Death and the Cyprian Society (15 page)

“I fail to take your meaning.”

Zhenay squinted at her for a moment.

“I think I may rely on your discretion,” she said, at last. “You don’t yet know the world, Bella, but you’re clever and a quick learner. You have already guessed what I am about to some extent, have you not? It must be apparent to you that I am doing more than merely selling beauty aids.”

Arabella was silent.

“I sell face creams and hair dye,” Madame continued. “That is all my customers know of me. Yet you would think I was a faithful old family retainer, the way I am trusted! Stupid cows! Confiding their deepest secrets, entrusting me with correspondence that could ruin their marriages, willingly doffing their clothes in unsecured bathrooms, and meeting their lovers in storage closets here on my premises.... How can I possibly
not
take advantage, when they are practically begging me to?”

Zhenay seemed on the brink of confessing to criminal activities, and there was no telling what she might say if she were given her head. But as abruptly as she had begun to speak, the older woman now fell silent, ruminating over God only knew what nefarious exploits. Arabella lay next to her in the big bed, half-mad with suspense, but smoking quietly and waiting for whatever should come next.

“Gentlemen use my products, too, you know,” said Madame at last.

“Do they? But I have never seen any men in the shop.”

Zhenay laughed that laugh again. “Of course not! Their housekeepers and whatnot make the purchases for them. They’re ashamed to come to a ladies’ beauty shop themselves. That’s why I have decided to open an establishment just for gentlemen. I am going to call it Jackson’s.”

“Jackson’s?” asked Arabella. “Why that? Who is he?”

“No one. But I mean it to put people in mind of John Jackson, the pugilist. The premises will have the masculine tone of a fine tailor’s, with a male manager and shop assistants. It must be the sort of place that inspires manly confidence, yet I intend to sell them exactly the same products that I market to the ladies. Only the labels, and the shapes of some of the bottles, will be different.

“If women trust me with amorous matters,” she added, “who knows? Perhaps men will trust me with state secrets!”

Her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke, and Arabella recalled an illustration she’d once seen of a gwyllion, the Welsh mountain demon that delights in leading solitary travelers astray.

“Soon I shall be able to retire from business for good,” said Madame, with a grin, “for I am about to obtain what I most desire!”

Once again, she howled with glee, and her listener was reminded that one could always tell a gwyllion by its hideous laughter.

“Are you, really?” asked Arabella. “How exciting!” She had the feeling that whatever it was Madame wanted, it could not be a good thing. “I am happy for you, Cream Pot, even without knowing what it is! . . . What is it?”

Zhenay sucked the cigar, her gaze fixed on some unseen grail. “Revenge,” she whispered, exhaling smoke like the dragon she was.

“Oh,” said Arabella faintly. “Revenge against whom?”

“All of them. Everyone who has ever crossed me! I’ll make them all suffer; one person in particular! Yes,” said Zhenay, nodding to herself, for she seemed to have forgotten Arabella’s existence, “I’ll have my revenge, all right. And when I have become the richest, most powerful woman in England, they shall all bow
to me.
”

 

By the time Arabella finally got out the door, the sun was high in the sky and the city was bustling about its usual business. So! I’ve slept with a murderess! she thought. Zhenay had made no actual confession, but hints she had dropped concerning a “deal” she’d done left Arabella in no doubt that Zhenay had ordered the murder of Greely. She had probably had lots of people killed.

Arabella’s wrist was jangling with Zhenay’s gift to her: a new-pink-and-blue-enamel-flowers-and-birds-and-crystals-charm-bracelet-on-a-gilt-chain-with-silver-coin-pendant-clasp.

“Single bracelets are all the rage just now,” Zhenay had said, fastening it about her shopgirl’s slender wrist. And the shopgirl had thanked her, warmly. Now that she found herself alone in the hired cab and heading for home, Arabella stared at the bauble and thought about how it looked on her. It was ugly, and Costanze had one just like it. But then she thought back on the previous night, and about the confidences that she’d been told that morning, of which this bracelet was the sole souvenir. Arabella considered starting a museum, filled with mementos from her harrowing exploits: From the first one, there could be that portrait of Oliver Wedge that so offended Bunny, also the trunk and one tusk of a ruby glass elephant, which were all that was left of one of her favorite trinkets. From the second, she could display the saucy Roman tintinnabulum she’d plucked from the regent’s collection, which currently hung from the doorway of her boudoir. From the current escapade, she would donate her awful bracelet.

