Death Among the Ruins (2 page)

 

 

I
t was too late in the year for crickets, even in Italy. But a threatening storm lent the proper atmospherics as a knot of men stood waiting beside an excavation in the cold wind. Around them, the ghostly ruins of a dead city bore mute witness to their activities, and one of the company gave a nervous start as a palm frond rattled in the night air. All eyes were fixed upon the tunnel entrance.

“Here they come,” said one of the men.

“Quiet!” hissed another.

(The reader may wonder at anyone hissing that word, since it contains no sibilants in English, but these men were speaking Italian, in which language I presume the word has an
S
in it.)

Dark lanterns were lifted as four members of the company emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, struggling and grunting with the effort of a heavy burden, wrapped in rough sacking, borne amongst them. One of the men stumbled.

“Careful with that!” growled the fellow who seemed to be in charge. This might have been deduced from the thin piece of pressboard he carried, to which a large metal clip was attached and firmly clamped over a tablet of paper. For it is well established that no other accessory conveys more authority to the mind of civilized man, except a row of medals on the breast of a uniform, or possibly, a crown.

Having set their bundle upright upon the ground, the men proceeded to pad it with more sacking, followed by a layer of canvas and a girdle of ropes. Then they wrestled it onto a small donkey cart standing ready nearby, to which other similarly wrapped items had already been consigned.

“That’s the last of them,” said the fellow with the clipboard. “Now, let’s get clear of this place before—”

But the man’s remark, like his life, was suddenly cut short by a shovel, the assailant coming down from behind with such force that the back of the victim’s skull was cleft nearly in twain. At the same moment, an earsplitting thunderclap broke directly overhead, followed immediately by a downpour that drenched the men to the skin. Seizing the reins, one of their number leapt into the cart and drove it off, whilst the others grabbed up the tools and melted into the darkness, leaving only their dead companion behind.

 

 

 

John Soane, the brilliant classical architect, was an ethical man. And, as he had been the one to acquaint Arabella with the opportunity of purchasing the statue, he felt personally responsible for her loss.

She was touched by his concern, and read his letter aloud to Belinda, who, owing to her sister’s obvious dismay, attempted to repress the smile that rose unbidden to her lips. But Arabella saw it, just the same.

“May I ask what it is that you apparently find so amusing?” she asked severely. “I have just lost a good deal of money, you know; money which might have gone towards your dowry!”

This made no sense, for after all, the sum had been spent upon a statue. But Belinda knew better than to argue. It really was not fair, though; she had been happily constructing a miniature moon garden in a dish, when Arabella had found her on the glass-walled gardening porch adjoining the aviatory. Now, in addition to sculpting deep green recesses from baby’s tears and minuscule mosses, Belinda had also to negotiate the tightrope of Arabella’s volatile temper.

“I was not smiling at your situation, dear,” she said soothingly, “which is distressing, to be sure; but only at Mr. Soane’s curious way of expressing himself. Unless, of course, he really
has
lost his marbles.”

“He
has
. And I have lost my statue! At this moment, you and I are closer to financial ruin than at any other juncture of our lives, except for that time when Charles lost the house to Mr. Branscomb!”

This statement was not even remotely accurate, but Arabella was possessed of rather a peculiar attitude toward wealth, owing to her occupation and an inborn ability to plan ahead. In this she was most fortunate, for it is in the nature of courtesans to live lavishly, spend copiously, and die in ignominy. Miss Beaumont’s peers—or compatriots, rather; for Arabella
had
no peers—frequently spent all they had and considerably more, supporting lifestyles that rivaled the eastern potentates’. Our heroine, on the other hand, contented herself with a modest little manor house in a quiet corner of Brompton Park, which was nice enough, as neighborhoods go, but not so exclusive as Mayfair. She kept only six horses (though she did have rather a lot of coaches), hosted small but brilliant intellectual salons, ate and drank well, but not extravagantly. And whilst her counterparts were known to reserve entire wings in their enormous residences for the exclusive storage of ball gowns, Arabella contented herself with a single very large dressing room, and quickly disposed of any items therein that seemed duplicative.

