Chapter 3
TEA AND SYMPATHY
Dear Miss Beaumont,
I write not knowing whether you can have heard the news, but there has been a shocking contretemps involving our Herculaneum pieces! The person in whom we have entrusted all our hopes has got himself murdered, poor chap, in the very act of procuring those treasures for which you and I had paid him so handsomely. I very much fear that your bronze and my marbles have gone missing.
Yours in haste,
J. Soane
P.S. If I may be of any assistance to you in this sad business, I pray that you will call on me at No. 13, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, this afternoon at half-past three. Please pardon the chaos—I am remodeling the exterior—but I think that you will find all within quite orderly and pleasant.
John Soane, the brilliant classical architect, was an ethical man. And, as he had been the one to acquaint Arabella with the opportunity of purchasing the statue, he felt personally responsible for her loss.
She was touched by his concern, and read his letter aloud to Belinda, who, owing to her sister’s obvious dismay, attempted to repress the smile that rose unbidden to her lips. But Arabella saw it, just the same.
“May I ask what it is that you apparently find so amusing?” she asked severely. “I have just lost a good deal of money, you know; money which might have gone towards your dowry!”
This made no sense, for after all, the sum had been spent upon a statue. But Belinda knew better than to argue. It really was not fair, though; she had been happily constructing a miniature moon garden in a dish, when Arabella had found her on the glass-walled gardening porch adjoining the aviatory. Now, in addition to sculpting deep green recesses from baby’s tears and minuscule mosses, Belinda had also to negotiate the tightrope of Arabella’s volatile temper.
“I was not smiling at your situation, dear,” she said soothingly, “which is distressing, to be sure; but only at Mr. Soane’s curious way of expressing himself. Unless, of course, he really has lost his marbles.”
“He has. And I have lost my statue! At this moment, you and I are closer to financial ruin than at any other juncture of our lives, except for that time when Charles lost the house to Mr. Branscomb!”
This statement was not even remotely accurate, but Arabella was possessed of rather a peculiar attitude toward wealth, owing to her occupation and an inborn ability to plan ahead. In this she was most fortunate, for it is in the nature of courtesans to live lavishly, spend copiously, and die in ignominy. Miss Beaumont’s peers—or compatriots, rather; for Arabella had no peers—frequently spent all they had and considerably more, supporting lifestyles that rivaled the eastern potentates’. Our heroine, on the other hand, contented herself with a modest little manor house in a quiet corner of Brompton Park, which was nice enough, as neighborhoods go, but not so exclusive as Mayfair. She kept only six horses (though she did have rather a lot of coaches), hosted small but brilliant intellectual salons, ate and drank well, but not extravagantly. And whilst her counterparts were known to reserve entire wings in their enormous residences for the exclusive storage of ball gowns, Arabella contented herself with a single very large dressing room, and quickly disposed of any items therein that seemed duplicative.
She was keeping an eye to the future. And although she was presently rich, young, and desirable, she realized, rather sooner than most, that youth and allure would not always be hers. With careful planning, though, she might at least enjoy a comfortable living to the end of her days. So Arabella wisely avoided risky schemes that promised and often failed to deliver gigantic dividends, and kept her money safely tucked away in the Bank of England, with herself the sole signatory on the account. She was touchy concerning financial setbacks.
“I don’t imagine you are actually planning to call upon Mr. Soane,” said Belinda, who was so accustomed to her sister’s articulated poverty fears that she scarcely heard them anymore. “He only seems to be suggesting it as a courtesy. Besides, I do not imagine there can be much to say upon the subject.”
Belinda had stated the case with her usual accuracy. There really was nothing more to be said: The dealer was dead and the statue was gone. But Arabella had long wished to see the inside of John Soane’s house, which she had often heard described, and a visit thither would soothe, somewhat, the sting of her disappointment.
