“Really? Are you at all familiar with this bronze, Professor? It’s Pan, you know, in a state of . . . extreme arousal, with a double phallus. Are you telling me that you would actually put that on public display?”
“Not on display, perhaps. We keep such things in a special room, with access restricted to . . . with access restricted. But it would at least be made available for viewing to scholars and serious art lovers.”
“And so will it be, at my house, in London.”
“But London is not where it belongs.”
They walked on in silence for a time. Then Arabella said, “Are women allowed to see the art in this ‘special room’?”
“No. Women and children are excluded, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’? And why do you include women in the same category as children? We are adults, even as you are. Do you think that women are likely to go mad from shock when they see sexual things? Or are you merely trying to prevent us from discovering exactly what it is that our husbands and lovers are doing to us beneath the bedclothes?”
Bergamini made no answer. He walked by her side with his hands folded behind him, and his face seemed to wear a puzzled expression, though it was difficult to ascertain this for certain without being able to actually see his eyes.
“That, alone, is reason enough for me to claim the bronze,” said Arabella. “Anyone who calls upon me at Lustings will be welcome to view my Pan and all of his parts. Anyone at all. As for finding it, I shall continue to seek for clews here, and allow events to unfold in their own time. I think you will be surprised, Professor Bergamini, when I am victorious in the end.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Very surprised.”
Before going to bed that night, Arabella wrote:
The mind looks for patterns in everyday life as reflections of the spirit, which seeks to know the unknowable. The spirit asks: Where is God? Is there life after death? By what signs may I know this? The mind, on the other hand, asks: Who has my statue? Where is it now? How do I get it back?
Why has the professor warned me off? Is this something other than a straightforward art theft? If so, I do hope it is nothing to do with politics.
Chapter 15
TÊTE-À-TÊTE
“I sees a man,” said the old tinker woman, staring at Lady Bendover’s palm. “A tall one, an’ hansum. He’s . . .” She gave a little, practiced gasp, and leaned forward to whisper in the lady’s ear. “He’s your footman, mum!”
The subject gave a delighted squeal and glanced coyly round at the assembled company: a parlor full of women like herself, rich, aging, idle, self-centered.
“Why, it’s true, Hermione!” she burbled to the hostess. “I have never in my life experienced anything like it!”
Now it was Lady Ribbonhat’s turn. The tinker woman already knew a bit about her, as she did about all the guests, having gotten their names from the hostess beforehand and sussed out the gossip on each one.
“I sees a house,” she said promptly. “A house as is yours, but you ain’t got it, has you?”
“Yes!” said Lady Ribbonhat breathlessly. “I mean, no! That’s Lustings!”
She had been hooked from the moment she received the invitation to come and have her fortune told by “the best pregnosticater in the British Aisles!”
The Countess of Wattle was a very great lady. Perhaps her spelling was a little lax, but in all other respects she was terribly strict, and she always insisted upon the best. So, if the countess said this “pregnosticater” was a marvel, then a marvel she must be.
“Yer husband’s not happy about this.”
“My husband is dead,” said Lady Ribbonhat.
“That he be,” said the fortune teller promptly. “I ware talkin’ of his speret!”
A close one! But neatly managed, withal.
“His spirit?” asked Lady Ribbonhat, uncertainly.
“Aye. He wants to shew ye how yer to get the house back agin.”
The tinker woman looked up from the seeker’s withered palm and stared at the wall, as though gazing into realms beyond the physical one. Actually, she was gazing at the escritoire across the room, its stack of letters neatly arranged in a filigree letter rack.
“There be a cache of letters,” she said. “Letters what you don’t know about. They’ll prove yer rights.” She nodded to herself. “Aye, they’ll prove ’em, all right.”
“Where are these letters?” asked Lady Ribbonhat excitedly. “How can I find them?”
“Yer husband knows where they are,” replied the tinker, as the countess’s Persian cat entered the room. “His speret’s in a cat, an’ the cat will lead you to ’em.”
“A cat?” Lady R. felt her heart sink. “It wouldn’t be an orange cat, would it?”
“Aye.”
“But I . . . gave that cat away! Haven’t the slightest idea what’s become of it!”
“Success will be yourn arter trials overcome,” droned the fortune teller, dropping Lady Ribbonhat’s hand and holding out her own. “Cross my palm wi’ sil’er, if I’ve told ye summat of benefit.”
That evening, the Beaumonts and Mr. Kendrick were obliged, once again, to be sociable with the Terranovas. This was something of a strain, given Arabella’s former rudeness, but even so, Father Terranova reclaimed what was becoming his customary seat beside her upon the small divan.
“It seems strange that you have chosen to see Herculaneum, signorina,” he said. “Most tourists to this part of the world prefer to visit Pompeii.”
Since Arabella had not been asked a direct question, she did not find it necessary to respond.
“Ercolano is smaller,” he continued, “and there is not so much of interest here. No brothels, for instance. But there are several at Pompeii. I should think you would like to see those.”
“And why should you think that?”
“Well, one would naturally suppose that you would want to pay homage to the birthplace of your profession.”