It was a warm day. The sun seemed to promise brilliant futures for everyone and everything it touched, and this troublesome blackmailing incident was about to come to a successful conclusion. Arabella smiled to herself as she snuggled deeper into the upholstery. The sunshine
did
feel nice. It seemed set on exploring every inch of her torso, too, and Fielding’s somewhat threadbare frock offered scant protection from the heated rays, especially where Madame Zhenay had rent those giant holes whilst tearing it off her the night before.

As the carriage rounded a turn in the road, Arabella sat up again and flung the bracelet out of the window.

Chapter 10

“L
ook, Frank! This is blackmail, pure and simple!”

Arabella had fanned out Costanze’s amorous letters across her library desk, having previously read every one of them. (Despite the overall gravity of the situation, they had made her laugh heartily, and she had quoted some of the funniest lines in a recent letter to Belinda.)

Fortunately, Madame Zhenay was a thorough record keeper, and the Worthington file also contained copies of her own blackmail threats to Constance, including the first one, whose original was still in Arabella’s possession.

“It’s a clear case, all right, Miss Beaumont,” said Constable Dysart, rubbing his chin and picking up two of the letters. The
former
Constable Dysart, we should have said. For he had lately been promoted to sergeant. “I’ll take a man and go round to arrest her at once, just as soon as I’ve seen my little popkin here safely home.”

Eddie’s hair had been dressed by the incomparable Doyle, and she looked older than her eleven years as she posed in her new traveling frock (a gift from her aunt) in the light of the window, taking gracious leave of the servants. The staff were not nearly as composed as Eddie was, and Arabella was reminded of a tableau of grief she’d seen once in a Pompeian cemetery, as she watched them sniffling and applying their apron hems to their eye corners.

“This visit has done Edwardina a world of good,” said Frank approvingly. “I have never seen her so happy or so healthy. Of course, her medicine must take the bulk of the credit, but I believe that your tender attentions had a hand in it, too.”

“Do you, really?” asked Arabella, smiling up at him.

“Oh, yes! You know,” said Frank, lowering his voice, “the doctor was amazed when I told him she’d made a full recovery; said he’d expected her to . . . to expire, after I told him I’d moved Eddie to your house.”

“Dear me!” said Arabella, clicking her tongue. “And who was this paragon? Dr. Duckworth, perchance?”

“Why, bless my soul!” Frank exclaimed. “That’s the very man! You have heard of him, have you? I am not surprised, for he is one of the greatest physicians in London!”

“Yes,” said Arabella. “Wherever there is death and suffering, Dr. Duckworth is surely connected with it. Frank, would you be good enough to do me a favor?”

“Anything in my power! You have only to ask and, so long as it’s legal, it shall be done.”

“In future, if you or Edwardina should fall ill, tell me first. You would vastly oblige me by coming to Lustings to convalesce. My own physician is quite good, too, you know.”

“Right you are.”

“And if Sarah Jane should ever return to this country, she is free to consult Dr. Duckworth as much as she likes!”

Frank reached into his pocket. “I can never hope to repay you for what you’ve done, Miss Beaumont,” he said, removing a tiny box. “But I thought, perhaps, you might appreciate having a souvenir from our adventure.”

Inside was an earring, with a single pink tourmaline.

“Oh, Frank! It’s the perfect memento! But, when did you . . . I mean, how . . . ?”

“Well,” he said, “if I hadn’t taken it, the grave digger would have. Besides, I don’t imagine it’s worth much. Do you really like it?”

“I cannot think of a better present,” said Arabella. “And speaking of our adventure, I must tell you that Eddie has been a great help. You would not now have those letters in your hand but for her able assistance!” Seeing Frank’s perplexed expression, she hastily added, “And how she was able to be so useful without once leaving her bed is another mystery, all to itself!”

Frank smiled, and regarded the envelopes in his hand.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s a clever sprat; there’s no denying it! Now, as to these, I shall need to take them with me down to the station. Evidence, you know.”

“Oh! But the scandal must not come out!” cried Arabella, in sudden alarm. “If Mr. Pollard gets wind of this, he’ll drop Costanze, and I shall go to debtor’s prison!”

