Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery)

by Christie, Pamela

  “Perhaps they are afraid,” said Arabella, lighting a cigar.

  As a rule, she only smoked outdoors, when she was fishing. But the tranquil beauty of her present surroundings had evoked a sensation not unlike her Piscean muse. And the window was open.

  “Of what should they be afraid?”

  “Of being considered ridiculous, or offensive, or both.”

  “And so they would be judged, I daresay,” Belinda murmured as she let the curtain fall to. “Yet, when Italians speak thus, it only sounds beautiful. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Arabella. “I suppose it’s the accent.”

  “Bell, you know how you have always told me to follow my heart?”

  “Have I? What on earth was I thinking?”

  “I am serious. What would you say if I were to marry a foreigner, and live abroad?”

  Arabella felt something akin to panic. “But the man hasn’t a penny, Bunny!”

  “He is rich in friends, and highly respected.”

  “How respectable will he be if he marries a courtesan? Dukes may do so, for wealth carries all. Poor scholars are another matter.”

  “That may be true in England, but this is Italy. I rather think Teofilo will be the more admired for it. An elderly man, with a lusty young wife: Such a match can only add to his prestige here.”

  “Are you certain of his intentions? Has he spoken of marriage?”

  “No, but I am certain of his feelings towards me. He is a widower, and an honorable man.”

  “Yes, he seems to be that.”

  “My darling has not as yet had the opportunity of proposing. When next he drops in, I intend to provide one.”

  “Oh, Bunny dear, do consider! He is ancient, and cannot live long. What will you do when he dies?”

  “Weep.”

  “No, I mean what will you live on?”

  “Tears, I suppose. I am truly certain about this, Bell.”

  Arabella said nothing, for she plainly saw that any further expenditure of breath upon this subject would be useless, and she abhorred wasted effort.

  Chapter 21

  THE FORBIDDEN ROOM

  Arabella had not forgotten about the items that had mysteriously appeared in the basement of the Naples Museum, wrapped in canvas and burlap. Despite all that had happened, including Renilde’s murder, the recovery of her letters, transference from one lodging to another, and Belinda’s impending engagement, she had fully intended to go and see about them herself. But the museum had recently suffered an “infestation” originating from a poorly preserved mummy, and the building was closed to visitors during the general fumigation.

  “Do not worry, signorina,” Bergamini said. “No one will be allowed access whilst the building is full of smoke. If the statues really are in the cellar, they will remain there until the museum reopens.”

  He promised to take her there on the very instant that that should happen, and he was as good as his word. But the mysterious things in the cellar, whatever they had been, were there no longer. The curator explained that he had investigated the day after the complaint was lodged, but had found the storeroom empty.

  “We must assume that whoever installed the items there has taken them out again,” he said. “I am so, so sorry, Excellency!”

  Arabella sagged with disappointment.

  “Why did he call you ‘Excellency’?” Belinda asked the professor.

  “It’s a kind of joke,” Bergamini explained. “The museum sometimes takes on the qualities of a kingdom, you see. And in this kingdom, I am a prince of sorts. Signorina,” he said, bowing to Arabella, “please allow me to express my deepest regrets for your disappointment.”

  But Arabella, apprehending his views on the foreign ownership of Italian artworks, suspected that his regrets were not quite so deep as all that. “Very well,” she said. “You may proceed to express them.”

  Bergamini ignored this remark. “As long as we are here,” he said, “perhaps you will permit me to show you some of my country’s treasures.”

  And he led the way down the corridors, with Belinda on his arm. Arabella lagged behind them, partly to give the couple some privacy, but chiefly because disappointment had sapped her enthusiasm. All the same, she could not help noticing the splendid paintings that hung about her. One that particularly took her fancy depicted a herd of goats against a background of olive trees, cypresses, and the classical ruins of some once-great city. Yet the domes and spires of Naples could be clearly seen in the distance, and no other large settlement had ever existed so near it. But for that detail, and the fact that the Neapolitan structures were of Renaissance vintage, it might have been a scene straight from the days of ancient Rome. Arabella lingered before the picture, imagining herself tending the goats and thinking in Latin, while the professor strolled on ahead with Belinda and her little greyhound.

  “What are these?” Belinda asked, pointing at a collection of small concrete slabs with Latin inscriptions.

  “Ancient headstones,” Bergamini replied, “from a burial ground for pets.”

  “Why,” said Belinda, “we have such places, too! Do you mean to say that the Romans invented the idea?”

  “Oh, by no means! All the ancient civilizations had them.”

  “What does this say?” She pointed with one hand to a stone etched with the head of a dog, whilst protectively caressing Cara’s neck with the other.

  The professor translated for her:

  O, Helen!

  Thine eyes of soft brown,

  Will nevermore regard me

  From the edge of the supper table.

  Belinda tried to blink back her tears, but they were too numerous. The fat drops coursed down her cheeks and collected in a row beneath her jawbone, whereupon Bergamini pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her face with it, in a manner most touching. Then he kissed her, and her knees gave way, so that she fell against him, quite.

