Death and the Cyprian Society (13 page)

The next afternoon Eddie was permitted to sit for an hour in the garden whilst her aunt read aloud to her from
Grimm’s Household Tales.

“ ‘Then Sana put the water on to boil, and began to sharpen the knives,’ ” read Arabella, “ ‘for she was preparing to cook the little boy that very day and serve him up for her master’s supper.’ Now, that’s odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, rather,” Eddie replied. “I doubt that her master, being told he was eating his ward, would have been happy about it.”

“No, I did not mean that. Well, that,
too,
of course, but I was referring principally to the fact that whilst the Grimms seldom give names to their heroes, they almost never give names to their villains, being satisfied with ‘the wolf,’ ‘the witch,’ or ‘the giant.’ And yet this person, the very worst of them all, the cannibal servant, is named ‘Sana.’ I wonder . . .”

“What, Aunt Bell?”

“Whether this story isn’t based on a true incident. Not the part further on, where the children turn themselves into ducks and chandeliers; I mean this beginning bit.
Was
there a cook named Sana, who killed and cooked her master’s stepchild? She might have been an ancestor of Madame Zhenay’s!”

But Eddie, delighted to be out of doors again, was admiring the natural beauty that surrounded her, and giving little heed to cannibals, with or without names.

“Look, Aunt Bell! Is that not the cunningest thing you have ever seen?”

A fledgling was perched upon the uppermost erection of Arabella’s double-phallused Pan statue, frantically fluttering its wings and emitting loud, insistent cheeps. As they watched, the parent bird alighted with a beakful of smashed insects, and proceeded to stuff the buggy porridge down its youngster’s gullet.

“No,” replied her aunt, who resented being upstaged. “I have seen any number of things more cunning than
that!”

(Nevertheless, it was the first subject she wrote about in her next letter to Belinda:
“The weather continues glorious here, and yesterday, Eddie and I saw a pair of tits on Pan’s penis . . . ”
)

Arabella resumed reading aloud from where she had left off. But in glancing up a moment later, she saw that Eddie now wore a wide-eyed, fixed expression. Perhaps, Arabella reflected, the subject of pedicide was not the wisest choice for youthful convalescents.

A second later, Eddie sprang from her chair and commenced scrabbling in the dirt.

“What on Earth are you
doing?”
cried Arabella.

In point of fact, “earth” was exactly what she was doing. It flew in the air as she dug, and in short order, it covered the child’s hands, lined her fingernails, stained the front of her wrapper where she was kneeling in it, and soiled the hem of her nightgown.

“Look, Aunt Bell!” Eddie cried, holding up a stone the size of a cow’s heart. “It’s Stupid-Looking!”

“It certainly is,” said Arabella crossly. “You were supposed to remain in your chair and not move!”

“No! I mean, it’s Stupid-Looking! Neddy’s turtle! Remember?”

Observing the “stone” more closely, Arabella now saw that it had a face. And a pair of sleepy-looking red eyes that blinked in the sun.

Two years previously, Eddie’s half-brother, Neddy, had brought a pair of turtles to Lustings, which had promptly escaped into the house. One of them, and Arabella rather thought it had been this one, had later resurfaced in Costanze’s plate of cake, with spectacular, if predictable consequences.

“He is hibernating,” said Arabella. “Put him back, and cover him up; he’ll come out when he’s ready.”

“All right,” said Eddie, stashing the reptile in the pocket of her wrapper.

“No, darling; I meant put him back in the
ground.”

“I shall, Auntie. But not till he’s served his purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have an idea about our mystery. It mightn’t work, but it won’t hurt the turtle, either way. Now, where could Klunk be?”

“Why? Is it a two-turtle idea?”

“No. I am just wondering what happened to him, because Klunk and Stupid-Looking were such good friends.”

“Were they?”

“Well, you never saw one without the other.”

“The fact of their forced proximity does not mean they liked one another,” said Arabella. “They might have been enemies, who lost no time in separating once they were free to do so. One must never presume too much from surface appearances.”

Eddie nodded happily. Arabella was the wonder-fullest aunt! Instead of scolding her, she had immediately accepted that her niece had made a plan, and had then respected the child’s judgment enough to allow her to carry on with it, rather than demanding to know what it was.