Eddie crossed the room to take her stepfather’s free hand in her own. “We shan’t actually need Miss Worthington’s letters, Frank,” she said quietly. “Once you impound the strongbox, there will be dozens of her victims to choose from. If we make discreet inquiries, someone is bound to come forward in exchange for anonymity up to a point, to ensure Madame Zhenay’s incarceration.”

“Why, you clever little minx! That’s very true!” said Frank. And he handed the letters back to Arabella, who regarded her niece with a thoughtful expression. The wild, impulsive little girl had gone quite away, leaving this calm, self-assured young lady in her place.

“Good-bye, Aunt Bell,” said Eddie. “And thank you for letting me help.”

“No; thank
you,
Edwardina, and good luck,” replied her aunt. “You have the makings of an exceptional sleuth!”

“Oh, do you really think so?” asked the young lady eagerly, letting the child show through for a moment. “I am glad to be going home with dear Frank again, but I am sorry to leave you! How I wish the three of us could all live together!”

“I hardly think your mother would care for that arrangement!” said Arabella, stepping forward to shake the blushing Frank by the hand.

“I don’t know what we’d have done without your help,” he said. “Thanks to you, little Ed has got her health back, I’ve got my promotion, and we still have our life together.”

“That is what family is for, Frank.”

Arabella continued to stand in the drive, waving her handkerchief until the carriage was quite lost to view: She had received eight thousand pounds from Miss Worthington that afternoon, and could now afford to be sentimental.

 

“Only a drop in the bucket of what Costanze owes me,” she observed to Doyle, who was helping her disrobe. “But a nice, comfortable sum, nonetheless. In any event, I shall be able to replace the frock I borrowed from Fielding—it’s quite beyond repair, is it?”

“Quite, miss,” Doyle assured her. “Mrs. Janks said it looked like it’d been trampled by wild boars and rent by helephants. She said ’twas a wonder you’d survived a’tall!”

And Arabella, recalling that terrible moment when Zhenay had suddenly risen up in bed like a volcano, wondered, too.

“Anyway, miss; who d’you think ’twas Mrs. Janks found standin’ there, bold as ye please, when she opened the back door to throw that frock in the dust bin?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“Wasn’t it auld Lady Ribbonhat herself, with a bag o’ table scraps?”

“What! Has the dowager duchess taken to foraging through people’s compost piles?”

“Oh, no! They were nivver
our
scraps, ma’m. They were
hers
. And nasty, as well, wi’ flies an’ auld moldy bones an’ that!”

Doyle paused to pin up Arabella’s hair, for her mistress was about to have a bath, and the chambermaid was placing the pins between her lips for convenience.

“Well? Go on, Doyle!” cried Arabella. “Don’t keep me in suspense this way! What was Glen
deen
’s mother doing at my back door with a bag of kitchen scraps?”

“She was bringin’ them to
us,
ma’m,” said Doyle, speaking round the hairpins. “Said we might be glad of a bit more food, seein’ as how ye give us so little.”

“
What?!
Aren’t you getting enough to eat, Doyle? Why ever hasn’t anyone said anything?”

The chambermaid laughed, and nearly swallowed the pins, which she hastily removed from her mouth.

“Mother of God!” she cried. “And aren’t ye the kindest, most generous mistress as ever was? No, we’re not starvin’ a’tall! If we were, we’d ask Mrs. Janks for somethin’ t’ tide us over till the reg’lar meal. No, y’see; there’s a story behind Lady Ribbonhat’s visit. Apparently, somethin’ you said to her a while back made her worry she mightn’t be allowed to enter heaven once her mortal span is over and done, and now she’s tryin’ like anythin’ to make it right with the Creator.”

“By giving rotten garbage to my servants?”

“Sure now, and isn’t that Lady Ribbonhat all over?”

Arabella had to agree with her there.

“What did Mrs. Janks say?”

“Oh, that’s the best part o’ the story, miss! Mrs. Janks curtsied, nice as you please, and blessed her ladyship for being so thoughtful. Then she handed her yer ruined frock—Fielding’s, that was—to make her a kind return! Well, Lady Ribbonhat tried to refuse it, but Mrs. Janks said if she wouldn’t take it, then we wouldn’t take her table leavin’s, so she hadn’t any choice. And in the end, Oy think the dowager was happy to have the frock, most like. Because then, you see, she could give it away t’ someone else and so increase her standin’ wi’ the Almighty.”

