“We got the knife, don’t we? It’s hers, innit? Well, I mean, it’s an open-an’-shut case, is wut it is. They was enemies. Everybody knowed that.”
Constable Hacker sat on the steps of the White House with his second pot of ale, while across the square Constable Dysart followed Arabella to her carriage . . . carrying her purchase for her.
“Not necessarily,” said Oliver Wedge, repeatedly scraping his boot along the edge of the bottom step and checking the sole. “There might be a hundred other explanations. That’s the problem with you Runners; you jump to conclusions before all the evidence is in, and nine times in ten you turn out to be wrong.”
They were awaiting Arabella’s arrival outside what had formerly been a prosperous brothel but was now little more than a run-down rabbit warren of decaying alcoves and passageways. Most of the windows were either broken or bricked in and much of the building was rotting away, but the landlady, Mrs. Ealing (who, she’d have you know, was not the former madam), still let a few of the unfurnished rooms. Up until last week, Euphemia Ramsey had been one of the tenants. She had first come to the White House over forty years ago, an innocent country girl in the company of a pimp, and had left a short time later, an experienced courtesan. Then, after a life of almost unimaginable glamour, she had returned, ruined by debts and alcohol, and now she was dead at fifty-three, murdered with a paper knife belonging to Arabella Beaumont.
Constable Hacker had put Mrs. Ealing on notice to open up the room again.
“Ever come here when this place was still doing business?” he asked Wedge.
The editor eyed him with disfavor. “It hasn’t been operational for more than ten years,” he said icily.
“I know. I ast if you was ever here before that.”
Wedge stared up at the bricked-in windows, his expression equally blank. In his head, though, he was composing an editorial, blasting the lax morals and poor training of the London police. What an insolent dog this fellow was! Did he really suppose gentlemen to be in the habit of comparing amorous exploits with complete strangers? Strangers of the lower classes? Well, he’d soon see about that—Wedge had got the fellow’s name and was planning to use it in the editorial.
“I only wondered,” Hacker continued, “because I worked here as a boy, down in the dining rooms. You seem familiar.”
Wedge reddened.
“Yeah,” said Hacker. “I thought so. It wasn’t the face, so much; it was the voice. You’ve got an unforgettable voice, you have.”
“I think I remember you,” said Wedge, peering at Hacker. “Weren’t you the lad who used to bring steak and oysters to my room?”
“Aye: ‘Roast beef rare and oysters raw!’ ” he mimicked Wedge’s deep voice. “ ‘On the double, lad; on the double!’ ”
They laughed.
“Oh, but this was a grand place in the old days!” Wedge exclaimed, his hauteur washed away by shared memories and oyster brine. “Remember the grotto? And the coal hole?”
“I’ll never forget those long as I live!” Hacker replied. “The things I used to see when they’d open the doors to take in a delivery!”
“. . . and the skeleton room,” Wedge said. “Where you would tell some unsuspecting girl you’d brought in from outside to pull the curtain, and when she did, the mechanical bone man would spring out and clasp her in his arms!”
“I liked that sofa,” said Hacker. “The one where the straps flew out and buckled a woman in, soon as she sat on it. But I never understood the skelinton. I meanter say, what has ske-lintons got to do with rumpy-pumpy?”
“Sex and terror are close allies,” said Wedge. “If you frighten ladies . . . or men, for the matter of that . . . so badly that they actually believe they’re going to die, and then step in and save them at the last possible moment, their miraculous escape from death will make them feel that they must make a baby, at once.”
He offered his snuffbox to Tom. “Some of the rooms were on the level, though,” Wedge continued. “Lavish, even. I think I liked the bronze room best, but women usually preferred the gold. Well, they would, wouldn’t they?”
The two men smiled, remembering.
“Bell—if you don’t really need me just now,” said Belinda as they walked back to the landau, “with Mr. Kendrick as your escort, and the two police officers . . . would you mind if I just went along to Newton’s and tried to find Constance?”
Arabella sighed. “No, I suppose not. Have you got any money with you?”