She was keeping an eye to the future. And although she was presently rich, young, and desirable, she realized, rather sooner than most, that youth and allure would not
always
be hers. With careful planning, though, she might at least enjoy a comfortable living to the end of her days. So Arabella wisely avoided risky schemes that promised and often failed to deliver gigantic dividends, and kept her money safely tucked away in the Bank of England, with herself the sole signatory on the account. She was touchy concerning financial setbacks.

“I don’t imagine you are actually planning to call upon Mr. Soane,” said Belinda, who was so accustomed to her sister’s articulated poverty fears that she scarcely heard them anymore. “He only seems to be suggesting it as a courtesy. Besides, I do not imagine there can be much to say upon the subject.”

Belinda had stated the case with her usual accuracy. There really was nothing more to be said: The dealer was dead and the statue was gone. But Arabella had long wished to see the inside of John Soane’s house, which she had often heard described, and a visit thither would soothe, somewhat, the sting of her disappointment.

 

The front wall at No. 13, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, stood out—literally—from the structures surrounding it, for three pick-a-back loggias were being appended to its façade. The pavement was littered with tools, scaffolding, and large slabs of Portland stone, and Arabella had to pick up her skirts to make her way through the mess, showing off her shapely calves to a gang of vocally appreciative workmen.

Soane himself came to the door to bid her welcome, wearing a kind expression and a regrettable auburn wig. “How d’ye do, Miss Beaumont?” cried he, warmly pressing her hands. “I am glad to see you! Come, we’ll have tea in the plaister room. This is such a bad business. Oh, not the tea, I mean the art theft, of course.”

John Soane’s house was so curiously and densely decorated with plaster casts, framed drawings and paintings, models of antique buildings, and Neoclassical sculpture that it more closely approximated an art gallery than a dwelling. Any architect worth his salt collected such things, but in most cases the collections were confined to a room or two at the top of the house. In fact, Soane did keep a workshop for his apprentices upstairs, and generously supplied it with reference materials of this type, but his collection went considerably beyond mere professional interest: He lived, breathed, and dreamt architecture, and the house was a physical manifestation of the inner workings of his exceptional mind.

Fortunately, Mrs. Soane was not the sort of wife who says, “Take all this truck out of here, John! The Ladies’ Society for the Promotion of Cleaner Homes will be meeting in the parlor in three quarters of an hour!” She bore the same love of these odd bits and pieces as he did, and was all in favor of his peculiar notions regarding their placement.

The tour of the premises took the better part of an hour, for, in addition to escorting his guest round the half-constructed rooms and explaining exactly what he planned on doing with them, Soane had shewn Arabella the sketches for his breakfast parlor, with its handkerchief ceiling and central oculus, and read aloud from his construction journal. But at last a paint sample for the new library (Pompeian Red) reminded him why she had come, and he quickly ushered her into the plaister room.

This was not so much a room as a three-story alcove, with small balconies on either side at the second-story level. On one of them, Arabella espied a little tea table all set and ready for use.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, gazing about her in rapturous delight. And for some time, that was all she
could
say.

The four walls, each of which bore the impress of a soaring arch, were completely covered in medallions, urns, Greek key friezes, nautiloid spirals, cornices, plaques, molded lions’ heads, and other architectural fragments. One of the busts bore an uncanny likeness to Arabella’s brother, Charles, and without thinking, she asked, “How is your son, George?”

“I have no idea,” her host replied stiffly. “Nor do I care.”

George Soane, a chum of Charles Beaumont’s, was a notorious reprobate and his father was ashamed of him. For the great architect was a man of high moral character and impeccable standards, this private meeting with Arabella notwithstanding: Mrs. Soane was absent from home, you see.

