Death and the Courtesan

by Pamela Christie

  “Good lord!” exclaimed her uncle, after the man had gone. “Was that a policeman?”

  Briefly, Arabella outlined her situation.

  “How dreadful for you, my dear!”

  “I am attempting to solve the case on my own, Uncle,” she said. “So if I must leave you to your own devices much of the time, I hope that you will forgive me.”

  “Of course you must do whatever is necessary to clear your name,” said Sir Geoffrey, patting the hand of his other niece. “After all, I shall have your pretty sister here to keep me company.”

  “I may not be around much, either,” said Belinda apologetically.

  “Our Bunny has become the favorite of the Princess of Wales,” said Arabella. “And is apt to be summoned to the royal presence at all hours.”

  Uncle Selwyn was astonished. “The Princess of Wales? Why . . . I . . . How amazing!”

  “It is not what you think,” said Belinda. “I haven’t been miraculously restored to polite society or anything.”

  Arabella nodded. “You have been away many years, Uncle Selwyn. You probably don’t know about the princess.”

  “She’s half-mad,” Belinda explained, “and goes about dressed in the most peculiar fashion—put a scooped-out melon on her head, once; said it made a very cool sort of hat. She frequently appears at fancy dress parties naked to the waist, claiming to be Venus, or Lady Godiva. She likes to be shocking. The prince regent keeps trying to divorce her, but the princess has very good lawyers. And, anyway, Parliament won’t allow it.”

  “Upon my word!”

  “The world is changing,” said Arabella. “Or at least, society is.”

  “Yes. As you say,” said Sir Geoffrey, “I have been away much too long. Got no connections here anymore, except for you two and Charles. And what with my own sweet Sophia gone from me now . . .” Here the dear old fellow pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and applied it to his eye corners. “I thought, you know . . .”

  “Of course,” said Arabella. “We welcome you with open arms, Uncle. My sister and I very much hope that you will decide to come live with us.”

  “Well!” he exclaimed. “That is very kind, and I am most obliged to you, but the fact is . . . that is, I . . . Oh, dash it all! Why should I hide the truth from you? I left my heart behind in England when I went off to Ceylon with your aunt, and the lady is a widow now. We’ve been . . . writing to one another for almost a year, and it is settled that I shall go and stay with her, until . . . well, until my health breaks down. I won’t go into detail, but I am not long for this world.”

  Arabella patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. His news had not shocked her, for she had seen death in his face the moment he alighted from the carriage.

  “Miranda—that is, Mrs. Ironmonger—and I plan to marry at once.”

  “Ironmonger!”

  The cry of delighted disbelief had burst simultaneously from both of the Beaumont throats.

  “Yes. It used to be ‘Smith,’ but her late husband had it legally changed, at her urging.”

  “Why?” asked Arabella. “Did she think ‘Ironmonger’ sounded more genteel?”

  “No. It wasn’t that way at all. Miranda . . . the lady . . . my friend used to get the queerest looks whenever she had to say or sign the name ‘Smith’ in any place where she was not known by sight. People thought she must be hiding some shameful secret, and giving a false name, as her real one should be instantly recognized. That never happens now, with ‘Ironmonger. ’ ”

  “Well! This is splendid!” said Arabella.

  “I think it’s terribly sad!” sniffed Belinda, whose eyes had begun to leak.

  “Yes, it’s that, too,” Arabella agreed. “Uncle Selwyn, I am so happy for you, and sorry for you, and sorry for us, that we shall be losing you so soon . . . but modern medicine has made great strides in the past ten years. You have not yet been to see a London specialist. Perhaps you are not so ill as you think.”

  He shook his head. “There is no hope, I have already looked into it. But I am old, you know, and quite resigned to it. As for Mrs. Ironmonger, she is nearly my age, and not very well herself. If I die first, I shall leave her comfortably well off, with the remainder of my estate going to you two and Charles. Mrs. Ironmonger has no family of her own, so she will leave everything to you, as well.”

