Arabella’s stories usually sprang from her own immediate circumstances, and on her way downstairs she pondered the origins of the tale she had just told. Primarily, she was feeling intense resentment toward the unjust turn things had taken. Arabella had started out disadvantaged by bad parents, had been plunged into poverty, had found an alternative to starving, and finally had pulled herself and her family into a very agreeable, if socially unacceptable, mode of living, all through her own efforts. Now it seemed she was to be destroyed at last, and through no fault of her own. Like the chicken in the story, she had taken a chance and braved the dangers, only to be broadsided by the unforeseen. If she had chosen the duck’s path, however, she would have been plucked and roasted long before this. Life was unfair. To women, anyway.
She returned to the drawing room in a thoughtful mood. Her guests had unrolled the fortune-telling mat in her absence and set out the odd-looking pointer. Mr. Hunt and Belinda, with their fingertips touching upon this, were waiting for something to happen.
At Arabella’s entrance, Mr. Kendrick rose from the floor.
“Good night, Miss Beaumont,” he whispered, “and thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“Are you really going, Mr. Kendrick?” Arabella whispered back.
“I think I had better,” he replied. “Witchcraft games, you know. As a churchman there are certain activities with which I may not risk being associated.”
She felt disappointed. Not, of course, because anything could possibly have happened between herself and the rector there on the floor—Mr. K. was a staunch, if reluctant, man of God, after all—but she found his presence . . . comfortably reassuring, and the prospect of his absence made her sad.
He kissed her hand and, there in the darkness, pressed it to his heart, whilst everyone else was watching Mr. Hunt and Belinda operate the pointer.
“It . . . it’s moving,” Belinda whispered, in awe. “Are you moving it, Mr. Hunt?”
“No,” he replied nervously. “I thought you were!”
A hush had fallen over the company. Everyone strained forward to see the name that was being spelled out by forces from beyond the veil: “I . . . AM . . . EUPHE . . .” And suddenly the shadows seemed to deepen; the candles grew less bright. Darkness was closing in. All eyes were focused on the Ojah mat, now, and the only sound to be heard in the room was the concentrated breathing of the guests.
“MY . . . MURDERER’S . . . NAM—”
The earsplitting scream was so loud, so unexpected, that two of the guests actually fell over. As Constance drew in her breath to shriek again, Arabella precipitously clapped a hand over her mouth, and Mr. Rowlandson grabbed a candle, thrusting it toward the spot on the carpet that was riveting Miss Worthington’s attention.
Neddy’s turtle, Stupid Looking, stood with his front paws planted in Constance’s cake and his mouth full of icing, blinking his little red eyes in the candlelight.
Never had any creature in Arabella’s experience so fully deserved its name.
Chapter 12
COOLNESS UNDER FIRE
In which Belinda relates how she met the princess,
Fisto irritates his listeners, The Tattle-Tale office
is vandalized, and Arabella keeps her head
whilst engaging the enemy.
Arabella slept late the next day, and so did the rest of the household, apparently, for by the time she had groped her way to the breakfast table she found her uncle and Mrs. Janks seated there—he in a dressing gown, she in morning dishabille—serenely spooning up soft-boiled eggs and smiling at one another over their newspapers.
“I love the way you live, my dear,” said Sir Geoffrey, looking up from The Morning Post as she came in. “It’s all so natural and easy! A taste of simple rusticity in the heart of London! Where else would I be able to enjoy a morning’s tête-à-tête with Mrs. Janks, and not be censured for it, eh?”
Belinda staggered in, dropped to her seat, and clasped her head in her hands.
“Ooh,” she groaned. “I’ve got such a head!”
“Ooh,” groaned Fisto in his cage. “I’ve got such a head!”
“Shut your beak!”
“Shut your beak! Shut your beak!”
Arabella rose and flung a cloth over his cage. “Now I see why you named him Mephistopheles, Uncle!”
“Quite,” said Sir Geoffrey, swallowing his tea. “That bird has a most uncanny sense of timing. Well, am I to have the pleasure of your company today, Arabella, or shall I go to my club?”
