Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery)

by Christie, Pamela

  “They’re for Cara.” Arabella sagged with relief. “She shivers so in the draughts! Up we come, cara mia.” Belinda lifted the dog from its sentinel post next her chair and wrestled the trousers over its hind legs, pulling the tail through a hole at the back. Then she set her pet down on the carpet.

  “What do you think?”

  Arabella studied the animal in the trousers, who seemed to look back at her apologetically over its shoulder, barely moving its tail.

  “Hmm,” she remarked judiciously. “When dogs wear clothing, you know, the garment is usually located farther up the body, as I believe it is in their chests and stomachs that they most feel the cold.”

  “Oh,” said Belinda. “So, more like a shell, then?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “How vexing! That was the last of my yarn!”

  “Signorina! I shall bring-a you some wool for your doggie’s jumper!”

  Osvaldo had just reentered the room, with his snuff box and a paper-wrapped parcel. He probably would not have been so eager to oblige her, had he known he was offering to enhance a gift from his rival, but the poor fellow had no idea of there being anyone else. For her part, Belinda was so involved in her daydreams of Bergamini that she barely registered Osvaldo’s existence. Even now as he stood aside for her, cramming his nostrils with rappee blend (“which, she’s-a is a-use by my uncle, the prince regent of-a you country”), Belinda swept past him and out of the room without so much as a nod of gratitude.

  Osvaldo did not follow her, though. This time, it was with Arabella that he had business.

  “Signorina, I am sorry, but we found these,” he said, hefting the parcel, “in Renilde’s dresser. Aunt Simonetta said-a to burn them, rather than give them to you, but I could not do such a heartless thing to my future sister. You will be my only sister, when Belinda and I are married.”

  He unwrapped the bundle, spilling the contents across the desk. There were all the letters that Arabella had written home, and all the ones that had arrived for her and been hidden away.

  “Renilde was-a keeping your post from you. I don’t know why she did this,” he said. “But I can-a guess. Please, signorina, say nothing of this downstairs. Aunt Simonetta will be so angry if she knows I gave these-a to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Arabella, who was experiencing relief, surprise, and indignation all at once. “This was . . . this was very kind of you.”

  He turned to go, but she laid a hand upon his arm.

  “I went to the churchyard this morning to search for Renilde’s grave,” she said. “There was no sign of it.”

  “No,” he said. “The coffin was taken to her father’s family, in Siena. They raised Renilde, you see? We hardly knew her. But Renilde, she was . . . she have a disappointment? Yes? By the man she was going to marry. So Cousin Felice asked her to join our party here, to have get away from sad times. I will leave you to read your letters. And once again, I am sorry for this.”

  Solace? Anger? Joy? Arabella did not quite know what she felt. The letters were full of news from home and anxious enquiries concerning her mysterious silence. But none of them so much as mentioned the scandal. On the other hand, the writers had never received her letters asking about it.

  At the bottom of the pile was a letter from her protector, the Duke of Glendeen. His ship having stopped in some port or other, he was anxiously asking her how she did. Evidently, news of the scandal had reached him all the way out on the high seas! He expected to be home by New Year’s, he said.

  “ ‘Missing you dreadfully,’ ” she read, later, to Belinda, “ ‘because I have been at sea all these months, you know, and every night when I rack out, I think of you and I hoist up my nightshirt, and then I . . . ’ et cetera, et cetera.”

  Arabella twirled her hand in a circular motion that was meant to convey what the duke had written, but in fact meant “see you later” in Italian gestural parlance.

  “Still,” said Belinda. “Even he does not say that everyone is talking about us. Something else must surely have happened by now to take people’s minds off it.”

  But Arabella was far from reassured.

  Encountering Renilde’s mother that night in the passage, she attempted to commiserate with the quiet little woman upon her loss.

  “I am glad at least,” said Arabella, “that her father’s family will be able to give her a proper funeral.”

  Ginevra Rinaldo looked confused. “Her father’s family?” she repeated. “What do you mean? My late husband was a foundling, not that it’s any business of yours, and was raised in an orphanage. He never had the least idea who his people were!”