  “All right, but for heaven’s sake, do not breathe a word of this to Charles! He will come swooping in, demanding an advance on his inheritance, and then, given time, will bleed you both dry.”

  “Hm. Still addicted to gaming, is he?”

  “That, and other things.”

  “Well, I shall certainly take steps to ensure Mrs. Ironmonger’s financial safety. And also,” he said, smiling and patting her arm, “yours and Belinda’s.”

  When Mrs. Janks appeared with refreshments, Sir Geoffrey sent for the calico dome, observing with a practiced and appreciative eye the housekeeper’s ample backside as it retreated across the lawn.

  “We need to unwrap his cage as soon as possible,” explained Sir Geoffrey. “Otherwise he becomes sullen. Goes off his food . . . won’t do anything but swear, and I do want him to make a good first impression.”

  The dome was brought and placed before Belinda to unwrap. For some time past, she had wanted a parrot, the real talking kind, with brilliant feathers of gold and green and purple. So when she removed the cloth and saw only a bright-eyed black bird, with an orange beak and yellow ear lappets, she was visibly disappointed.

  “This is Mephistopheles,” said her uncle. “I’ve taken to calling him ‘Fisto,’ for short. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s very nice,” said Belinda politely. “But I thought he was a parrot.”

  “Oh, a mynah bird is much better than a parrot, my dear. A parrot can only squawk in a harsh voice, and say a few very limited things. Watch this.”

  When the fresh air and sunshine touched him, Fisto ruffled his neck feathers and shook his head rapidly as if to clear it.

  “Ahhh!” said the bird appreciatively. “That’s much better!”

  “Yes, you’re happy now, aren’t you, Fisto? Hey? This is Belinda. Do you remember what I taught you to say to her? Happy . . .”

  “Happy birthday, Belinda, my dear! Many, many happy returns of the day!” said Fisto, in a perfect imitation of Sir Geoffrey’s voice.

  Belinda was enchanted.

  “He’s very cunning,” said their uncle. “Fisto can repeat anything you say, in your exact voice. And listen to this!”

  He dropped a teaspoon onto the table. The bird reproduced the sound exactly. “No parrot can do that!”

  The girls were speechless with astonishment.

  “Where should we put his cage?” asked Belinda, at last.

  “Why not set him free in the aviatory?” Arabella suggested. “He would probably like that.”

  “I shouldn’t advise the aviatory,” said Sir Geoffrey. “He will imitate the other birds and fuss them. Fisto is much more stimulated—not to mention amusing—when he lives amongst people.”

  “Well, Bunny’s a light sleeper,” said Arabella. “So I shouldn’t like to put him in her bedroom, but I suppose we might keep him in mine.”

  Her uncle shook his head, again. “I wouldn’t, you know. Think what might happen if the bird were to call out a certain name, in your voice . . . when someone else is . . . visiting you.”

  “Ho! I begin to see why you named him ‘Mephistopheles’!” she exclaimed, laughing. “That would be too awkward, would it not? Never fear; he shall stay in the breakfast room, and liven us up in the mornings.”

  It was Cook’s night off. Sir Geoffrey, having apprised his friends some weeks earlier of his imminent return, was being feted that evening at his club, and Neddy and Eddie, under the care of Mrs. Janks, were attending a children’s party. Arabella and Belinda were on their own.

  “Sister mine, what would you say to burgundy and oysters with a nice, plump chop at Grillon’s?”<
br />
  “Ooh! Yes, please!”

  “We shall go incognito, public sentiment being what it is.”

  “What is it?”

  “Unpredictable.”

  In addition to their glamorous traditional wardrobes, courtesans generally kept a wide selection of theatrical costumes. For the tendency toward erotic obsession found in Homo sapiens so sets our species apart from every other that it may one day become determinative in gauging relative degrees of humanity in any yet-to-be-discovered intermediary primate groups.

