Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery)

by Christie, Pamela

  “Oh, yes. Frequently,” Belinda replied, working out a snarl that had formed in the tassel of her latest acquisition. “Wars are nearly always fought in order to seize someone else’s territory or material wealth, aren’t they? Explorations are launched in search of shortcuts to overseas markets, or the discovery and exploitation of unknown resources, and monarchs are chiefly judged by the riches they bring to their respective nations.”

  “Even so,” said Arabella, beyond words irritated that her sister had pre-empted her plan for an impromptu history lesson, “the story of mankind, which sounds so noble, is really just the story of our stuffs.”

  “I should have said it was the story of our interactions with stuffs, rather than of the stuffs themselves. Inert as they are, they can scarcely be expected to generate a history on their own.”

  Arabella stood up. She was really annoyed now, for Belinda had actually corrected her. “I am going out,” she snapped. “To buy something frivolous!”

  “That hardly seems like a noble endeavor!”

  “No, indeed! It fairly smacks of the commercial! And, pray, do not ask to accompany me—I crave solitude, just now!” So saying, she swept from the room, shutting the door behind her rather emphatically.

  Despite recitations elsewhere in this narrative of autumn’s distinctive charms, it must also be admitted that the season possesses some serious drawbacks. There are the rivers, for one thing. London is full of rivers, and the rivers are full of all kinds of unpleasant things, being little more than foul repositories for those substances that man flings away from him in disgust. Thus, when the mist rises off the water, collecting to itself all the available moisture, this filthy residue is condensed and distilled into poison. And while most Londoners are hardy enough to survive such miasmas, even the fittest are often subject to chronic coughs and sick headaches in the autumn.

  The season also presents major problems for the traveler, owing to its close temporal proximity to winter, and long journeys begun in the autumn are best begun early. Napoleon would come to realize this in a couple of weeks, during his invasion of Russia, but Arabella knew it already. And so, the elder Beaumont sister, who, like the younger, was reckless on the surface yet sensible deep down, ordered their trunks brought in from the stables and cleaned of hay and cobwebs that very evening.

  Chapter 5

  BROTHERLY LOVE

  “I can think of few situations less likely to inspire lustful passions than being raised in a household with sisters,” said Charles, perusing the racing results. “Watching them grow through their gangly or dumpy stages, observing their pimple eruptions, fighting with them and enduring their endless sulks at the dinner table . . . but that is the idea, I suppose: If brothers always had first crack at their sisters, as it were, humanity would dwindle away, its bloodlines contaminated with disease and deformity. Look at what happened to the pharaohs.”

  Charles was sitting and smoking in the bow window of his club, occasionally glancing out at the street, frequently returning to the newspaper, and addressing, with a semi-distracted air, the odd remark to Lord Carrington. Or, in this case, the more-than-odd remark.

  “And yet, in these modern times, when men of our station have the leisure to look upon sex as recreation rather than procreation, I ask myself, why not? Though I didn’t ask at the time; I simply followed my inclinations. You look shocked, but remember, Carrington, I grew up in a bad family.”

  “Bad, did you say?”

  “Oh, not in a social sense. Pater was a baronet, and we always lived as though we had plenty of money, but my parents were decadent, and much given to vice. So it is not terribly surprising that Arabella and little Belinda caught the fraternal eye one day whilst at their dancing lesson . . .”

  His audience jumped to its feet.

  “Spare me the details, Beaumont! I am a friend to both ladies, sir, and I’m damned if I’ll listen to these foul confessions!”

  “. . . And then he left in rather a huff,” Charles explained. “Probably to go off and brood over what I’d told him.”

  “It was very wrong of you, Charles!” cried Belinda.

  “Indeed, it was!” agreed Arabella. “Lord Carrington was on the brink of proposing to Bunny!”

  “I know, Bell. That is precisely why I invented the story: Carrington has not a bean in the world.”

  “Hasn’t he?”

  “Not anymore. I have saved our Bunny from an ignominious marriage. You are welcome. Please feel free to demonstrate your gratitude in the usual way, by showering me generously with monetary appreciations.”

  One of the advantages in being a courtesan was that one’s income was always in flux, so that the public had no very clear idea of one’s actual financial situation. Members of the peerage, on the other hand, might just as well have had their net worth stamped upon their foreheads in violet ink: Their livings were as familiar to all and sundry as their surnames. And Lord Carrington, as everybody knew, was possessed of twenty thousand pounds per annum. Or had been. But the world was soon to hear of a certain game of Loo which had taken place the previous evening, in the course of which the wretched fellow had gambled away his entire fortune. His clubmen knew it already, of course.

  “That’s why I lied to him,” Charles explained. “The poor devil hasn’t two farthings to rub together. He mustn’t marry Bunny, and now it’s fairly certain that he won’t.”

  “But have you given any thought,” said Arabella, making an effort to govern her temper, “any at all, to the damage your story will do to our demi-reputations?”

  “Rubbish! You’re courtesans! My colorful tale will merely enhance your already potent mystique.”

  “No,” she said. “A lot of people who are otherwise broad-minded draw the line at incest. None of our wealthy clients will have us with that taint on our records! And if we fail, dear brother, you fail, as well.”