The front wall at No. 13, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, stood out—literally—from the structures surrounding it, for three pick-a-back loggias were being appended to its façade. The pavement was littered with tools, scaffolding, and large slabs of Portland stone, and Arabella had to pick up her skirts to make her way through the mess, showing off her shapely calves to a gang of vocally appreciative workmen.
Soane himself came to the door to bid her welcome, wearing a kind expression and a regrettable auburn wig. “How d’ye do, Miss Beaumont?” cried he, warmly pressing her hands. “I am glad to see you! Come, we’ll have tea in the plaister room. This is such a bad business. Oh, not the tea, I mean the art theft, of course.”
John Soane’s house was so curiously and densely decorated with plaster casts, framed drawings and paintings, models of antique buildings, and Neoclassical sculpture that it more closely approximated an art gallery than a dwelling. Any architect worth his salt collected such things, but in most cases the collections were confined to a room or two at the top of the house. In fact, Soane did keep a workshop for his apprentices upstairs, and generously supplied it with reference materials of this type, but his collection went considerably beyond mere professional interest: He lived, breathed, and dreamt architecture, and the house was a physical manifestation of the inner workings of his exceptional mind.
Fortunately, Mrs. Soane was not the sort of wife who says, “Take all this truck out of here, John! The Ladies’ Society for the Promotion of Cleaner Homes will be meeting in the parlor in three quarters of an hour!” She bore the same love of these odd bits and pieces as he did, and was all in favor of his peculiar notions regarding their placement.
The tour of the premises took the better part of an hour, for, in addition to escorting his guest round the half-constructed rooms and explaining exactly what he planned on doing with them, Soane had shewn Arabella the sketches for his breakfast parlor, with its handkerchief ceiling and central oculus, and read aloud from his construction journal. But at last a paint sample for the new library (Pompeian Red) reminded him why she had come, and he quickly ushered her into the plaister room.
This was not so much a room as a three-story alcove, with small balconies on either side at the second-story level. On one of them, Arabella espied a little tea table all set and ready for use.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, gazing about her in rapturous delight. And for some time, that was all she could say.
The four walls, each of which bore the impress of a soaring arch, were completely covered in medallions, urns, Greek key friezes, nautiloid spirals, cornices, plaques, molded lions’ heads, and other architectural fragments. One of the busts bore an uncanny likeness to Arabella’s brother, Charles, and without thinking, she asked, “How is your son, George?”
“I have no idea,” her host replied stiffly. “Nor do I care.”
George Soane, a chum of Charles Beaumont’s, was a notorious reprobate and his father was ashamed of him. For the great architect was a man of high moral character and impeccable standards, this private meeting with Arabella notwithstanding: Mrs. Soane was absent from home, you see.
A careless sort of man would not have minded whether his wife were present or not. Arabella was there on business, after all, and there was nothing sexual between them. But persons of refined sensibilities know that proper and improper ladies must always be kept apart, one from the other, lest their simultaneous occupation of a room, or even a building, impart a stain upon the person of unsullied reputation, which no amount of prayer, good works, or blameless conduct might ever eradicate. It was most regrettable; Martha Soane and Arabella might have been great frie
nds, if only the latter had submitted to starvation rather than take up a life of ill repute.
At the mention of George, an awkward silence settled over the table for a few moments. But then Arabella asked whether she should pour, and everything was all right again.
“I am so relieved that you have come,” said Soane.
“Relieved?”
“Quite. Having been the cause of your losing so much money, I feared that you might not wish to continue the friendship.”
“You must have a poor opinion of me, then,” she replied, “to assume that I would terminate our acquaintance over something that was not your fault and which could not have been foreseen! Besides, you warned me there would be risks.”
“That’s right, I did, didn’t I? Still, when a sensible person takes a chance on a risky proposition, it must be because she has judged any risk to herself unlikely. Obviously, she does not expect the worst to happen, else she would have kept her purse strings firmly tied in the first place.”