  On this particular night out, Arabella and Belinda easily disguised themselves with the aid of wigs, false eyebrows, and foreign clothing—creating an impression that they augmented by assuming Russian accents. All these precautions would have been in vain, however, had the sisters been seen in one of Arabella’s distinctive carriages. So they walked out to the Brompton Road and Constable Dysart hailed them a cab.

  “Why don’t we simply walk to Grillon’s?” Belinda asked.

  “Because I want to stop someplace else, first. Do you mind?”

  “I should have known there would be a catch.”

  “This won’t take long, Bunny,” said Arabella. “And it is something that I need to do.”

  The windows in the hired coach were open, for the evening air was cool after the heat of the day, almost as soft and fresh, on this particular evening in filthy old London, as it is every night of the year in the unspoilt English countryside. Arabella filled her lungs with the sweet-smelling atmosphere. “What an evening!” she exulted. For, ever since her near arrest earlier in the week, she had suddenly become much more observant and appreciative of her surroundings.

  “Have you noticed, Bunny? The way everything seems to stand out sharply against the light of yesterday, like memories made more vivid when illuminated by the intensity of retrospection?”

  “Bell,” said Belinda after a moment. “I am glad that you have decided to embrace life after all, but I really don’t think it can be healthy for you to be spending quite so much of your time with intellectuals.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the cab was obliged to halt for a massive procession: A hearse was making slow and stately progress along Fleet Street, followed by at least a hundred people shuffling silently in its wake and carrying torches. Less silent, but no less solemn, a veritable mob waited on both sides of the road to witness the funeral procession on its way to the churchyard at St. Bride’s.

  “Who gets buried at night?” Belinda wondered aloud, remembering to use her accent.

  “Euphemia Ramsey,” said Arabella quietly. For she had read about this in The Tattle-Tale: Euphemia had left particular instructions with regards to her interment, the expenses of which her impoverished estate was unable to meet. Fortunately, some of her former clients had stepped in, and the funeral was being handled by subscription.

  “Is this why you’ve come here?”

  “Yes,” said Arabella quietly. “She used to be my friend, you know, and I cannot very well attend her funeral, suspected as I am. Farewell, Euphemia.”

  “Look, Bell!” said Belinda, pointing. “It’s that odious Oscar Widgehunt!”

  “Do you mean Oliver Wedge? I do wish you would stop mangling his name. Your feelings about him are perfectly clear. Where is he?”

  “Over there, halfway up a lamppost, writing in a notebook,” said Belinda, nodding in his general direction. “Mayn’t we go to Grillon’s now? I am hungry enough to eat the paving stones!”

  At last their cab pulled into Albemarle Street, and when Arabella alighted and paid the driver he tipped his hat to her.

  “God bless ya, Miss Beaumont,” said he. “You won’t be disappointing yer public now, will you? We’re all expectin’ you to go out in style.”

  Suddenly the evening seemed a little less bright.

  “So much for our disguises,” said Belinda. “But at least he didn’t try to tear you limb from limb.”

  “No,” Arabella muttered. “You heard the man—he would rather wait and see me go out in style.”

  After the ladies had been seated, Oliver Wedge entered the restaurant with three cronies and took a table near the windows. The Beaumonts had decided to begin their meal with oysters, but Wedge’s party dispensed with the formalities and immediately plunged into the main courses.

  “That’s strange,” said Arabella.

  “What is?”

  “Mr. Wedge is eating beefsteak.”

  “There’s nothing strange about that,” said Belinda. “It’s exactly what I am going to have.”

  “Yes, but today is Friday.”

  “So it is!”

  “. . . and he’s a Catholic.”

  “Well, perhaps he isn’t a very good one.”

  “No, indeed,” she replied thoughtfully. “Not a very good one at all.”

  Chapter 10

  A CLEAN BREAST

  In which it may be seen that Constance is a thorough-

  going nuisance, Arabella has covert tendencies, and

  Runners make excellent child minders. A singular

  discovery comes to light via an unexpected source.