Arabella fought down her fury, but those who knew her intimately could still hear it in her voice. “Prostitution did not begin with the Romans, signor. It is much older than that, probably dating back to prehistoric—”
Mr. Kendrick cleared his throat. “That reminds me of a joke.”
And this time, whether owing to the fact that he was somewhat incapacitated, with his bound ankle propped up on a footstool, or simply because nobody could think of anything else to say, Arabella let him tell it.
“Well, it seems this nun, who was outrageously vicious to the laundresses, got her habit back from the laundry just before a high holy Mass. It was so full of starch that she could not sit down in it. The only thing she could do was to stand bolt upright, although she could also manage an awkward sort of kneel. There was no time to send it back before the Mass, so she had to wear it and make do, standing up for most of the day, and even afterwards at the party, when everyone else was seated and taking their ease.
“Finally, after ten hours or so, we are told, ‘her feet could stand no more’—I love that part!—and she sank down into the wretched kneeling position which she could only just manage, while the priest was passing by with a cup of wrack punch and a plate full of chicken.
“I thought of that myself,” he added modestly. “Nice little . . . little detail, to help you picture the scene, you know.”
“Do get on with it, old man,” said Charles with a yawn.
“Right. Well, so the priest said, ‘There’s no need to kneel now, Sister,’ and she said, ‘I know, Father; force of habit!’”
In the quiet air of the salotto, Kendrick’s final words seemed to echo faintly through the stony corridors of an abandoned city, before being finally absorbed into the walls and dying away forever.
“It was funnier in print,” he mumbled.
The loud, artificial laugh that burst from Renilde the moment after he said this was worse, even, than the silence had been.
“A fine story, Mr. Kendrick,” said Terranova,
crumbling a bit of cake with his fingers, “though a little too close to home, perhaps: Some of my best friends are vicious nuns.”
There was genuine laughter at this, but Signora Terranova, who had taken a sip of coffee, spluttered it out again and had to be thumped on the back by her sister.
“Felice!” she gasped, when she had once more been set to rights. “That was unforgivable from a man of your station!”
“Then I apologize, Mama,” he said with a smile.
Brushing an invisible crumb from his lap, Mr. Kendrick arose and limped over to Arabella with the biscuit plate.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Kendrick!”
“There is really no need to thank me, Miss Beaumont.”
“I know,” she replied, smiling up at him. “Force of habit.” She leant forward and lowered her voice. “Will you not take Renilde aside, and tactfully try to discover what she knows? She seems most anxious to please you.”
This proved unpleasantly accurate, for when Kendrick offered to hear her story, Renilde insisted that he take her to another room, where they could be alone.
“ . . . Because my cousin, he will be furioso if he hears what I am to tell you.”
“But why?” Kendrick asked, once solitude had been achieved, and Renilde had shut the door. “Is the statue in his possession?”
“It might be. Yes, it is possible.”
She removed her shoes, and moved closer to him on the sopha, tucking her feet under her in a suggestive manner. Then she pretended to pluck a leaf fragment from his collar, which Kendrick suspected she had had with her all along.
“Look,” she breathed, holding the scrap close to his eyes, “what sort of plant do you suppose this came from?”
“I have no idea, signorina. The light is dim to non-existent in here. Would you mind telling me how your family is connected to the Pan statue, and to the murder of Signor Jones?”
“Do you know what I think?” she asked.
“What?”
“I think this was a fig leaf. Just like the one that covered the private parts of Eve, when she realized . . .” Renilde’s voice dropped to a whisper, “. . . her sin!”
At the word “sin,” Kendrick thought of the buff-colored notebook, and of how much Miss Beaumont was depending upon him.
“Signorina Rinaldo . . .”
“I wish that you would call me Renilde.”
“Please tell me everything you know about the missing statue. From the beginning.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you said you would.”
“Is it so very important to you?”
“Yes, it is!”
“And what will you give me, if I tell you?”
Renilde had moved even closer, so that she was practically sitting in his lap. Now she was twining her fingers in his hair and blowing softly upon his face, in what was evidently meant to be a seductive manner. And so it might have been, if she had been prettier, nicer, and less devious, and if her breath had not smelt quite so much of unbrushed teeth, with overtones of garlic sausage in red wine, and coffee to finish.
“I . . . well,” said Kendrick, thinking furiously, “that depends entirely upon the nature of the information. If you tell me some small thing, you will receive something trifling in return, and if what you have to say is important . . .”
“Yes . . . ?”
“Oh, this is futile! You do not actually know anything about it, do you? You have been deliberately wasting my time. To what end, I know not.”
Kendrick pushed her off him and endeavored to stand up, but in this he was betrayed by his twisted ankle, and Renilde easily pulled him back onto the sopha. She tugged at her gown’s neckline on both sides, baring her shoulders, and exposing more of her cleavage, such as it was.
“What are you doing?” cried the unhappy cleric. “Unhand me, madam . . . ! ”
“Listen,” she hissed close to his ear. “My cousin Felice was the one who gave the orders that the statue . . . and the other things . . . be taken from the buried villa. He was the first to know they were down there.”