“Well,” said Arabella, “I fully intend to recover it.”
“Your money?”
“Heavens, no! That has surely been dispersed to the seven winds by now! I meant the bronze! The thieves may still have it. Or they may have sold it to someone else. If I can discover the statue’s whereabouts, I shall offer its present custodian an extremely generous price for it. I have always wanted to see Italy, and this unfortunate circumstance affords the perfect opportunity.”
“But surely,” said Soane, biting into a watercress sandwich with great care, lest his false teeth should come out, “the Italian authorities are already dealing with the situation.”
“Yes,” she replied, “and I only hope that I may find my statue before they do!”
“To be frank, I should not go near Naples just now, if I were you. A general insurrection has long been expected, and the situation might erupt at any time.”
Arabella found politics dull, and always avoided reading about it or listening to it, so she had not the slightest idea what her host was talking about.
“Well, nobody is mad at us, are they?”
“No; Britain is sympathetic to the partisan cause.”
“Then I have nothing to fear.”
Soane regarded his visitor with the affable indulgence typically shewn by educated men toward charming, silly women. Yet, in the present instance, his attitude was tinged with a faint consternation. For though one must naturally expect to encounter simplicity when discussing politics with ladies, this lady was willfully proposing to put herself in harm’s way because of her simplicity. One didn’t expect that. And Arabella wasn’t just any lady. Well, she wasn’t a lady at all. She was demimonde, and a frequent hostess to the sharpest minds in the nation. One might have expected to encounter, in her case, a more sophisticated grasp of world affairs.
“I doubt that you would be singled out for attack from any patriotic cause,” said Soane, judiciously considering, “but the Continent is swarming with thieves and knaves of every description, who will be bound to see you as an easy mark. As for politics, you might find yourself swept up in something in a general way, you know. Much of the country is controlled by the French, with whom we are currently at war. And the Austro-Hungarians are also making a nuisance of themselves there. The Italians resent these invasions, with good reason, and on that account, they are fomenting rebellion.”
“Then I shall look out my window every morning,” said Arabella, “and if I should see waves of angry fomenters washing over the town, I promise to remain indoors and find something pleasant to read until they have passed through.”
“Even setting the political situation aside, though,” he persisted, “Naples is now purported to be the most dangerous city in the civilized world.”
“And have you been there yourself, Mr. Soane?”
“Oh, not for many years,” he said, stirring his tea. “Let’s see . . . when was it? ’78? Yes; ’78 to ’79. I went over with the Bishop of Derry. Saw Pompeii, and the Portici Palace . . . I met Piranesi, you know. Dear me! All those Ps! I’m afraid I must answer a call of nature, now! Power of suggestion, I suppose. If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I shall shew you something of interest when I return. . . .”
He was gone for some little time, and came back with a fragment of painted plaster.
“This comes from a Pompeian wall fresco! I liberated it when no one was looking,” he said, handing it to her.
Arabella admired the scrap, which shewed the tip of a green branch against a pale yellow wall, and a blue smear, which might have been the sea in the distance.
“Have you been to Herculaneum, as well?” she asked.
“No. There wasn’t time, and the roads were very bad. Still are, I understand. But Miss Beaumont, I must protest this! You are proposing to go to a foreign country, where you do not speak the language, in quest of a thing you have not seen, removed by persons unknown to you from a place you have never been! It is a wild, mad scheme!”
“Not so bad as that, surely! I prefer to call it . . . a caprice.”
“And are you really in earnest?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Soane.”
“Then I pray you will permit me to write and apprise a friend of mine of your coming. Teofilo Bergamini is a professor of ancient history at the University of Naples, a most august and trustworthy fellow. He frowns upon foreigners plundering the ruins for personal gain or gratification, but perhaps he might be persuaded to make himself useful to you, if he sees a chance of recovering the rest of the lost artifacts for his museum’s collection.”