That night, when she came downstairs for dinner, Eddie ate with a hearty appetite, and Arabella was gratified to note that the color had returned to her face. Well, actually, color was entering her face for the first time, for Eddie at her healthiest was always extremely pale.

“Oh, dear; I hope you are not getting your fever back again!”

“I’m not, Aunt Bell. I am just excited about my idea.”

“The idea about the turtle?”

“Yes!”

“All right, dear,” said Arabella. “But please try not to get
too
excited.”

Chapter 8

“W
e have had to put the price of our Silky Select Creamy Pearl Night Cream for the Face up to three pounds,” said Arabella. “I thought it was quite exorbitant at first, but when Madame Zhenay explained that the lar—That some of the ingredients, I mean, were imported from Morocco, I apprehended the necessity, and marked up all the jars myself.”

It was Tuesday, one of Arabella’s twice-weekly salon nights, and a faithful smattering of the old crowd was still in attendance. These gentlemen, who were grouped about Arabella drinking German wine, delighted to discourse on a wide variety of subjects, but ladies’ face creams was not one of them.

“Do tell us about your new courtesans’ club, Miss Beaumont,” said Lord Uxbridge. “I have heard that you already have an extensive subscription list.”

“I wouldn’t call it extensive,” replied Arabella, suppressing a yawn. “But at twenty-nine subscribers, we are closed to new applicants.”

“So few?” asked Colonel Cooke. “My club has over two hundred members! How do you expect to keep afloat financially?”

“The subscription cost is prohibitively high,” said Arabella, beginning to warm to her subject. “And with all the public events we have planned, I expect to be operating in the black within a year or two.”

“Is it true,” leered Mr. Lloyd, “that the Cyprian Society has actual
bedrooms?”

“That is correct, sir,” said Arabella. “It used to be an hotel, you know.”

“I don’t understand,” said the colonel. “Is this to be a club, or a brothel?”

“A club. The bedrooms are strictly for the use of our members. Gentlemen are not allowed upstairs.”

“But I still don’t understand,” said Lumley Skeffington. “Haven’t your members all got London residences of their own?”

“Yes, my dear Lum. But one does not always wish to stay at home. One might be having one’s house fumigated or renovated; there could be loud construction in the vicinity, or objectionable relatives come to stay. And sometimes,” she added quietly, “through no fault of one’s own, one might find oneself turned out of doors. In these and numerous other instances, a bedroom at one’s club might prove invaluable.”

“Hmm,” said Lord Uxbridge. “That’s not at all a bad idea, you know. And is it true that Isabella Entwistle has taken out a membership?”

“Oh! I
say!”
cried Ball Hughes.

“I am not at liberty to discuss CS associates,” said Arabella severely. “We are as much entitled to privacy as are the members of any gentlemen’s club.”

“But
we
talk about each other!” exclaimed Ball. “All the time! I mean, we wouldn’t start rumors or turn a fellow member over to the law, but we are free to praise one another’s horsemanship, or recount each other’s jokes or gambling losses. No one is asking you to gossip about the Cyprians, Miss Beaumont; we do enough of that on our own! For instance, d’you know what we call your new club, stocked as it is with the finest fillies in England?”

“The Stable d’Or,” said Lumley. “That’s rather good, isn’t it?”

“Actually, it
is
rather good,” Arabella conceded.

“And your new theater,” said Lord Alvanley. “The Bird o’ Paradise. We’ve shortened that to ‘the Bird.’ ”

Arabella sniggered.

“I intend to write a piece about it for the
Morning Chronicle
: ‘We are indebted to Shakespeare for giving us the Globe, and now we must thank Miss Beaumont, for giving us the Bird!’ ”

The company laughed heartily, and Arabella laughed loudest of all.

“You see?” said Lord Uxbridge. “There’s nothing harmful in our interest! The Cyprian Society is London’s most glorious achievement since the king’s birthday of 1811! We just want to ascertain who the members
are
.”

“Very well,” replied Arabella. “Miss Entwistle is a member, but that is all I am prepared to tell you.”

“And Alouette L’Etoille? Is she a member, also?”