  Chapter 20

  THE VILLA BELVEDERE

  On a wet, cold London night, a carriage, its lamps extinguished, and moving as silently as it is possible for such an equipage to move, pulled up to the Lustings gate. Its owner had attempted to trump the prevailing fashion in horseflesh by acquiring six beasts in not two, but three different colors, with lamentable results. Thus the carriage was drawn by just four horses—one each of two of the colors, and two of the third, creating a lopsided effect. In the dark, though, one didn’t notice this so much.

  Presently, a figure with a closed basket on its arm stepped from the carriage. It was clad in a hooded black domino, of a style in vogue some twenty years previously, creating an effect both malevolent and ridiculous. The basket, which was emitting a series of bloodcurdling shrieks, was simply terrifying.

  “There, there, my darling,” soothed Lady Ribbonhat. “Hush now, and Mama will give you something nice.”

  In her sinister raiment, she might have been taken for a priestess of the dark forces, placating an angry imp in a pot. But in any case, she was not a persuasive priestess. The yelling continued, unabated.

  “In a few moments, Rosaline my precious, your own William will smell your perfume, and come to have his way with you, like always. Be patient, darling; we’ll wait here whilst your scent carries on the wind.”

  For several years past, the two cats, Rosaline and Rooney (aka William of Orange), had shared an illicit love, one that transcended all of Lady Ribbonhat’s attempts to thwart it. Rooney had managed to cover his lady love no fewer than seven times, and even when she was not in heat, he had been known to swim ditches and claw his way through hedges in order to be near her. Nor did she leave him unaffected this time. Rooney caught her scent from his promenade along the loggia railing, and quickly made his way to the front gate, which by that time had been closed and locked for several hours. But mere iron railings pose no barrier to a cat. He came right up to it . . . then paused. For he sensed, as cats will, that something was not quite right.

  “There you are, William!” whispered Lady Ribbonhat from the other side of the gate. “Come on, then! Come to your own pussy!” She took Rosaline out of the basket and crouched down, manually lifting and lowering the cat’s tail in order to entice Rooney to venture through the bars.

  And then, all at once and from four different directions, half a hundred enthusiastic tomcats hurled themselves onto the person of Lady Ribbonhat. Some of them even leapt down from the wall above, quite submerging the unfortunate dowager. Caught as she was in that awkward crouching position, La Ribbonhat was entirely unable to bear the sudden, extra weight and fell over. For she was not a very large person, except for her head, and in this instance that was more of a hindrance than otherwise. Rosaline sprang clear and ran off down the road, with her gang of admirers in close pursuit, whilst poor Lady Ribbonhat, hopelessly entangled in the voluminous cape, rolled to the brink of a nearby drainage ditch, teetered there for a moment, and then fell in with a splash. All the while, her despicable coachman, instead of coming to her aid, sat upon the box, hugging himself and roaring with laughter.

  Once again, Professor Bergamini had been a godsend. And whilst he was finalizing their new accommodations in Ravello, Arabella and her entourage had had the hotel practically to themselves. Terranova and the others had now left for g
ood. Only Osvaldo remained behind, and he was beginning to grow on them. But Renilde’s death and Arabella’s near poisoning still seemed to hang in the air like the suffocating smoke from a funeral pyre. Arabella had questioned the doctor neighbor, who had corroborated Osvaldo’s story as far as having been to the house to see Renilde on the night she died. He did not allude to any plague, however, and maintained that the girl had died of brain fever.

  “It infuriates me,” said Arabella, “the way everyone colludes with Terranova! He is getting away with murder, simply because people are in awe of his rank!”

  “Perhaps they are afraid of him,” said Belinda. “I mean, if he really did murder Renilde just because of what she told Mr. Kendrick, he might kill anyone who displeased him. Perhaps he has done this sort of thing before.”