  Charles went as white and as crumbly as a good Caerphilly.

  “Oh,” he said faintly. “I hadn’t quite thought of it in that light, you know. Um . . . what shall we do now?”

  “I have no idea what you will do,” Arabella retorted. “A good brother would go out and explain to the world that he was only having his little joke.”

  “But I am not a good brother.”

  “Precisely, Toby.”

  Arabella had coined this cognomen when they were children, because her brother’s ears stuck out from his head like the handles on a Toby mug. The defect having happily resolved itself with time, the nickname proved indelible, as nicknames often will, and resurfaced whenever Charles had occasion to vex his sisters. Hence, the air at Lustings fairly rang with “Toby!” for I am sorry to say that the fellow fretted them constantly.

  On this particular evening, Belinda and Arabella had been seated before the fire in the drawing room, their slippered feet propped on footstools, where, until Charles’s entry and electrifying anecdote, Belinda had been engaged in making a needlepoint of Europa consummating her affair with the bull, and Arabella had been copying a sketch of Rowlandson’s, depicting a trio of decrepit old men examining the business end of a happy, naked young woman.

  “Bunny and I will shortly be leaving for the Continent, in connection with a private matter,” said Arabella, “and now that you have seen fit to blacken our reputations, I propose to remain abroad unless and until this thing shall have run its course. Whilst we are gone, I shall write to every important friend of our acquaintance, explaining your conduct, reviling you, and begging assistance in clearing our names. You may stew in your own juices until we return—I do not mind what you do—but you will have to find somewhere else to live, for you cannot stay at Lustings.”

  “No, indeed,” Belinda chimed in. “If we left you here alone, we should come back to find the house empty of furniture, and yourself skinned and on the point of gambling away the doorknobs.”

  An ordinary person, confronted with such an uncomfortable truth, would have hung his head for shame. But this bothered C
harles not a whit. For he had spoken truly: He was not a good brother.

  “Bell,” Belinda continued, “do you not think we should call at Ackermann’s in a few days, in order to assess the actual damage?”

  “Indubitably. It is impossible that this ‘revelation’ will escape the notice of the gossip hounds. Charles, get your things together and get out.”

  “But . . . I’ve nowhere to go!” he protested. “No one will have me to stay with them, if what you say is true!”

  “You will just have to find some way to cope, then, won’t you?”

  “I won’t, Bell. You know I could not survive without you and my friends, which, according to you, I no longer possess. How will you feel when you return to find me dead and buried in Potter’s Field? For the rest of your own life, which I hope may be long and wretched, you will suffer from the knowledge that I died because of your neglect.”

  “Oh, shut up, Charles.”

  Belinda was beginning to waver. “The nights are awfully cold just now, Bell,” she said, with a beseeching sort of look at her sister.

  “I realize that. Which is why he needn’t be buried until we come home. They can preserve him quite nicely for us in a block of ice.”

  “But we cannot just leave him! After all, he is the only brother we have.”

  “That is a circumstance,” said Arabella, “for which I daily thank Providence.”

  Charles has been mentioned at length, and rather pointedly, too, in a previous volume of Arabella’s adventures, but the reader has not actually met him. Therefore, picture if you will a tall, dark, attractive man, almost pretty, a few years older than Arabella. Although he shared her forthright self-assurance, and had dark hair, like Belinda, Charles possessed a certain want of character, an absence of inner resolve, and a weakness about the mouth that were entirely his own. In fact, there was no very striking family resemblance amongst the siblings, and Arabella had sometimes reflected that the three of them might, in actuality, only be half siblings. (Their mother, as Charles had said, had been much given to vice.) Still, he was the only brother they had.

  “Oh, all right!” cried Arabella, disgusted by the others’ facial expressions of mute appeal. “Though I am quite certain that I shall have cause to regret it, you had better come along to Italy with Bunny and me, Charles. Perhaps a month or two with all of us out of the public eye will give things here a chance to settle down.”

  “You know I shall be of no help at all, either physically, financially, or emotionally,” he said, plucking a bit of fluff from his sleeve.

  “That is not entirely true,” Arabella replied. “The presence of a male family member will lend a certain outward respectability to our party, which may well prove useful abroad. The Italians, you know, are rather old-fashioned in their attitudes, and apt to take a dim view of females roaming about on their own.”

  After Charles had gone, Belinda allowed herself the luxury of sniffling into her hanky.

  “You’re well out of that, Bunny,” said Arabella, patting her shoulder. “Just think what would have happened if you had married Carrington! An insufferable bore is bearable, if not actually charming, when he is also rich. But an insufferably boring pauper might tempt one to murder!”

  “Yes, you are right,” Belinda agreed, wiping away a tear. “When it comes to gambling, Carrington is as bad as Charles. And ending up with someone like Charles is the last thing I should want!”

  “Well,” said Arabella, with a rueful smile. “Not according to gossip.”