“Yes!” said Arabella, with an irritable snap of her fan. For she was not fond of discussing other women with men, unless it was to disclose something disagreeable about them, for the men’s own good.

“And Fanny Moon?” asked Captain Gronow. This time, she did not answer at all, but merely gave a curt nod. “Oh!” cried the captain rapturously. “Oh, Miss Beaumont! If you could effect an introduction to Miss Moon, I should be
very
much obliged to you!”

The insult was inadvertently issued, for it was plain to see that Rees Gronow was suffering under the influence of an overpowering infatuation, but there was a limit to what Arabella was willing to endure, and he had quite overstept it.

“No!” she said loudly. “I am not now, and never shall be, a pander for other women! You must all go home at once!”

But the gentlemen were greatly enjoying themselves now that Arabella had finally stopped talking about her adventures in retail, and they gathered tightly round her, with words of reassurance and conciliation.

“Pray, do not be vexed, dear, dear Arabella,” said Lord Alvanley, whose reputation as “sayer of good things” was well-deserved. “You will get wrinkles in that heavenly face if you frown! Though I’ll wager Madame Zhenay has something that will minimize their severity,” he added slyly.

“Indeed she has!” said Arabella. “Several things, in fact!”

The company was far too well-bred (and too conscious of Arabella’s temper) to groan, but inwardly, many a divinely gifted guest must have been plotting dire things for Alvanley, despite the fact that he had just forestalled their eviction from Lustings. Because when Arabella “talked shop,” that is literally what she did. On this occasion, though, the hostess did not continue over-long, and the rest of the evening was actually quite a pleasant one for everybody. It was almost like the old days, even, except for a very few more anecdotes pertaining to a product called Face of the Infanta Youth-Tinted Visage Glaze.

 

But not all was hearts and flowers—or even moisturizer and gentle exfoliant—the next day at La Palais de Beautay: Arabella was still unable to find an opportunity for slipping upstairs to search for Costanze’s letters. And as she perched upon her high stool behind the counter on this bright June morning, she was close to despair, for a new thought had occurred to her: Was it possible that Madame Zhenay was bluffing? It would not be at all surprising if the idiotic Costanze still retained those letters herself, and had merely mislaid them. Madame Zhenay might easily have convinced the silly creature that
she
had them, when, in fact, she did not. But if Arabella’s cork-brained friend had those letters about her, Pigeon Pollard might chance upon them at any time . . . and then Arabella should either have to flee the country, or spend the rest of her life in the Marshalsea.

I won’t think about this now, she said to herself. Not until I have had a look upstairs and
assured
myself that the letters are not to be found on these premises.

The shop bell rang as a customer entered.

Arabella hopped off her stool and curtsied, reflexively. “Good morning, madam, how may I . . .”

Dear God! It was Lady Ribbonhat!

“Where is your mistress, gel?” demanded the dowager, thumping her stick upon the floor.

“M-Madame Zhenay is not come down yet, my lady,” stammered Arabella.

Could Lady Ribbonhat really have failed to recognize her? The enemy’s pugs had certainly done so, for they immediately burst into a volley of barks and snarls.

“Quiet, Angouleme!” ordered their mistress. “Shut up, Bathsheba, you idiot!”

The pugs subsided at once, for they knew upon which side their bread was buttered, and were loathe to bite the hand that fed it to them.

“Well,” said Lady Ribbonhat, glancing round at the shelves, “as long as I am here, I’ll have some Corinthian Knee and Elbow Emollient, Tender Dreams of Misty Loveliness Extract, and a bottle of Sultana Roxelana’s Essence of Divinely Scented Arabian White Roses.” As she counted off the items on her fingers, Lady Ribbonhat never once looked Arabella in the face. And our heroine, who, in the past, had tried and failed so often to disguise herself, finally understood the secret of anonymity. Apparently, all she needed to do was impersonate a member from a lower social class, and then nobody, not even her worst enemy, would look at her long enough to see who she was.

“There you are, Sinead!” exclaimed Lady Ribbonhat, abruptly brushing past Arabella. “You have certainly made me wait long enough!”

Sinead! thought Arabella.
That’s
where “Zhenay” comes from!

“Oh, keep your hat on!” growled the proprietor. “I’m not at your beck and bloody call!”