A careless sort of man would not have minded whether his wife were present or not. Arabella was there on business, after all, and there was nothing sexual between them. But persons of refined sensibilities know that proper and improper ladies must always be kept apart, one from the other, lest their simultaneous occupation of a room, or even a building, impart a stain upon the person of unsullied reputation, which no amount of prayer, good works, or blameless conduct might ever eradicate. It was most regrettable; Martha Soane and Arabella might have been great friends, if only the latter had submitted to starvation rather than take up a life of ill repute.

At the mention of George, an awkward silence settled over the table for a few moments. But then Arabella asked whether she should pour, and everything was all right again.

“I am so relieved that you have come,” said Soane.

“Relieved?”

“Quite. Having been the cause of your losing so much money, I feared that you might not wish to continue the friendship.”

“You must have a poor opinion of me, then,” she replied, “to assume that I would terminate our acquaintance over something that was not your fault and which could not have been foreseen! Besides, you warned me there would be risks.”

“That’s right, I did, didn’t I? Still, when a sensible person takes a chance on a risky proposition, it must be because she has judged any risk to herself unlikely. Obviously, she does not expect the worst to happen, else she would have kept her purse strings firmly tied in the first place.”

“Well,” said Arabella, “I fully intend to recover it.”

“Your money?”

“Heavens, no! That has surely been dispersed to the seven winds by now! I meant the bronze! The thieves may still have it. Or they may have sold it to someone else. If I can discover the statue’s whereabouts, I shall offer its present custodian an extremely generous price for it. I have always wanted to see Italy, and this unfortunate circumstance affords the perfect opportunity.”

“But surely,” said Soane, biting into a watercress sandwich with great care, lest his false teeth should come out, “the Italian authorities are already dealing with the situation.”

“Yes,” she replied, “and I only hope that
I
may find my statue before
they
do!”

“To be frank, I should not go near Naples just now, if I were you. A general insurrection has long been expected, and the situation might erupt at any time.”

Arabella found politics dull, and always avoided reading about it or listening to it, so she had not the slightest idea what her host was talking about.

“Well, nobody is mad at
us,
are they?”

“No; Britain is sympathetic to the partisan cause.”

“Then I have nothing to fear.”

Soane regarded his visitor with the affable indulgence typically shewn by educated men toward charming, silly women. Yet, in the present instance, his attitude was tinged with a faint consternation. For though one must naturally expect to encounter simplicity when discussing politics with ladies,
this
lady was willfully proposing to put herself in harm’s way
because
of her simplicity. One didn’t expect
that
. And Arabella wasn’t just any lady. Well, she wasn’t a lady at all. She was
demimonde,
and a frequent hostess to the sharpest minds in the nation. One might have expected to encounter, in her case, a more sophisticated grasp of world affairs.

“I doubt that you would be singled out for attack from any patriotic cause,” said Soane, judiciously considering, “but the Continent is swarming with thieves and knaves of every description, who will be bound to see you as an easy mark. As for politics, you might find yourself swept up in something in a general way, you know. Much of the country is controlled by the French, with whom we are currently at war. And the Austro-Hungarians are also making a nuisance of themselves there. The Italians resent these invasions, with good reason, and on that account, they are fomenting rebellion.”

“Then I shall look out my window every morning,” said Arabella, “and if I should see waves of angry fomenters washing over the town, I promise to remain indoors and find something pleasant to read until they have passed through.”

“Even setting the political situation aside, though,” he persisted, “Naples is now purported to be
the
most dangerous city in the civilized world.”

“And have you been there yourself, Mr. Soane?”

“Oh, not for many years,” he said, stirring his tea. “Let’s see . . . when was it? ’78? Yes; ’78 to ’79. I went over with the Bishop of Derry. Saw Pompeii, and the Portici Palace . . . I met Piranesi, you know. Dear me! All those
P
s! I’m afraid I must answer a call of nature, now! Power of suggestion, I suppose. If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I shall shew you something of interest when I return. . . .”