“I am interviewing a witness this afternoon, Uncle.”
“Oh, well, then; Belinda?”
“I am supposed to be dining at Montagu House, although,” said Belinda, grimacing, “I’m not sure I am feeling up to sauerbraten and bloodwurst today.”
“However did you manage to become such a favorite of the Princess of Wales, my dear?” asked Mrs. Janks. “Things have been so hectic round here lately that I never had a chance to ask you.”
“Oh, it’s a silly story, really.”
“That doesn’t put me off, lovey; I’m keen to hear it.”
Belinda made a brief show of searching back through her memory and reluctantly preparing herself to tell a tale, but actually, she was enormously pleased; at Lustings, it was usually Arabella who told the stories. No one else ever got the chance.
“Well, let me see . . . I first encountered Caroline of Brunswick, Princess of Wales, at Hyde Park, in the Serpentine.”
“Near the Serpentine, d’you mean?” asked Sir Geoffrey.
“No. In it.”
He looked confused for a moment. Then his face cleared.
“Ah! The two of you were in boats. Is that it?”
“No. I was strolling along the walk near the lake when I heard someone sobbing in the direction of the water. At first I came over all gooseflesh, as one would, thinking, you know, of the unhappy ghosts of drowned people—children fallen in, and maidens forced to marry men they despised, that sort of thing. But on reflection, I surmised that a ghost would most likely produce a ghostly sort of sound, and this was quite a robust style of weeping. More like a bellow. So I parted the reeds and peered cautiously through them, where I beheld Her Royal Highness, in a not-very-tasteful but obviously expensive gown, long gloves, tiara, the lot, standing in water up to her knees and wailing like the world was ending. It was apparent from where I stood that she was quite drunk. So I coughed deferentially and asked whether she required assistance, whereupon she cried,
“ ‘Oh! I think I have killed a swan!’
“ ‘Surely not,’ I replied. ‘Swans are singularly hearty fowl. But what has happened, exactly?’
“She turned her face toward me, all streaming with tears, and said, ‘I tried to ride one, and it sank!’ ”
Everybody laughed, even Arabella, who’d heard the story before. A moment after they stopped, Fisto laughed, too, beneath his calico drapery, sounding like a roomful of people.
“How does he do that?” asked Belinda wonderingly.
“Better you should ask why,” said Arabella.
“Then what happened?” asked the housekeeper.
“Well, I coaxed the princess out of the water and wrapped her in my shawl, and eventually we found her attendants. She kept insisting that I had saved her life, and I was made to go home with her and stop the night there. The princess finally allowed me to send a messenger to let Bell know where I was, but by the time he arrived, my poor sister was half-distracted with worry, and on the point of calling out the militia.”
“Which I could have done, too, given my connections,” said Arabella. “Bunny has been practically living over there ever since. Is there any breakfast today, Mrs. Janks? I’m half-starved!”
Just then, the door opened behind her, and Arabella heard Fielding’s cheerful voice:
“Here we are, madam! Shirred eggs and bacon, currant scones and raspberry jam, grilled kippers and coffee!”
“Oh!” cried Arabella. “That’s capital! H
ow did you know that I was so hu—”
But turning round, she beheld an astonished Fielding, carrying a tray with nothing on it but tea and toast.
Under his covering, Fisto laughed, again.
“Bell,” said Belinda, “I believe we should move Fisto to the aviatory after all.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’re—”
Just then, Mrs. Janks began to choke violently upon her toast. Sir Geoffrey was at her side in a moment, thumping her on the back, whilst Belinda and Arabella poured out a tumbler of water. Gradually, the coughing subsided, and the poor woman lay back against her chair in a state of semi-exhaustion.
“There, Mrs. Janks!” said Arabella with relief. “You gave us quite a fright!”
The housekeeper sat up again, clearly agitated and gulping air like a fish, so that she might speak at once.
“The newspaper . . . !” she croaked. “There, in the newspaper!” She jabbed at an article with her finger.