“Some.”
“Well, take a cab. Do not try to walk it. There are any number of rum-looking types on the streets today.”
“Thank you, Bell!” Belinda cried, bestowing a hasty kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be home for supper!”
“Wait, Miss Belinda,” said Kendrick. “Let me get a cab for you. Constable, I am leaving Miss Beaumont, here, in your care.”
Once the box had been safely stowed inside her carriage, Arabella lifted the lid and looked at her elephant. Why had Euphemia kept this back, even as she sold off all her other possessions? Because she liked it? Because it represented her triumph over Arabella? Or was it because it reminded her of Arabella, and of happier times the two friends had shared? Suddenly she felt a surge of tenderness toward her old foe.
“I shall find your killer, Euphemia,” she whispered to the figurine. “I am doing this as much for your sake as my own . . . well, no, I’m not, but I am doing it for you, too.”
With its indifferently tended square, deteriorating statue, and respectable homes standing cheek by jowl with brothels and doss-houses, Soho epitomized the little neighborhood that couldn’t. Originally planned as an exclusive enclave for the upper classes, it had never quite realized those aspirations, and while undesirable tenants continued to pour in, conducting criminal activities and drastically decreasing property values, the few well-heeled inhabitants who lived there had begun to trickle out. The kindest thing would be to say that Soho had seen better days, but this wasn’t strictly true. Even so, there were still a few celebrated citizens whose houses faced the square: Sir Joseph Banks, for example, president of the Royal Society and a great friend of Arabella’s. It was Banks who had first got her started collecting exotic birds, and she thought how nice it would be to drop in on him now, for a cup of tea and a cozy discussion about beetles. But Sir Joseph was undoubtedly gone to Bath or Tunbridge Wells for the summer—his house had an empty look. And even if he wasn’t, courtesans did not pay calls, without invitation, at the homes of prominent gentlemen. Especially not married ones. Arabella turned, instead, toward the White House.
Imagine, reader, that you are standing in a nearly empty room, soiled with soot, unclean living, and the grime of ages, from which the last vestiges of Euphemia Ramsey’s existence have been almost eradicated. A few petrified food relics and empty bottles still litter the floor; a rag remains stuffed through a hole in a broken window. If Miss Ramsey’s spirit were permitted one last backward glance at her worldly domain before moving on to realms beyond this one, it would not have recognized any of these items as having been specifically connected with herself when she was alive. The pointless and the impersonal are all that remain of her fifty-odd years of existence. Soon these, too, will be swept up and disposed of.
Through the open door, a voice is heard, increasing in volume as its owner approaches:
“. . . Removers left the place in a dreadful state, they did: Carted off all the poor thing’s valyables for that there auction, and left all the trash behind! You come just in time, miss; my char’s off takin’ care of ’er ailin’ mother today, but tomorrer I’m havin’ her clean the place out so’s I can let it to somebody else! Here we are, Constables, sir, miss. I doubt if you’ll find anythin’ in ’ere, but you’re welcome to have a look.”
The room stank of dry rot and mildew, which Arabella attempted to alleviate with snuff. She politely offered her box in turn to the two constables and Oliver Wedge but was thankful that the landlady, who remained shifting her we
ight nervously on the threshold, was sufficiently far away from the group to be tactfully excluded. Two pinches of snuff, caught up between those fat fingers, would have substantially depleted Arabella’s supply, and the blend she preferred was an expensive one.
It was a grim little place. Several dark stains remained upon the floor and one of the walls. Small piles of rubbish lay strewn about, cobwebs filled the corners, and a host of small flies drifted erratically within the confines of two sunbeams, which served only to light up the dust. A hook protruded from the center of the ceiling: strange . . . or no, probably not. The place used to be a brothel, after all. A prop, or even a person, could have been suspended in a harness from a hook like that.