  It was a great relief to get away from the place. And probably the landlords were no less sorry to see the last of their English guests, although they waited politely upon the steps, preparing to wave their handkerchiefs as the procession of carriages passed down the drive. Osvaldo, on the other hand, his rotund paunch pressed against the carriage as though he would topple it, was beside himself.

  “You must-a be brave, my dear,” he said, speaking to Belinda in an undertone, and attempting to take hold of her hand through the window. “We shall meet again, very soon. When two hearts beat as one, there is no keeping them . . . apart . . . for long!”

  He had to shout this last bit, as the carriage was pulling away, and he was obliged to let go of the window.

  “What was he saying to you just now?” Arabella asked.

  “I could scarcely make him out,” Belinda replied. “I think it was something about his having twice the normal complement of vital organs.”

  “O-ho! He was trying to impress you,” said Charles, assuming an air of superior knowledge. “Italians are like that, you know. They brag to the ladies about having extra bits, in order to appear more attractive.”

  “Do you mean to say that the Pear-Head is typical?” asked Arabella.

  “Yes, why not?”

  “Is it typical for Italian men to creep into ladies’ bedrooms and leave semi-literate notes beneath their pillows?”

  “Did Osvaldo do that?” he asked. “How wonderfully romantic of him! What did it say?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Arabella. “It was some time ago.”

  “No? Well, Belinda does, I’ll wager! What did he say, Bunny?”

  “Here,” she said, plucking it perforce from her reticule and thrusting it at him. “Read it yourself, if you’ve a mind to. And then, please do me the favor of tossing it out of the window.”

  My dearlist Berlinda, I am overcame by love, and my need for you is keen. Yes, so very keen, that I am forced to walk doubled over sometimes. Please say you will be mine for I know you are the same. My bed she is beg enough for two but my cousin and my mother and my aunt are much in the way yes? But the three priests stay in the attic. So they are not in the way. Tonight they all dine out with friends. I shall stay here and wait for you so we can quickly drench ourselves in love’s nectar with out fearing but you will have to hurry so that I may catch them up and so not miss my supper. And if you are pignent, I will marry you. May I know the size of your dowry? Also your brestes.

  Yours in need,

  your dearlest Osvaldo

  “Well, isn’t that sentimental! I should never have thought the fellow capable of such delicate feelings.”

  “Oh, do stop, Charles.”

  “But look, Belinda; are you not moved? He says he will marry you if you’re ‘pignent.’ Imagine, living in wedded bliss with Osvaldo, in Holborn or someplace, and raising the results of his ‘need’!”

  “Speaking of that,” said Arabella, “I have been meaning to talk to you for some time on the subject of your own progeny, Charles.”

  “Whatever for? I’m doing the best I can for them!”

  “You are!”

  “Yes. I’m staying out of their lives completely.”

  “That has been the saving of Eddie. She has a wonderful stepfather in Constable Dysart, and I shouldn’t imagine she needs you in the least. But Neddy doesn’t get on with his new father. He’s going to the bad, I am afraid.”

  “Just like his sire!” said Charles proudly, turning to Kendrick for validation.

  “It’s nothing to boast about, Beaumont,” said the rector severely. “I know it is none of my business, but when did you last see the boy?”

  “I have only ever seen him one time in his life. At least, I presume it was he. About a year ago I noticed Polly, on the other side of Curzon Street, holding a peevish-looking brat by the hand. She was pointing at me and explaining something to him. So I straightened me shoulders, stuck out me chest, and stepped off the kerb . . . right into a human turd the size of a potato!”

  “Life imitates art,” murmured Belinda.

  Kendrick grinned, in spite of himself.

  “I screamed so loudly that people complained as far away as Spitalfields. Then I swore a blue streak and tried to dislodge the thing, but it had enveloped my shoe on both sides, to say nothing of the stirrup strap on my trouser! Gad, what a morning!”

  “All right,” said Arabella, “I suppose Neddy is better off without you, at that. But I do wish somebody would take an interest in him, though he is such a loathsome little stoat, that I cannot imagine who it would be.”