“Write to him, by all means,” said Arabella, “but please make it clear that if I succeed in locating the cache, the Pan statue is coming home with me.”
Chapter 4
FEELING OUT BELINDA
As the new parchment ponies bore her homeward (two cream-colored in front, two golden behind, one of each in the middle), Arabella lay back against the cushions, mulling over her sudden decision. She had not known she was going to Italy until she heard herself telling Soane that she was, and now her mind returned to the subject again, as one’s tongue seeks an oral cavern produced by the recent loss of a tooth. Because far from soothing her disappointment, having tea in the midst of Soane’s exciting collection had only sharpened her sense of loss. He had made a good point, though; the idea of traveling abroad during war-torn times was not a sound one, and it would be sheer madness to attempt the crossing alone, ignorant as she was concerning continental politics. Companionship was essential, and in the event it should prove impossible to secure anyone, she should have the perfect excuse to reverse her decision, without loss of face.
Belinda was out when Arabella got home, having gone for a drive with Lord Carrington. Quite a long drive, as things transpired, for she did not come back again till the following day. The moment she returned, however, Belinda went in search of Arabella, to hear the final pronouncement on a newly purchased reticule. Somewhat to her consternation, she found the door to her sister’s bedroom closed.
A few readers may be surprised to learn that privacy is as highly prized a commodity in a courtesan’s house as it is in their own. That being the case, however, it will be readily understood that Belinda, standing outside Arabella’s room and hearing the unmistakable sounds of a woman in the final stages of ultimate transport within, made ready to tiptoe quietly away again, after listening for only a very few moments.
“Who is it?” called Arabella sharply.
Belinda tiptoed back to the door, again. “C’est moi, Bell,” she whispered into the keyhole. “I am sorry! But I did not know that you had company.”
“I haven’t. I am quite alone. Pray, come in, Bunny. I wish to speak to you.”
Belinda found her sister seated at the dressing table, fully clothed, each hair of her coiffure neatly in its place. But the wings of her triptych looking glass were folded about her, for she had been engaged in closely observing her face from every possible angle.
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�Practicing my vocals,” she explained. “Sir Birdwood-Fizzer will be dropping by later this evening, to pay his disrespects. Which look do you think better? This . . . ?” She threw her head back, opened her mouth, and half-closed her eyes. “Or this . . . ?” She opened her eyes wide, with a look of a fey woodland creature suddenly exposed to a bonfire in the dead of night.
“They are both fetching,” said Belinda, with professional interest. “I suppose it really depends upon the particular tastes of Birdwood-Fizzer. You might try both of them on him, and see which he favors.”
“Bunny,” said Arabella, abruptly changing the subject and spreading open the mirror panels, “how should you like to go to Italy?”
“To search for your missing statue, do you mean?” asked Belinda.
“Yes. I have made up my mind to see what can be done. But you know, I probably won’t go if you . . .”
“When are we leaving?”
“Ah! You take my point quite readily, dear! But I must warn you that the current climates, both natural and political, are unfavorable for continental travel just now. We shall be two women alone. And winter is nigh upon us—the crossing is apt to be rough. If you think the risks too high, I shall honor your fears and abandon the plan.”
Belinda made a dismissive noise, akin to a spurt of steam escaping from under the lid of a pot in which Brussels sprouts are fulminating. “I shall be ready to go whenever you want me.”
That was that, then. They would be risking their safety, nay, their very lives, in pursuit of a chunk of metal that Arabella had not actually seen.
“Bell, what do you think of this reticule?” asked Belinda, holding up the item in question. “I think it may have looked prettier in the shop window than it does now I’ve brought it home.”
“Not at all! It is quite the thing,” said Arabella. But she was actually thinking about her statue, and of all that lay ahead. “Have you reflected, sister mine,” she asked, “on the peculiar notion that the history of mankind is not, in fact, a record of our actual selves so much as it is a chronicle of our unappeasable desire for possessions?”
Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery) Page 2