But Arabella looked first at the masthead.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. For Mrs. Janks had been reading The Tattle-Tale. “I can’t,” said Arabella, handing it to Belinda. “Read it out for us, Bunny.”
“Duke Shields Murderous Mistress from Justice!
“Just what does the Duke of G think he’s about? That he has used his considerable political influence to keep a dangerous criminal out of gaol is hardly in the public’s best interest! That he will sail for Portugal at the end of the month probably is, as we are bound to be better off without him, but what of her? A wanton strumpet, who, despite every material advantage, sold the family carriage and threw away a life of respectability in order to hire herself out at so much an hour to all comers! (Or not, according to her customers’ personal tastes and abilities!)
“The informed reader knows that A has had no children. What? With as many opportunities as she has had? She has borne children. She must have done! Has not A’s own sister been seen on the grounds of their walled estate, at all hours and in all weathers, digging holes with a garden spade? What is she burying, you ask? Boxes, large enough to contain infants, all decorated in swags and flowers; the very acme of funerary art! If they were her own newborn babes, the girl would be far too weak to dig. Make no mistake about it: She is burying A’s children! No doubt she is being forced to!
“Duke or no duke, shall this monster go free? Shall she be allowed to wander our streets, murdering babies at random for the rest of the month? Or shall she be arrested NOW, before she has the chance to murder again?”
Sir Geoffrey was speechless for a moment, but Belinda wasn’t.
“How does he know about my boxes? Have you discussed them with him, Arabella?”
“Of course not. Why should I want to tell him a thing like that?”
“How else could he know?”
“He probably bribed the gardener.”
“Oh. But why does he persist in writing lies about you?”
“Do you mean to say that you actually know this brute?” her uncle asked fiercely.
“Know him!” cried Belinda. “Why, Arabella positively . . .”
But she caught her sister’s expression just then, and her voice died away in her throat.
“We met him at the creditors’ auction,” said Arabella, “where he represented himself to us as a sympathetic supporter of my cause. Apparently, such was not the case.”
“I won’t stand for it!” cried her uncle. “Where’s my horsewhip, by gad?”
“Now, now,” said Mrs. Janks. “None of that, Sir Geoffrey.” She turned to Arabella, who was opening her letters. “This here Miss Wiggle-Diggle, or whatever she calls herself, that you’re going to see today. Is she the last of your interviews?”
“Yes. Well, no. Sort of. I am also intending to speak to the prince regent at the grand fete. Not to actually question him, you know, but to get myself introduced. And I shall attempt to make him like me.”
“Now surely, you don’t suspect that he murdered Euphemia?”
“He might have done,” said Belinda. “Remember last year? When his brother murdered his own valet?”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “Which brother?”
“Cumberland. It was in all the papers here. I wonder you never heard about it, Uncle Selwyn. Don’t they have newspapers in Kandy?”
“I never read ’em. Too busy in those days. Now that I’ve retired it seems I have some catching up to do. What happened?”
“Cumberland woke the household in the middle of the night, screaming that he’d been attacked. They found him with his sword drawn, and bleeding from both hands. In the next room, his valet was found in bed, with his throat cut so deeply he was practically decapitated. A bloody razor was discovered on the other side of the room, so obviously it wasn’t a suicide, but that’s precisely what the jury decided it was. They said the valet had attacked the duke, and then immediately killed himself, from remorse.”
“Poppycock! Why should he have done that?”
“No one ever gave a reason. But some say there was a very plausible reason for the duke’s having murdered his valet: Cumberland had raped the man’s daughter, and the poor girl committed suicide when she found herself with child. Her father probably threatened to take the story to the newspapers.”
“Damme! And the blackguard got away with it, you say?”
“Clean away with it,” said Mrs. Janks. “Nobody never liked him to begin with, but mobs try to lynch him now, whenever he goes out.”
“So you see,” said Belinda. “That sort of behavior runs in the royal family. If Cumberland may kill a valet, why shouldn’t the regent kill a courtesan?”