  Rudolph Ackermann kept a print shop on the Strand, in whose front window he was wont to display the latest social and political commentary, translated into captioned cartoons by artists like George Cruikshank, James Gillray, and Thomas Rowlandson. The plethora of London newspapers and magazines notwithstanding, Ackermann’s window was where one went for a quick overview of the burning topics of the day.

  Shortly after Charles Beaumont had made his famous remark to Lord Carrington, Arabella discovered a print in the famous window, depicting her siblings and herself in bed together, and bearing the caption: “Brotherly Love.”

  “So much for befriending ‘the most dangerous man in London,’” said Belinda, when Arabella told her. She was sitting in the library, having attempted to create a scrimshaw scene on a walrus tusk that Glendeen had once given Arabella. But Belinda had botched it, and was now carving it into a dildo, instead.

  “The work was Cruikshank’s,” said Arabella, untying the ribbons that secured her bonnet beneath her chin, “not Rowlandson’s. Tom would never do such a thing to an old friend.”

  “No? Last year, if you recall, he made that humiliating sketch of me!”

  “That was different, Bunny. Anyone may fall down and have her frock fly up, although you would not risk exposure quite so often if your skirts were not quite so full. Besides, a narrower skirt shews off the figure to greater advantage.”

  “You are free to attract attention in any way you see fit,” said Belinda. “However, I am determined to hold fast to my own methods.”

  “Hmm,” replied her sister skeptically. “At any rate, Tom Rowlandson might poke gentle fun at you, but he would never dream of insulting me.”

  “I did not look upon that as gentle fun.”

  “Oh, surely you’re not holding a grudge against him!”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Belinda replied. “I merely said I did not look upon it as gentle fun.”

  “Well, then, what did you regard it as?”

  “Free advertising.”

  Chapter 6

  THE BILLY-BOX BRIBE

  The day following saw no wind, and the city cautiously awakened to brittle sunlight. It was cold, though. Walking their horses through Green Park after a good ride, Belinda and Arabella passed that farm that was so amusing to visit in the summer, when one had a mind to play the dairymaid and milk a cow.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to curl your fingers around a nice, warm cow teat?” asked Arabella.

  “Yes, I am certain,” Belinda replied, stooping to pick up a brilliantly colored leaf. “My gloves are not coming off until we reach home. The mere thought of exposing my hands at these temperatures makes me want to shriek!”

  The fall foliage was particularly fine that year, and Arabella marked, with pleasurable surprise, just how the trees were effecting their seasonal adjustments. Some turned red or gold or flaming orange on the bottom first, the colors gradually creeping upward, like a blush. Others began their transformation at the top, and the change seeped down from there. Still others altered their outer leaves first, and she even found some that were changing in random clumps.

  Belinda was not bothered with the “how” of the leaves, as all her attention was for the moment focused upon collecting the prettiest.

  “Are these for your album?” Arabella enquired.

  “No,” said her sister. “I am making a billy-box.”

  Belinda was in the habit of decorating small receptacles at the end of her love affairs. Named for the first man ever to inspire their construction, they were packed with memorabilia from the lately beloved, and might contain anything from billets-doux to withered apple cores, including sketches not good enough for her album, miscellaneous locks of hair, nail parings, and tobacco pipe dottle, tapped out and left on a saucer. These collections, once complete, were duly buried in the garden, and Arabella had once made the observation that future history buffs, digging in the area of Brompton Park, would get the thrill of their lives when they uncovered Belinda’s beautiful memory coffins, and then feel so disappointed upon opening them and discovering the unfailingly mundane, and occasionally disgusting contents, that for the sake of their mental health they would be obliged to take up some other hobby without the attendant risks of extreme emotional fluctuations.

  But Belinda had not had a serious affair for some time, unless one counted Lord Carrington. And one couldn’t count him, after all, as he had feet that splayed out like a duck’s, and cut a ridiculo
us figure on the dance floor.

  “I don’t require one just now,” she explained, with reference to her boxes. “But I like to stock them up, so that I need not feel pressured to make a billy-box when I am prostrate with grief. This one will be useful should I ever have occasion to terminate a romance in the autumn.”

  “How many have you at present?” Arabella inquired.

  “Five or six.”

  “Would you let me have one?”

  “Why? You think they’re silly!”

  “I think they are beautiful,” said Arabella gravely. “I merely deplore the waste of burying such beautiful things in the ground, crammed with, if you’ll pardon me, nothing but trash. However, in the event that you will vouchsafe to give me one, I promise to fill it with lovely items and take it to Mr. Kendrick. He has a cold just now, and wants cheering up.”

  “Oh! By all means! He shall have the box I am currently working on! It is to be covered in autumn leaves, with gilded acorns, silver pinecones, and yards and yards of copper-colored ribbon! How very thoughtful you are, Bell!”

  The horses blew air through their noses, as though to contradict Belinda’s estimation of her sister’s noble motives.

  The young women walked on for a time, until at last, Arabella said, “No. It is rather selfish, actually. You see, I have just decided that the rector shall accompany us to the Continent. There is no doubt at all that he will come if I ask him, and taking his utter compliance with my wishes for granted makes me feel rather guilty. However, if I preface my request with a present, I think I shall feel less so.”

  “But why should you feel guilty?”