“And how did he discover that?” Kendrick was certain that the young lady was inventing tales at random now, in an attempt to keep him there.
“Felice has many people working for him. They tell him what is going on.”
“Ah! How convenient! What has he to do with artifacts?”
“I don’t know. But someone else learned that they were going to be dug out. And . . . and he . . . this other person . . . went and dug them out first.”
“Who was this person?”
“I don’t know who he was. Just somebody. But he was very stupid, because Cousin Felice is a powerful man. He has . . . spies. Everywhere. And they . . . his spies . . . killed this other, stupid man. Then they took away all the statues and things . . . I think, maybe, they took them back to my cousin.”
It seemed to Kendrick that Renilde was simply making it up as she went along, and searching her mind for what to say next.
“There!” she cried. “I gave you everything! Now you must give me everything!”
And she attempted to throw herself into his arms, but Kendrick was too quick for her. He leapt to his feet just in time, ignoring the pain in his protesting ankle.
“You have not told me very much, after all, Signorina Rinaldo,” he said. “But I shall give you this.” He took the St. Christopher medal from around his neck and placed it in her hand.
Renilde stood up, too, sensing that she had lost the moment.
“Won’t you at least help me put it on?”
She was trembling, and there were tears in her eyes, which glistened in the faint gleam of the candle. They were only tears of rage, but Kendrick was not to know that. To him, they were just tears—of distress, perhaps, or grief or humiliation—and he felt a surge of pity for this unattractive young woman, who had the misfortune to desire a man who would never return her feelings. Probably this had happened to her before. And probably, it would happen again.
“May the saint protect you on your quest for a mate,” said Kendrick gently, fastening the chain round her neck, “and may he keep you safe from unscrupulous persons until you are safely married.”
Renilde collapsed, sobbing, onto the sopha. The reverend limped to the door to fling it wide with fury; fury at the unfeeling universe and its indifference to the sufferings of the discarded and unloved creatures whom nobody wants. The tearing open of the door was a gesture of defiant contempt for the cosmos, for the general unfairness inherent in the Way Things Were. It was a stand against apathy, a resounding NO! to the eternal Who Cares? It was one man’s crusade against the absurdity and senselessness echoing down all the days of creation since the beginning.
At least, that was what he had been going to do.
But Renilde had locked it.
“Help!” shouted Kendrick, banging on the door with both fists. “Please! Somebody! We are trapped in here! Help!”
“Stop!” cried the young woman, leaping up. “If we should be found together, it will look very bad!”
“Help!” he shouted again. She clapped a hand over his mouth, but he shook her off. “Help!”
“If they find us, we shall both be ruined!” wailed Renilde.
“Give me the key, then,” Kendrick demanded.
“No!” she shrieked. “No-no-no-no!” And with that, she commenced a feral howl that froze the rector’s blood. It sounded as though she were turning into a werewolf.
Someone in the corridor commenced pounding on the door.
“Signorina Rinaldo! Are you all right? Open this door at once!”
Renilde’s howls, which continued unabated, had evidently roused the household, for now a gabble of voices could be heard without. Mr. Kendrick stood as if rooted to the floor, afraid to turn round, lest the sight of Renilde’s metamorphosis should cost him his sanity. The howling continued to escalate in both pitch and frequency. Kendrick covered his ears, praying silently to God.
Outs
ide in the passage, the landlord and his wife and servants, Terranova, Renilde’s mother, brother and aunt, the three monks, and Charles and Belinda were all shouting at him to open the door. Well. Probably Charles wasn’t. Finally, somebody forced it, with a loud bang, and Renilde abruptly stopped shrieking.
For the space of four heartbeats, the two parties faced each other across the silence. There stood the Rector of Effing, his face pale, his hair mussed and his cravat undone; Renilde, shoeless, with the sleeves of her gown pulled from her shoulders and her heaving bosom displayed (only the upper part, but still), and the pair of them—the people, not the bosoms—standing now in the light cast from the wall sconces in the passage, with the room behind them in almost total darkness. Added to which, the realization of how all this must appear to the others gave to the rector the guiltiest expression that ever was seen.
“Reverend Kendrick,” said Terranova, squinting past him at his cousin. “Isn’t that the St. Christopher medal that I recently gave to you?”
Upstairs, Arabella was awaiting Pietro’s arrival, supposing that the hullabaloo downstairs was occasioned by some asinine parlor game. But the noise had effectively obscured the subtler sounds of someone climbing up to her balcony, so that when the boy knocked upon the French window, she was startled nearly out of her wits.
“Come in,” she whispered, holding the window wide so that he could slip past her. When she lit the candle, Arabella saw that Pietro was shivering, for the night was cold, and the barefoot child was dressed in the thinnest of rags. She wrapped him in the spare blanket. “You keep that,” said Arabella. “I shall square it with the landlord. Now, quickly! Tell me what you have found out!”
“I have talked with the others,” he said, “but no one knows the man who killed the Englishman. We did not see him ever before, and he has not come back.”
“Oh,” said Arabella sadly.
“This Englishman who died; you loved him very much?”
Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery) Page 11