shut his eyes and massaged his temples, as though he had a headache. The Runners were blushing.

“I see,” said Arabella hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“No, Miss Beaumont, thank
you!
”

“When did you first decide to murder Euphemia?” she whispered. “Was it a slow process, or was there a single instant when you suddenly knew that you were going to kill her?”

“The latter,” he said. “I made an instantaneous decision when I learned how the bitch had cheated me.”

“Yes,” said Arabella softly. “And did she give you a pile of trash, tied up like a manuscript?”

“No, she told me what she had done.”

“Oh!”

“She admitted everything: how she had spent the advance, blackmailed her subjects, and taken my teeth as a further surety—she had let me read some of her notes before she’d torn them up, you see—but even then, as furious as I was, I had no thought of killing her. I asked her to give me my denture back, at least. But she refused.”

Arabella nodded. “Euphemia never
did
give things back.”

“I was just on the point of leaving then, with some vague idea of seeking legal redress, when she leered at me and said, ‘Don’t worry, Ollie; I’ve left in the bit about my relationship to
you.
’ I didn’t want that to get out; I had hopes of one day running for Parliament. But I told
you
about it, because I knew that you suspected me, and wouldn’t, once you found out that I was her son.”

“But—”

“I know. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? The memoirs could never have been published, with so few pages. My secret was actually quite safe. It was the way she said it, I suppose. Her voice dripping with malice, a sneering sort of contempt. It infuriated me, but I understood it completely, because I’m just like that myself.”

“Come along,” said Constable Hacker. “There’s other people wants to talk to you, my lad!”

“Adieu, Miss Beaumont,” said Oliver Wedge. “I would kiss your hand, but I’m afraid that gesture is beyond me, bound as I am. We shall probably see one another at my trial, and please feel free to attend the execution, too. It should be quite festive.”