Poor Euphemia, thought Arabella. To have died in such a place as this! The dead woman had once been the most famous courtesan of her time, even as Arabella was now. But when courtesans grew old and lost the freshness of youth, they tended to lose everything else, as well. There was a lesson to be learned, here. Of course, in this case, Euphemia’s taste for gambling, drink, and ruinously expensive young men hadn’t helped, but what else could she have done? Her glamorous life was over forever, and she had no family, no friends, no skills to fall back upon. Euphemia had been trapped. And even without being murdered, Arabella reflected, she could not have expected to live much longer.
She was murdered, though; she had suffered pain and terror at the hands of someone who’d had no right to take her life, and Arabella was suddenly stung by guilt, a sensation to which she was unaccustomed. But she hadn’t known Euphemia was living like this; how could she? When they had not even been on speaking terms? And what could she have done to help if she had known? Giving the woman money would only have hastened her down the path of self-destruction. It was a hopeless situation, no matter how one viewed it, and Arabella was determined—in the event that she survived the gallows—not to share Euphemia’s fate.
From her post in the doorway, the landlady was giving her personal version of the tragedy for the hundredth time.
“. . . and the constables, these selfsame young men as is standing here naow, ran over t’ the bed, but it wasn’t no use. She were as dead as come-ask-it, with the bed all soaked in ’er blood, and a great pool of the stuff on the floor. . . .”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ealing,” said Arabella, handing her a shilling. “If I have any more questions, I shall come and find you.”
After the landlady had gone, Arabella made a circuit of the room, gingerly prodding and lifting things with the tip of her parasol.
“Why have you come here, Mr. Wedge?” she asked of the man in the pearl-gray hat.
“Forgive the intrusion, but I overheard you say that you intended to visit this place, and I thought that I should see whether I might be of any assistance to you.”
“I am looking for diaries, lists, letters, anything with writing on it,” she said. “You may join in, if you wish. But I doubt very much whether you have actually come here to help.”
“Why do you doubt me?”
“Because I know your newspaper. You just want a statement, do you not?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“I want a statement, yes; but I don’t just want a statement.”
“Well. I shall give you one. Not here, though,” she said, glancing over at the Runners. Hacker and Dysart were standing against the wall with their hands behind them, staring off into space, and earnestly trying to give the impression of being somewhere else.
Wedge took her point readily. “Oh, quite!” he said. “Could you meet me at the Cabbage Moth, on—”
“Certainly not! The Cabbage Moth, indeed! I shall meet you at . . .” She took the pencil stub from behind her ear and wrote “Vauxhall” on the back of one of her calling cards, adding a date and a time, so that the constables should not know of her plan. Arabella almost never had occasion to use her calling cards for their intended purpose, but she found them invaluable for instances like this one.
“That is where I shall give you a statement,” said she, handing him the card. “As for whatever else it is that you want, Mr. Wedge, we shall have to see.”
“I am much obliged to you! But . . . couldn’t you give me a brief statement now? Just a sentence or two?”
“Oh, very well. You may tell your readers that I am working hard to discover the murderer’s identity, with the aid and full cooperation of the London constabulary . . . such as it is.”
The constables made no sign of having heard her.
Wedge wrote this down. “And what are your current relations with the Duke of Glendeen? Is he assisting you, too?”
“I have nothing to say on that subject.”
“Is it true that he has given you up in order to marry Julia van Diggle?”
“Really, Mr. Wedge! Where have you been? Their engagement was announced in The Morning Post today. I hardly think it my place to keep you informed of developments.”
“I take it that you are no longer under the duke’s protection, then.”
He looked her straight in the eye. Arabella gazed straight back at him. And there is no way of knowing what might have happened next, for Mr. Kendrick entered the room at that moment and instantly assumed a belligerent stance, complete with clenched fists.
“Wedge! You villain! If I catch you sniffing around Miss Beaumont’s skirts again, I shall call you out, sir! Leave this place at once!”
The editor turned on his heel, without acknowledging Arabella, and the vicar followed him up, to make sure that he left.
Here was a mystery! Why should Wedge so readily obey Kendrick’s commands? Evidently, something had once passed between these two that accounted for this odd behavior. Arabella would have to inquire about it later.