  “ ‘Executioners are sometimes lent to other countries for important executions. They cost more, of course, but are definitely worth it for beheadings. For hangings, you are well advised to save your money and shew your patriotism by hiring a local man.’ ”

  Arabella sighed. “Constance . . .”

  “ ‘Last words, if tasteful, are expected and proper on such occasions. Keep your audience engaged: Be brief, and try to express remorse, forgiveness and good resolutions in under three minutes if you can.’ ”

  “I say, Constance, would you mind not reading aloud from that?”

  Belinda entered the library with a fruit bowl.

  “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, observing the pained expression on her sister’s countenance.

  “I am very busy just now,” replied Arabella crossly, “but Constance will insist upon lecturing me about the minutiae of gallows etiquette. Who let her up here?”

  “It wasn’t me. Perhaps it was Fielding.”

  “ ‘As you pass from prison to gallows, the happy mob will accompany your cart and attempt to press drinks upon you. Accept their offerings freely, by all means, and toss back the empty cups with equal good humor. Witty remarks, though favored by crowds, are not within the capabilities of every condemned person. Just let them see that you are cheerful, and they will admire you for it.’ ”

  “Hello, Constance,” said Belinda. “Would you care for some grapes?”

  “Ooh yes I adore them hello Belinda I’ve just come from Hookham’s where I found this,” she said, holding up her book with one hand and popping grapes into her mouth with the other. “You see? Mr. Beaston’s Proper Deportment for Condemned Persons—it wasn’t too expensive really not when you consider all the use we’ll be making of it and I thought dear me this is just what poor Arabella needs because I didn’t suppose she knew the first thing about what to do in a case like this none of her friends having been through it before so I nipped on over here quick as I could because it’s never too soon to start educating oneself, is it? Listen to this:

  “ ‘Bodies of the hanged may either be displayed in some public place, or buried immediately, preferably at a crossroads. Sometimes, the condemned is given a choice, beforehand.’ ”

  “Now I never knew that did you? I wonder if Arabella will be given a choice.”

  “Bunny,” said Arabella, “why don’t you take Constance out of doors? The garden is particularly lovely, just now.”

  “Come along, Constance,” said Belinda, pulling Miss Worthington by the elbow. “You can read to me—Bell has important business to attend to.”

  But after they had gone, Arabella sucked the end of her quill for a few moments and then flung it down in disgust: Her concentration had fled, for the time being. She placed her CIN into the bag that Belinda had made for it, sharpened the pencil stub that she kept behind her ear,
and began to dress to go out. Today, she would wear white, to underscore her innocence—in the murder of Euphemia, anyway—for she was about to consult a lawyer, and Arabella wanted him on her side. She stole a quick glance out of the window. If Constance should guess that Arabella was taking the carriage, she would clamor to be dropped somewhere very much out of the way or, worse, insist upon accompanying her friend, chattering mindlessly for the duration of the journey and reading aloud from that macabre book of hers.

  However, Constance was fully engaged in reading to Belinda, who had taken her workbasket outside with her and who now sat demurely upon the stone bench, listening, whilst threading satin ribbons through a stack of sheep gut condoms. Arabella saw with satisfaction that Belinda was engaged on the medium-sized ones—which they were always running out of—for she could see the silver ribbons from where she stood. (The small ones had pink ribbons, large ones gold, and the enormous-sized condoms had blue ribbons—like those awarded to first-prize stallions at horse shows.) Though the two women were seated some distance from the house, Arabella could still hear Constance reading, with perfect clarity:

  “ ‘The custom of publically tipping the hangman moments before your execution is considered excessive and should not be encouraged. Make use of this occasion to shew your community a good example.’ ”

  So . . . Constance and Belinda were out in the garden and Sir Geoffrey had taken Mrs. Ironmonger to view the Elgin marbles. If Arabella left now, no one would notice, except whichever Runner was assigned to her today, and he would be coming with her in any case.

  Out in the carriage house, her foot upon the step . . .

  “Aunt Bell, Aunt Bell! Where are you going? Mayn’t we come, too?”

  Damn! She’d forgotten about the children!