  Back at the goat painting, Arabella roused herself to the realization that she had completely lost track of the others. But she looked up just in time to see the professor’s back disappear through a doorway at the end of the room, and she hurried after him, calling his name.

  He turned round, smiling.

  “Yes?” asked the gentleman pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

  But it was not Bergamini! The old fellow who had looked just like the professor from behind looked very much like him from the front, also. He responded to the name she had called as if it were his own, and he and Arabella stared at one another for a few faltering heartbeats. Then the face of the impostor contracted with distress, and he scurried away.

  She found the real Bergamini soon afterward, with her sister in his arms.

  “You must have seen my brother,” he said when she told him what had happened. “He works here, too, you know.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes . . . I am a twin.”

  “Then why did he run away from me?”

  “He is terribly shy. He runs away from everyone. Even his own brother.”

  But Arabella recalled that the man had not exhibited the slightest tendency toward shyness until he had actually seen who she was.

  “What is his name?” she asked.

  “Professor Bergamini, the same as myself.”

  “No, I meant his Christian name?”

  “Why . . . Teof . . . I mean, Girolamo.”

  She deemed this significant, and removed her notebook from its bag.

  “Oh, good!” said Belinda. “You have brought your CIN! May I borrow it?”

  “Of course. Why? Have you found something interesting?”

  “Yes, indeed! The loveliest portrait of Madame Murat, wearing the most heavenly court dress that ever was seen! I simply must copy it!”

  Arabella handed over the notebook and the pencil from behind her ear. Then she stood next to Bergamini, admiring Belinda’s youth, grace, and beauty. But when Arabella observed the rapt expression on the lower half of
the professorial visage (for he still wore the overhanging hat and dark spectacles, even in here), she was filled with sadness.

  He is going to take my Bunny away, she thought. The little sister whom I have loved and cherished for so many years. How shall I live without her?

  Yet Arabella had always known such a day would come, and was determined to make the best of it. Only, she wished the child could have managed to fall in love with somebody younger and richer.

  Belinda, meanwhile, was engrossed in what she was doing, and talking to herself the while: “A white silk undergown, ’broidered with gold,” she muttered, sketching furiously. “With that stiff-ish frill of gold lace at the shoulders, and an overskirt of cadet-blue velvet . . .”

  “I do not wish to hurry you, cara mia,” said Bergamini, incurring a glance from the little dog of that name, “but I have received special permission to show you a room not normally open to visitors. The few gentlemen so honored make steep donations, and ladies are never allowed in under any circumstances. An exception has been made for you, though, as my guests. We may tour the room from two to half past the hour.”

  “What is the time now?” she asked, her eyes tracking from painting to sketch.

  “Ten minutes past two,” said the professor.

  “Oh! We had better go, then!” she cried. And so saying, she jumped up from the bench, quite forgetting Arabella’s notebook in her haste.

  “This room,” explained the professor, unlocking a door obscurely placed next to a supply cupboard, “contains items from Pompeii and Herculaneum considered too shocking for people to see unprepared. But I think they will find acceptance with two such enlightened young ladies.”

  A stocky figure in a cassock approached them.

  “Ah! Signorina Beaumont, Signorina Belinda, and Professor Bergamini! What a very pleasant coincidence! May I join your party?” It was Father Terranova!

  At the sound of his voice, Arabella had stiffened as though she had been dipped in a tub of ice water. But the sight of her sister gone pale as milk restored her presence of mind.

  “I doubt that you will wish to, Signor Terranova, when you hear where we are going,” she said. “Professor Bergamini was about to shew us a room full of objects, salacious and profane.”

  “Really? But that is splendid,” said the priest. “I have always wanted to see the forbidden collection!”

  “Then, why haven’t you? It is generally available to men, I believe.”

  “Well, on public days . . . with the room attendants here . . . it is quite impossible, you understand.”

  “Do you mean that the public might deem your presence in such a room inappropriate?” she asked, thinking that he was probably more interested in avoiding the entrance fee.

  “Just so. Ah! And you have brought your little dog! Your beautiful little dog!”

  He repeated the demonstration of effusive delight with which he had greeted Cara’s arrival at the hotel, patting her head and stroking her neck in a positive orgy of adoration. His monks gathered round him, as though they, too, were transported by the charms of the little greyhound.

  Arabella wanted to say that it really was inappropriate for a priest to enter the forbidden room. She wondered what else he did that was inappropriate, aside from murdering Renilde, but there is a vast difference between speaking one’s mind and butting in to judge others when one’s opinions have not been asked for. Besides, if Terranova had murdered Renilde for knowing too much about the statue, he might try to murder Belinda and herself if he suspected that they knew he had. In all events, Arabella must keep him convinced of their ignorance.

  “I have no objection to your joining us, Father,” said Bergamini cordially, “provided that the ladies do not mind.”

  The ladies did mind. Whatever may be said on the public record, few persons actually enjoy the company of murderers. Besides, Belinda wanted to savor Bergamini’s company in private, excepting for Arabella’s presence, of course. Arabella, too, would have much preferred having had the place to themselves. But wisdom dictates that one should never be rude to a killer. So both sisters minded their manners, and appeared to acquiesce with good grace.