Much as Arabella had enjoyed this story, it was too nice a day to spoil with thoughts of Lady Ribbonhat. The drapes were open in her bedroom, and the glorious sunshine was peeping through the lace-edged under-curtains, which “let in the light but not the sight.”

“You know, Doyle, persons of fashion are adding rooms to their homes, simply to house their bathtubs! I think I prefer bathing in the bedroom, though.”

Doyle dragged the heavy copper tub up to the window, and straightened, stretching her spine.

“Well, Oy’d give it serious consideration, if Oy were you, miss,” she said. “It’d mean a lot less wear and tear on the carpets.” (She did not mention her back.)

“No. I enjoy bathing in the bedroom,” said Arabella decisively. “And as I only have one all-over bath a week, it hardly seems worth the outlay required to add on another room. Beau Brummell bathes every day! I wonder if I should like that?”

Doyle groaned, but Arabella didn’t mind. She liked to allow her servants perfect freedom of expression, as it made them feel better, and did not in the least affect her own decisions.

After the chambermaid had left the room, the mistress of Lustings set down her glass of cordial, shed her shift, and straddled the tub, as naked as the day she was born. Hers was not a graceful entry, since Arabella disliked getting her feet wet first. But just as she was lowering herself into the water, an errant draft suddenly caught the lawn curtain in front of her, tossing it straight up in the air and completely exposing her to the delighted gaze of a stranger!

This fortunate young man had been walking along the lane that skirted Arabella’s garden wall when he happened to spy a peach on one of her fruit trees—the selfsame fruit that Eddie had once observed from the depths of her boredom. The early ripener was now a fully grown specimen of juicy perfection, and the lusty young fellow was only human. He scaled the wall, and was stretching his hand out for the golden orb, when Arabella’s bedroom curtain suddenly afforded him the prospect of another pair of peaches, crowding each other behind a split fig!

Seasoned though she was, Arabella blushed from the unexpectedness of the encounter, and the errant curtain, as though shocked at itself, immediately fell back into place, shielding her from view a little after the fact.

Something about the fellow’s expression reminded her of John Kendrick.

Who had left her a parcel.

Which she had allowed to languish at the rectory.

Arabella had said nothing to anyone about it, but Mr. Kendrick had been on her mind rather a lot, lately. She thought about him whilst stocking the shelves at La Palais de Beautay, and he was quite frequently the subject of her ruminations before falling asleep. In fact, she had applied to the Bishop of Bramblehurst for his address. After she got it, Arabella had stalled for a time, but in the end she had swallowed her pride and written to the absent rector, apologizing for her bad behavior, and imploring him to come back at once:

He had not answered her. But letters probably took a long time to travel between London and Puka-Puka.

Arabella left the tub and dried her limbs with a silky towel. Now that she could relax a little without fearing for her life or fretting over money problems, she found herself urgently desiring that parcel at the rectory. After all, her case was solved, and she had no other pressing engagements. Why shouldn’t she see what John Kendrick had left for her? Quickly donning her clothes without calling Doyle, Arabella went downstairs and ordered the carriage.

“To Effing, Trotter,” she told her coachman. And all the way out there, she puzzled over what the parcel might contain. Love letters? That he had written to her, secretly, and never had the courage to send? Arabella hoped it was that. She should cry when she read them, with longing and remorse and infinite sadness. But it would feel good to cry. And when she was through, perhaps she would know what to do next.

Mrs. Hasquith, the taciturn housekeeper, met her at the rectory door. This was the selfsame taciturn housekeeper who had watched over John Kendrick—fed him his meals, washed and pressed his clothing, looked after him when he was sick—and Arabella felt a sudden, unreasoning stab of jealousy. But Mrs. Hasquith was now employed by the Right Reverend William Clydesdale, and to
her
mind, it scarcely mattered whom she served; masters was all alike, more ’r less.

The visitor was shewn into the little reception parlor. Arabella had scarcely ever marked this room before, but how she noted it now! Noted it, and mentally berated herself for being unable to tell the Kendrick relics from the Clydesdale additions.

“Miss Beaumont.”

The coldness of the voice put her off before she had properly seen the new rector, for he stood against the light, and Arabella had to rise from her seat in order to perceive the features: an impossibly large face, with enormous ears, and scant, pale hair, carefully combed across a broad forehead.