“I was just leaving, Mr. Kendrick,” she said upon his return. “There is nothing here of any interest to me. The removers were most thorough.”
But as the group regathered in the passage, a door opened on the opposite side and a head in a torn cap was thrust out from it.
“Psssst! Missus! I ’eard you say you was investigatin’ the murder.”
“I am.”
“Well, I can show you summat, but it’ll cost ya.”
“Come along, Miss Beaumont,” urged Kendrick. “This person can have nothing to say to us.”
“Not you,” said the head. “It’s only ’er I want.”
“I wonder, Mr. Kendrick,” said Arabella, “whether you would be good enough to question the landlady for me? I should like to know whom Euphemia was in the habit of entertaining here, and to get an account of her movements on the last night she was seen alive. Could you do that, whilst I speak to this individual?”
“I don’t think . . .”
“Please, Mr. Kendrick?”
“I don’t like to leave you alone in this place.”
“I shan’t be alone, with two of London’s finest dogging my footsteps. Go and ask about it, do. I should be ever so grateful.”
She smiled at him again, and Kendrick went, her obedient servant. Arabella turned once more toward the head.
“How much are you asking?”
“Twenty pounds!”
“Oh, bugger off!” growled Tom.
“No, no,” said Arabella hastily as the head was withdrawn. “The officer did not mean that. I shall be happy to pay what you ask, provided you truly have something I can use.”
“You can come in then. But mind, just you. I’m not havin’ no coppers inside my room.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Dysart,” said Arabella as Frank seemed about to force his way in. “One of you can stand here, just beside the door, and the other can wait outside the house, in case I try to ‘escape.’ I won’t be a moment.”
For the second time that day, Arabella was moved by the squalor in which she found herself. Euphemia’s apartment had been cleared of all usable items, so the state of the room was perhaps semi-excusable. But this chamber was occupied by a living, breathing human being. Yet it rese
mbled nothing so much as a compost pile, moved to the city and maintained indoors. Dear God. The stench in here was nearly overpowering! A wave of nausea swept over Arabella, and she thought for a moment that she was going to be sick. But the feeling passed when the woman handed her a book. Arabella immediately bore this to the window and examined it under the thin light that struggled through the grime-coated pane. It was some sort of ledger, clothbound, with most of its pages torn out. The few that remained appeared to be a record of various personal details pertaining to Euphemia’s former clients: what they had liked, what they had paid her to do, and what she had thought of them.
“Where did you get this?” Arabella asked. And for the first time, she really looked at the woman. Skeletal, with loose, yellowish skin, the creature stood up in a filthy, sleeveless nightgown, scratching her arms. Corkscrews of brittle hair, which protruded from a ruffled mobcap, were pasted with sweat to her neck and forehead.
“She give it t’me afore she died. Said t’ keep it away from the Runners.”
The woman’s breath stank. When she opened her mouth to speak, Arabella could see that she’d lost most of her teeth. Laudanum addict, Arabella thought. There could be no doubt. The pinpoint pupils of the eyes confirmed it.
“She did? Then why have you torn out most of the pages?”
“ ’Twas like ’at when she give it t’me.”
“You know where they are, though.”
“No! I never seen ’un!”
“Well,” said Arabella, handing back the book, “this is useless to me in its current condition. You find those missing pages, and then we can talk about price. Otherwise, I shall turn you in to the magistrate for obstructing this investigation.”
As she turned to leave the room, the wretched woman gave an agonized cry.
“I don’ have the pages, missus! I don’t know where they be! I . . . I lied to you. She never give me this. I went in, didn’t I? Went into her room as they was takin’ the last of ’er stuff down to the square. This was lyin’ there, on the floor, under a pile of rags and broken dishes. They didn’ want it for the sale. Because it was tore. That’s the God’s truth, I swear it! But, if you could give me a few bob for this, just a few bob, missus. I’ve had nothin’ to eat for three days!”
Death and the Courtesan Page 6