  Now they were a party of seven, crowded into a set of two small rooms, where the eye, wherever it wandered, could not help but light upon a depiction of the procreative act, whether in the form of a painted vase, a sculpture, a piece of jewelry, or a household implement. Moreover, the chamber was so close, and the occupants so numerous, that one was constantly coming into physical contact with other people. It was terribly awkward, and Arabella tried to ignore it by concentrating on the artifacts.

  One fresco that particularly delighted her depicted an old woman selling birdlike male genitalia to young women out of an open-work basket. The girls were having their way with these little winged marvels in the bushes, under trees, all over the landscape. It was a decidedly improper subject, by modern standards, but the style of the painting was so sweet—reminiscent of the watercolors of Arabella’s friend, Tom Rowlandson—that one could scarcely take offense at it. Unless, of course, one were Father Terranova.

  “What perverted minds,” he muttered, standing so close to Arabella that the skin of her arm registered the heat of his body. “No wonder the Almighty saw fit to smite them with His terrible volcano: Pompeii and Ercolano were just like Sodom and Gomorrah!”

  “Oh, surely,” said Arabella, “Rome was much ‘worse’ than they were! And Naples was scarcely any better. Why did He spare those cities? The ‘wicked’ relics surrounding us are still here, aren’t they? If it were God’s aim to erase Pompeii and Ercolano from the face of the earth, why did He not destroy their artifacts, too?”

  “I cannot presume to speak for the Lord,” said Terranova sanctimoniously.

  “But that is exactly what you did! You said in so many words that God destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum because they were wicked. Mr. Terranova, why have you come here, may I ask?”

  “I do not have to account for myself to you, signorina. But I will tell you that it is a priest’s sacred duty to know about the things which he preaches against. Otherwise, he cannot expect to have credibility amongst his followers.”

  Arabella was losing her temper, and trying, above all, to keep the knowledge of Renilde’s murder from shewing in her countenance.

  “Sir,” she said. “Would you do me the favor of continuing your tour of these premises from the other room?”

  To her surprise and relief, he bowed and left her. Just in time, too. For she had spied the infamous bronze of Pan—not her bronze—enjoying himself with a nanny goat, and Arabella could not have endured listening to the pious hypocrisies of Terranova the murderer whilst contemplating such a wonderful piece.

  The casual erotica of ancient times had been prevalent everywhere, apparently: in the temples, on the streets, in homes and public meeting places. Local businesses had used tintinnabula—bronze bells above the doors that jingled whenever a customer entered—whimsically cast in the shape of erect phalluses. Her favorite was a phallus fashioned like the body of an animal, with a phallus springing from between two hoofed legs and another phallus for a tail.

  If only there had been replicas for sale in the museum gift shop! Public attitudes had once been so accepting, so joking and matter-of-fact. Where had it all gone wrong?

  “A regrettable, dark side to an otherwise admirable culture,” pronounced Terranova when they reconvened in the corridor. “I thank God for the Church! Without us, one shudders to think what would have become of mankind!”

  And so saying, he left them.

  “Father Terranova is an extremely pious man, is he not, Signorina Beaumont?” asked the professor, locking the door.

  “He speaks as though he were,” she replied. “But actions, rather than words, give the true measure of the man. The fellow is a cretin, and please spare me any jokes about his hailing from Palermo. Why does he feel it necessary to desecrate art? He neither appreciates nor understands it, and therefor
e would do best to avoid it.”

  “Yes,” said Bergamini simply. “That is his job, I suppose.”

  Though Belinda actually realized on their way back to the villa that she had forgotten the CIN, she said nothing about it, for she was hungry, and having a row so late in the day would have resulted in a meal that was belated, indigestible, or even missed altogether. So Arabella did not in fact discover the loss until after dinner, when the resultant emotional storm was more convenient to all parties.

  “Oh, Bunny!” she cried. “How could you have done that?”

  Belinda had already retired for the night, and was tucked up with a naughty bedtime book. “It was entirely inadvertent, Bell. I have told you how sorry I am! But what can I possibly do about it now? What would you like me to do?”

  “Tell your precious professor that you have mislaid my notebook in his beastly museum, and that I would greatly appreciate its return!”

  “I already have. He has promised to look for it.”

  “Did you tell him that it contains things of a highly personal nature?”

  “Yes. Oh, but . . . I hope you have not written anything unflattering about him. Back when, you know, when I thought he was horrid . . .”

  “I might have done. I don’t remember. What I do recall is writing my suspicions concerning Renilde’s sudden death, and the party to whom I ascribe the blame for it.”

  “Let us look at the bright side,” said Belinda. ”Chances are very good that it will be found and returned by someone who cannot read English. If we make up our minds that that is what will happen, it is bound to come true.”

  “No, it isn’t, Bunny,” said Arabella. “People cannot influence events merely by thinking about them, and I am probably going to agonize over that notebook until it is found. If only I had a lover! Someone to calm my nerves, and take my mind off things! Have you noticed how few playfellows we have had since coming to the most erotic nation on earth? And I thought Italians were supposed to be sex-mad!”