Death Among the Ruins (Arabella Beaumont Mystery)

by Christie, Pamela

  “But why have you done this?” asked Arabella.

  “Because you were coming to look for the bronze Pan. We doubted you would find it, but a highly visible foreign courtesan nosing about and asking questions might have easily upset the rather delicate arrangements we were making with regard to its disposal.”

  “We! To whom do you refer, signor?”

  “The Carbonari. An organization to which I have the great honor to belong.”

  “But I do not understand this,” said Belinda plaintively. “Why would Professor Bergamini bring John Soane’s letter to you?”

  “Because I am the patron of his museum.”

  “You are? Who are you?”

  “Prince Benedetto Gandini-Palmadessola, at your service!” he replied with a bow. “This villa is my principal residence, though I also possess several others. Ah,” he said, looking past her toward the door. “And here is Father Terranova, punctual to the minute! We shall now take this opportunity to enlighten you all more fully.”

  The prelate greeted the members of the astonished company with jovial cordiality, whilst servants appeared with chairs and a dining table, and proceeded to set up for luncheon. The prince slipped away for a time, to finish removing the adhesive remnants of Bergamini, and emerged looking quite wonderful. Throughout the ensuing meal, the English guests sat in a kind of daze, though in Charles’s case, this was due entirely to insufficient sleep and a surfeit of alcohol, and the servants went quietly in and out, replenishing water goblets, bringing little dishes of lemons and lemon forks for the seafood, and seeing to everything with crisp efficiency. Arabella thought, fleetingly, of the servants who had attended to her needs so assiduously on that torrid afternoon in Pompeii; one or two of these fellows looked (and acted) rather familiar.

  “First of all,” said Father Terranova, who really was a priest, “I should like to acquit myself of the charge leveled against me in your notebook, signorina. I have not murdered my cousin.”

  In such a place, on such a day, the subject seemed absurdly inappropriate, and Arabella had to struggle to recollect her sense of outrage from the corner of her mind, where she had swept it.

  “It does not signify what you call it,” she said. “I suppose you are going to tell us it was a mercy killing, or that Renilde died a martyr for your noble political cause. But taking a life is always wrong, except to save that of another.”

  “Ah!” said Terranova. “But that exception applied, you see.”

  “Inventing justifications after the fact will not fool me,” said Arabella severely. “The way in which you casually announced that Renilde was with God, and then forbade further discussion about it, as though we had been arguing over a disproportionate wine bill, displayed a coldness of heart and a wanton disrespect for decency, signor! Renilde was a human being! And you did not even give her a funeral!”

  “That is true, signorina. There was no funeral for Renilde, because Renilde is not dead. I will give you her address, if you like, though I cannot be held responsible for the reception she is likely to give you, if you visit her. You are not exactly a favorite of hers.

  “We have always known the girl was unbalanced, you see,” he explained, addressing himself to Mr. Kendrick, “and we believed, in our ignorance—my mother, my aunt, and myself—that if we kept her close to us and spared her any agitation she would be all right. But we were wrong, and the consequence of our mistake was nearly fatal. Renilde became obsessed with you, Reverend Kendrick. Something of the sort had happened before, and we hoped that one day, a kind man would marry her and take her off to a calm and quiet life in the countryside. We were trying to avoid the alternative, you see. None of us had the heart to send poor Renilde to the madhouse.”

  “Stealing letters is antisocial, certainly,” said Arabella, recovering from the surprise of learning that Renilde was alive, “but hardly abnormal to the point of institutionalization.”

  “Unfortunately, there was more to it than that, signorina. I am thankful that you were unable to read that curse scroll which she nailed over your bed.”

  “Was that Renilde’s doing?”

  “Without doubt. She has the singular habit of dotting her I’s with little squares.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Please, signorina; I have been doing my best to forget what I read there. I shall not, under any circumstances, utter the words aloud. They were meant to frighten you away, of course. Renilde saw you as the main obstacle between herself and Reverend Kendrick. But even so, they were terrible. The awful ravings of an unhinged mind.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Arabella, “it was only a threat, however vile. That is not the same as attempted murder.”

  “Of course not. But in the last few years, Renilde’s condition has steadily worsened. On the night the soldiers came to the hotel, she tried to kill you, signorina, and but for my interference, she might have succeeded. You see,” he said, “she poisoned your cocoa whilst the rest of us spoke to the soldiers in the hall. I had observed Renilde’s agitation earlier in the evening, so I stepped aside as everyone else was filing out of the coffee room, and watched from the shadows while she emptied the contents of a vial into your distinctive wine goblet. When the soldiers left, the cat knocked over one of the ordinary glasses, and the landlady, fearing for her costly piece, unknowingly transferred the poisoned contents to a glass identical to all the others. So, carefully noting its position, I rotated the platter to confound Renilde. When I saw that she had completely lost track of its whereabouts, I took it for myself.”

  “You took it?” Arabella exclaimed.

  “Si. I did not drink it, of course. And after Renilde went up to bed, we called in the doctor from next door and arranged to have her sent away. It’s not a bad place,” he said sadly, “as such places go. The attendants there are very kind, and poor Renilde responds to kindness. Well, usually, she does.

