Death and the Courtesan

by Pamela Christie

  “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. Glendeen 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.”

  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.”

  Chapter 11

  EVENING FESTIVITIES

  A gaily wrapped package of a chapter, in

  which Constance nearly gets her head shot off,

  the flavor of human flesh is re-veal-ed, the vicar

  behaves foolishly, sex scandals are exposed, and a

  pair of bedtime stories is related. The evening

  concludes with a séance and a turtle.

  As 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 sp
eak 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.