  “He wants a puppy,” said Kendrick. “Perhaps I’ll give him one from Dogma’s next litter.”

  “He’s had a puppy,” said Arabella. “It ran out in the street, probably to get away from Neddy, and was crushed by a cart wheel. He does not require a dog unless we can find one that will teach him morals, manners, and a useful trade.”

  “Yes,” said Charles, “and perhaps when this prodigy pup finishes with my boy, it can start teaching you a few things, as well.”

  This hostile remark having seemingly sprung from nowhere, Arabella assumed it would be simple to deal with.

  “Don’t presume to lecture me,” she said, her voice flat, her manner calm. A cobra that has suddenly received the gift of English speech might sound like this. The tone was light, the import heavy. Generally, such a voice was all that was necessary to effectively quash revolts amongst the lower orders. But not this time.

  “I am afraid I must,” said Charles. “Kendrick is besotted and Bunny isn’t strong enough to stand up to you. Ever since we left England you’ve been growing steadily more high-handed. You fly into rages, insult people, use them, and take their good offices towards yourself for granted. We have all begun to find your company deuced difficult to bear, of late, and I wish to God that you would either come to your senses, or shut up!”

  Bitter truth is hard on the digestion, and persons with upset stomachs are seldom inclined to be talkative. Thus, the ride to Ravello, begun on a note of such promising high spirits, ended in silence. But it was a silence with a certain meditative quality. Once her resentment cooled, Arabella considered the import of Charles’s words. As for her companions, theirs was the watchful silence of witnesses to a just reprimand. They were all observing Arabella, though they did not appear to be doing so, in order to ascertain her response. Thus the party proceeded, mile after mile, with not a word spoken, whilst all four brains were as busy as could be.

  When Bergamini had announced that they would be staying at a temporarily vacant house belonging to some friends of his, everyone expected to find a comfortable but slightly shabby residence, in keeping with the slightly impoverished circumstances common to academics and the circles in which they orbit. So, when the carriage pulled up before a glittering palace overlooking the sea, its occupants were speechless with amazement.

  The Villa Belvedere had been constructed in high Renaissance style, and was surrounded by terraces and lawns. Below the sea cliff, studded with bell towers and dark pine trees, lay a small beach with a dock, where brightly painted local boats bobbed at their moorings. It was beyond picturesque.


  Bergamini himself met them at the door, and an exhaustive tour of the villa and grounds ensued. Charles and Mr. Kendrick soon peeled off from the group in order to try out the billiard room, though. Belinda hung happily on the arm of her aged admirer, listening, or not, according to her heart rate. But Arabella drank it all in: the fluted columns, the gilded furnishings piled with silken cushions, the painted ceilings, the grand staircases, the sea views and chandeliers. She had seen palaces aplenty in her lifetime, but possibly never one so beautifully situated, or whose situation represented such a welcome escape. The three survivors finished the tour in a romantic little sitting room overlooking the garden.

  “So,” said Bergamini. “Do you think this will suit you?”

  “Amply,” Arabella replied. “It is magnificent, Professor! You must permit me to recompense your friends for allowing us to stay here.”

  He was horrified. “Please! Speak no more of it! You and your party are honored guests! I do my level best, you know, but if the owners were at home, you would be treated like royalty!”

  “But why? We have never met them!”

  “Because you are friends of mine,” he said simply, “and they are friends of mine, also. The owners and I are very close. As close as, as . . . this!” He seized Belinda around the waist and pulled her up against him, eliciting a little scream of joy.

  “Will you be stopping here with us, Teofilo?” Belinda asked, glancing up at him through her eyelashes.

  “I wish I could, cara mia, but I have commitments elsewhere. I shall visit often, though, while you are here.” He kissed her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. “I go now, to dream of your sweet, scented limbs, and the darkly furred sections pertaining thereto.”

  After he had gone, Belinda held the curtain aside to watch his figure retreating down the garden path.

  “Oh,” she sighed. “Did you ever hear such a wonderful remark? Why is it that Englishmen never say such things?”