  “We had to keep this matter secret. I hold a vital position in the Carbonari—which I will explain to you in a moment, if you can bear to sit through a political discussion—and I cannot afford to have the slightest whiff of scandal crop up now. I must avoid attracting attention at all costs. Our family council decided it would be better if we said that Renilde had died.

  “You were right, in your diary, about one thing,” he added. “She did tell Mr. Kendrick the truth that evening: I am the person responsible for the theft of the Pan statue.”

  Arabella swallowed. “Do you know where it is?” she asked.

  “Roughly.”

  A pair of pelicans sailed past the cliffs, their shadows sweeping the terrace like a memory of prehistoric mosquitoes.

  “On the day we went to Pompeii,” said the prince, “you witnessed an argument between myself and the good father here. Later on, you probably suspected me of conspiring to keep you away from the hotel for the afternoon.”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “But that was not the subject of our discussion. I had only just learned that Terranova was behind the Herculaneum theft. And I was threatening him with legal action. I did not then know that he was Carbonari, and because I was not yet a member, he could not reveal himself to me. By the way,” he added with a smile, “one should never threaten a suspicious person with legal action. It cannot possibly help you to let the suspect know what you are going to do, and if he is desperate enough, it might just convince him that he needs to kill you.”

  Arabella made a mental note to make an actual note of this in her CIN.

  “Father Terranova recognized my ring,” the prince continued. “He knew that I was not Bergamini. And as soon as it was practical, he approached me with an appeal to join his organization, which I wholeheartedly accepted.”

  Kendrick had been listening to all this with his good elbow upon the table, his chin in his hand. Now he spoke up for the first time. “Why then,” he said, turning to Terranova in some surprise, “you must be responsible for the art dealer’s murder!”

  The
priest lifted his hands in protest. “I am opposed to violence on principle,” he said, “but our brotherhood is sworn to promote the goals of the organization. And if one wishes to make a frittata, one must break a few eggs. It is true; the appropriation of the Herculaneum artworks was originally one of our projects, and the Englishman, this so-called art dealer, a Carbonari gone to the bad, seized the chance to cut in ahead of schedule and take the items for his personal profit. It was a bold plan, and would probably have succeeded, had his workmen not maintained their loyalty to the cause.

  “I never said ‘kill him’ in so many words. But I gave the order to prevent the unlawful removal of those art pieces by whatever means necessary. If it helps you any, Reverend, the death was an accident. The men told me they only meant to render him unconscious, and deliver him up to a tribunal.”

  “But why should the Carbonari be interested in art smuggling?” asked Arabella. “Aren’t you supposed to be fighting for Italian independence?”

  “For unification, signorina. Just at present, Italy is a disconnected mess of kingdoms and principalities ruled over by foreigners. We cannot hope to win our purpose without the support of powerful nations like your own, particularly those with strong commercial connections in the Mediterranean. So . . . we give Britain priceless artworks for her museums, and Britain in turn lends her support to our cause.”

  “I was frankly quite worried,” said the prince, “when you left us, in the company of that inquisitive Austrian diplomat. Without realizing it, you might have implicated either Father Terranova or myself, which would have implicated others, which would have set the cause back months or even years and resulted in the executions of brave and dedicated people whom you have never met.”

  “That is why we went to all this trouble,” said the priest. “We wanted you to give up and go home, before you could do any damage, but you are rather stubborn. In fact, you are intractable!”

  “But how did you know that I was coming to the hut?” asked Arabella.

  “Because we told Pietro to take you there,” said the prince.

  “Pietro!”

  “. . . works for us; yes. He is one of our most valuable spies.”

  “You mean, he is not really an orphan of the ruins?”

  “Oh, he lives in the ruins, right enough. But that is his choice. And he is much more effective working from there. Street children are virtually invisible.”

  “Then not one person I have met here was the person he appeared to be!”

  “Under such oppressive conditions as we have,” said Terranova, “it is simpler to assume disguises.”

  “Hmm . . .” said Arabella. “I should have thought that would complicate things. So, the blessing you dispensed from my balcony . . . that was not actually what you were doing, was it? You were not serious about baptizing the Hercu-laneans?”

  Terranova appeared offended by the suggestion. “Signorina! How could you think that would be a good idea? Nobody would benefit! The Christian souls would of course be bound to welcome their persecutors to paradise, but I doubt whether they should be happy about it. And the pagan souls would be miserable in a Christian heaven. I am hurt that you could think I would willingly cause such misery!”

  Belinda excused herself to answer a call of nature, and in her absence, the prince explained about those supposed “gifts” from Charles.

  “The dog’s collar,” he explained quietly, “is split on the inside surface, an ideal place for hiding messages. After your . . . er, dance, with the Austrian, the watch they posted on your party was increased, and it was not safe for me to meet with Father Terranova directly. So I used the dog. She has had courier training, you see, and I knew that Father Terranova would recognize her. On the day that Charles presented the dog to your sister, the collar contained a warning to the good father to flee at the first opportunity.”