“Two courtesans,” said Arabella, setting down her letters. “You see why I must go carefully here; this matter has to be handled with the utmost discretion.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Janks. “I don’t think he would, really. He’s not a good prince, heaven knows, but somehow I don’t see him going out and killing women in cold blood.”
“Not him, personally; he would have paid someone else to do it,” said Arabella. “The way he paid someone to steal my paper knife. If he has done this, I am a dead woman. If not . . . well, perhaps, if I befriend him, he will be moved to take pity on my situation. It seems to be my only hope now, as I have been unable to discover the murderer on my own.”
“There is still time,” said Belinda.
“Yes, a little. So, the prince regent is a suspect. Lady Ribbonhat is a suspect, too, but she has refused, absolutely, to meet with me, in her home or anywhere else. In fact, I have just received a letter from her.” Arabella extracted a letter from its envelope and unfolded it. “ ‘Lord Sidmouth be damned!’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘Let him come and arrest me! Let him try.’ ”
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Janks. “Of all the . . . that woman is positively common!”
“I didn’t really expect her to comply,” Arabella admitted. “But writing to her felt so satisfying! It gave me an excuse to inform her that her departed husband was one of Euphemia’s clients, and that Euphemia had written the word ‘DISEASED’ under his name.”
“Oh, well done!” said Belinda approvingly.
“Of course, later I realized that she had actually meant to write ‘deceased.’ Euphemia was not an accomplished speller. Still, I need not explain that to Lady Ribbonhat.”
Arabella put down her napkin, rose from the table, and kissed Sir Geoffrey on the top of his head.
“I am very sorry to leave you, Uncle, but after tomorrow I shall be at your disposal, up until the moment that the government disposes of me.”
“I pray you, do not talk in that vein!” said Sir Geoffrey. “And don’t worry about me—I shall spend the day at my club.”
“You off to see Miss Jiggles, then, my dear?”
“No, Mrs. Janks, there has been a change of plan. I am going to Fleet Street, to confront that odious Mr. Wedge!”
Arabella dressed herself in a salmon-pink and lavender ensemble, which, on its ow
n, made her look too vulnerable, so she added dark-brown chicken skin gloves. As she donned a pair of flat brown shoes to match, she thought fleetingly—wistfully—of the pretty little high heels so in vogue a generation ago, and how much more enticing her mother’s feet had looked in those than her own appeared in these.
This time, as her carriage passed through the gate, a different sort of stench raped her nostrils.
“Trotter!” she choked. “Is that shit?”
“Yes, ma’am!” he replied, and gagged. “The human variety! Several cartloads, looks like! It’s piled all around your wall, here!”
“Good lord! Well, don’t stop now, Trotter, or I shall be late for my engagement. Have the gardeners dispose of this when we get back, please.”
“Right you are, madam!” he said, and grinned. “Long’s I don’t have to do it!”
Arabella had not written to say she was coming. Military tacticians maintain that surprise is often the most effective weapon of all, and such was the fact in this case, although the surprise was just as much upon her own side as her adversary’s. For when she arrived, Arabella discovered The Tattle-Tale office in a state of complete chaos: chairs and printing presses overturned, documents all over the floor, a window broken. Oliver Wedge straightened from a crouch as she came in, both hands full of newsprint paper.
“You did this,” he said accusingly.
“Indeed not,” she said, removing her gloves and bonnet. “I have only just arrived, as you see.”
“I didn’t mean you, personally. You hired someone to vandalize my office.”
“And why should I want to do that?”
“In revenge for . . .”
“Yes? Revenge for what?”
“For those . . . articles.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Wedge. You can do better than that! You’re a journalist! Words are your business! To which articles do you refer?”
“You did hire someone!”
“I did not. But I am beginning to wish that I had. Because whoever did this wasn’t half-destructive enough! The people I should have hired would have done such a thorough job that you would never have been able to put this office back to rights! I merely came here today to confront you about ‘those articles,’ as you so euphemistically call them. Those vicious, biased, hate-mongering articles . . . I trusted you, Mr. Wedge, with my life’s story, and you twisted it into a degrading, personal condemnation.”
Death and the Courtesan Page 14