“Is the carriage waiting?” asked La Ribbonhat.

“Naturally.”

“Because Lady Bessborough is dreadfully punctual, you know! If we’re late, she’s liable to refuse us!”

“Shuddup.”

Zhenay muttered this so quietly that only Arabella heard her, and the proprietress flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “Look after things whilst I’m away, Bella,” she said. “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

Duchess and shop owner walked to the carriage, their arms companionably linked, as Arabella watched from the window. Well, well, she thought. What do you know about that?

Ever since she’d obtained employment at La Palais de Beautay, Arabella had been bringing her CIN to the shop and jotting down anything unusual having to do with Madame Zhenay. This friendship with Lady Ribbonhat, for instance, was distinctly peculiar. Whoever heard of a dowager duchess fawning over a common shopkeeper? A shopkeeper, whom she was taking with her to meet Lady Bessborough? And Madame Zhenay had told Arabella never to charge Lady Ribbonhat for any cosmeticks or beauty treatments! Well, if these two had worked out a reciprocal commercial arrangement to their mutual benefit, that was odd, certainly, but it probably had nothing to do with the case. Best note it down, though. And she added in a postscript that greed evidently predominated over snobbery with Lady Ribbonhat, which, relevant or not, was a useful thing to know.

As soon as the carriage had driven off, Arabella headed for the rear of the shop, intending to investigate the upper regions at last. But just as she was about to mount the staircase, the shop bell rang and five customers came in all at once.

 

“The place was thronged for the whole of the afternoon,” she complained to Eddie that evening. “I never got upstairs at all! And I shall probably never have such an opportunity again.”

“How frustrating for you,” said Eddie. “You cannot possibly do this without an accomplice, Aunt Bell. Fortunately, you have me. I should like to accompany you to the shop tomorrow.”

“I am sorry, Eddie, but that is out of the question. La Palais is no place for children. Anyway, you are not yet strong enough to go out.”

“But I
am!
And the time is right to test my idea!”

“Well, tell it to me, then, and I shall test it for you.”

“It won’t work if you do it,” said Eddie. “It has to be a child.”

“Why?”

“Because people make silly assumptions about children which tend to work in our favor. We can get away with more than adults can. Please, Aunt Bell! I shall fall sick again if I am thwarted!”

Arabella eyed her speculatively.

“Do you think you can find the letters?”

“I don’t know, but I can certainly search the bedroom whilst you are downstairs.”

“All right, then. If you are apprehended, however, I shall be obliged to give you a severe wigging, for form’s sake. I shan’t mean a word of it, but I shall have to sound convincing.”

“I understand. I won’t mind a thing you say.”

“In this instance
alone,
Edwardina!” said Arabella. “On all other occasions, you had better!”

Arabella was in a pensive mood as she blotted her letter. Edwardina was proving a staunch little ally, but the child’s forthright approach was perhaps too bold for the delicate matter currently in contemplation. If only Belinda were there! But she was not, and Arabella, with only herself for counsel, hoped with all her might that she had made the right decision.

 

“I’m very sorry, Madame,” she said the next morning, “but I could not find anyone to stay at home with our Eddie, and the child is still too weak to be left by herself. As it is only this once, I hope that you will not mind her being here. Edwardina is a good girl. She won’t be any bother. I’ll have her sit out of the way in the back passage.”

Whereupon Eddie, as pale and silent as a Zamboangan orchid, settled herself near the staircase as though she never intended to move again. But as soon as the adults had busied themselves with the daily bustle of opening the shop, she raced upstairs and into Madame’s bedroom, whose location Arabella had described to her over breakfast that morning.

The chamber was overly furnished for its size, with bureaus, chairs, a divan, a vanity, a folding screen, two imposing wardrobes, and a profusion of little tables. The bed was enormous, with red curtains. Directly across from it was a desk. And next to this, tucked away in the corner, stood an iron strongbox that came up to Eddie’s waist. Whatever it contained was deemed of sufficient import to safeguard its discovery, for the lid was locked. But that was all right; Eddie had only wanted to ascertain the presence of a strongbox in this room, and now that she had done so, all that remained was to nip back out and down the stairs.