  “So, that’s why you were so attentive to the dog?” Arabella asked.

  Terranova smiled, bowing his head in assent. “And then again, at the museum,” he said. “My meeting you there was no accident. His Highness had placed specific information for me inside the collar.”

  “That is why I invented the story of the statues in the storeroom,” the prince admitted. “I had to get you, your sister, and her dog to the museum, so that Father Terranova might retrieve the document which I had hidden in the collar. We were watched, even there.”

  “Yes,” said the priest. “And when Signorina Belinda left your notebook upon the bench, we thought that she was working for the enemy! One of my monks retrieved it just in time; two other men were making towards it in all haste. You wrote some things in there, signorina, whose import you could not possibly guess, but which would have been all too clear to certain other parties, and deadly for us.”

  Arabella looked at her hands. “I . . . I am so sorry . . .” she began.

  “Tut-tut!” said Terranova. “Do not mention it! Everything has worked out for the best, as you see!”

  “But I beg you will not mention this—about the dog—to your sister,” said the prince. “She believes her to be a gift from her brother, and she is very happy in that belief.”

  Charles opened his mouth, as if to speak, but he shut it again. The truth was, he had found the act of giving most agreeable. The gratitude bestowed upon him with such heartfelt delight by his sisters had made him feel extraordinarily good, and he resolved to do a genuine good deed for somebody someday, to see whether the sensation were reproducible.

  “Where is my statue now?” asked Arabella as Belinda returned to the table.

  “I wish you would not keep referring to it as ‘your’ statue, signorina,” said the prince. “Each time an excavated treasure leaves the country, Italy is impoverished. The Pan statue, and the other items taken from Pompeii and Herculaneum, are part of our heritage. They are what makes us who we are.”

  “And where is it now, did you say?”

  “I didn’t, but it is in London, at the moment.”

  “What?”

  “Yes; despite what I have just told you, in this case, we have judiciously sacrificed a few pieces of our heritage in order to purchase our future. One day, perhaps, we will be in a position to buy them back.”

  “Where in London?”

  “The collection sailed over some weeks ago, bound for the British Museum.”

  “And did it make the trip,” asked Kendrick, “in the Sea Lion, perchance? A xebec? With red sails?”

  “How did you know that?” asked Terranova.

  Arabella rested her forehead against her hand.

  “I was so close,” she groaned.

  “Take heart, signorina,” said the prince. “When you return, you may go to see ‘your’ statue at the museum, on public days.”

  “Ha!” she said. “How little you apprehend my countrymen, Your Excellency! They would never place a double-horned statue on public display! It will be hidden from view; locked away in some closet, I’ll be bound. As things stand now, it might as well be lying at the bottom of the Aegean!”

  Terranova shrugged. “Perhaps. But it will have served its purpose. Besides, how many people would have seen it, I wonder, had it occupied a room in your house?”

  “More than will see it at the museum! Why have you allowed me to waste my time in this fruitless fashion?”

  “By the time you arrived, the bronze was safely on its way to England, and your government had generously responded with money and weapons for our cause. But you were so interesting. So very entertaining, that we wanted to play a little with you, and let you have the fun of thinking you were solving a mystery,” said Terranova. “However, as His Highness has said, we did become concerned when the Austrians became involved. They tend to execute first, and ask questions later. Which rather defeats the purpose.”

  “And why have you told us all this? Isn’t it supposed to be a state secret?”

  “Yes,” said the priest. “So now, if you have quite finished your lunch, we are going to have
you all thrown from the cliffs.”

  “Pay no attention to him,” said the prince with a smile.

  “I hope that you will have the goodness to keep what we have told you today to yourselves,” said Terranova. “But there is really not much danger of your informing our enemies, for they are England’s enemies, also. That is all there is to know. Now will you please go home?”

  “Certainly,” said Arabella. “There is no point in staying, since the statue is gone to England.”

  As Terranova got up from the table, his three monks, who had dined in the servants’ quarters, emerged from the palazzo to surround him once again, and the party moved off.

  “I suppose those men are not really monks,” said Arabella, watching them go.

  “They are, actually,” said the prince. “But they also function as bodyguards. Beneath their coarse robes you would find the honed bodies of athletes.”

  Arabella struggled to retrieve her wicked mind from under those rough robes, whence it had flown. As to which were the coarser, the garments or her thoughts, there was no reliable way to judge.

  Charles and Kendrick having seen the pious retinue to the door, Arabella and Belinda found themselves alone on the terrace, in the glow of the sunset, with their prince and host, Benedetto Gandini-Palmadessola. The odor of ancient seas was borne in to them on the wind. And then Belinda, who had been very quiet all afternoon, gathered her dog onto her lap and spoke up at last.

  “Are you really a widower?” she asked timidly.

  “No,” he replied, smiling down at his wedding ring. “I have a wonderful wife, and three beautiful children.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought perhaps you . . . I mean, the way we’ve been, together, and, well, at that luncheon . . . in Pompeii . . .”

  The prince regarded her with mild amusement. “I am a man,” he said. “Not a lap dog.”