Death Among the Ruins (22 page)

And she began to think about the smuggler’s wife. What would the poor woman do, now that her husband was dead? Had he left her well-off, or gambled everything away on his cock? She could not remember having seen any youngsters about the place, but peasants were always having children, weren’t they? There were bound to be some offspring, somewhere. Perhaps they had all been inserted headfirst down rat holes on the day she’d visited, or yoked to a plow in some distant field. If so, how would they live now, without their father? Their father, who had died trying to get a message to her. Perhaps.

As she checked the bedside clock for the hundredth time, Arabella realized that Belinda, finding her gone, was likely to rouse the household and organize a search party. A note was in order. But first she drew out her burgling kit from beneath the bed, and donned her warmest pelisse, and Belinda entered as she was on the point of scribbling an explanation. Arabella quickly told her everything, and naturally, Belinda was opposed to the plan.

“Of the inconveniences and discomforts which we have all been obliged to suffer up to this point, I shall not speak,” said Belinda. “We knew there would be difficulties, and each of us has agreed, for various reasons, to undergo them so that you might try to find your statue. But it is not worth people getting killed.”

“I agree!” said Arabella, lacing up her boots. “But the smuggler wasn’t murdered, Bunny. His death was an accident. As for the art dealer, if I ever discover his killer, I shall see that justice is done!”

“I do not believe that you care so much about the deaths.”

“Of course I care! The smuggler’s demise will be forever on my conscience! Not the dealer’s, though. That was not my fault.”

“And Renilde’s? According to you, Terranova would not have murdered her, had she not spoken to Mr. Kendrick about her cousin’s part in this affair.”

Arabella paused. “Yes. Poor Renilde! I shall always regret that I did not intervene there, when I had the chance. I owe her my life!”

“I very much doubt that. She hated you. She stole your letters. And you didn’t like her, either. But it does look as if she died for revealing what she shouldn’t have about that stupid statue. And regardless of our personal feelings for the girl, she did not deserve to die for this! I think you should just forget about it.”

“But I am going to find the statue tonight, Bunny! I can
feel
it! And then we shall sail for England, the moment you are packed!”

“I cannot let you do this alone, Bell,” said Belinda firmly. “It is too dangerous! Why not take Charles and Mr. Kendrick along?”

“Because Charles would be of no use at all, and the rector tends to act rashly when he thinks he is protecting me. You must not mention this to either of them.”

“What, even if you never come back?”

Arabella gazed into her sister’s eyes.

“I’ll come back, Bunny.”

“But you cannot
know
that.”

“I shan’t be in any danger. No one will be there. I am just going to ascertain that the statue has not left the country, and then tomorrow I shall go find the smugglers, and make them a handsome offer for it. Shopping is one of the safest activities there is! People are almost never killed whilst trying to buy something. Here. If it will make you feel any better, I shall leave this with you.” She handed the map to Belinda. “That is where I shall be. It is not far from here, and you can look at it if you find yourself in need of reassurance.”

“But
you
will need it, won’t you?”

“I’ll have Pietro.”

“You must be insane,” Belinda whispered, “to do a thing like this. You would risk your life, and the boy’s, merely to recover your investment!”

“Oh, darling! This isn’t about the money,” said Arabella. “I am in thrall to the beauty and the history of the piece itself. Only think, dear, my statue was fashioned by a master artist, nearly two thousand years ago! A genius, who, if he had signed his work, would be as famous today as Leonardo or Michelangelo! Imagine owning the
David,
Bunny!

“My statue was sculpted before the concept of ‘sin’ had even been thought of! It represents a single thread in the history of human consciousness, unbroken from the dawn of man until now. It is the part of our hearts that has always embraced life, despite repressive doctrines and excessive moral philosophies, and which will always do so—the part of human nature which loves the beautiful and laughs at the ridiculous, especially if it is lewd.”

“How much do you think it is worth, then?” Belinda asked.

“A lot more than I have paid for it! And I do not intend to simply let it go until I have exhausted all the possibilities!”

Pietro was waiting for her in the road, just as he said he would be.

 

 

N
ature was against them. It had recently rained, and now a cold wind was driving in from the sea, beating against everything that stood upright with a steady barrage of penetrating cold. There was a new moon, and thick clouds clotted the sky, so they did not even have starlight by which to see. But Pietro had learned the lay of this new city very quickly, and he led his patroness unerringly down a crooked backstreet (more of an alley, really) to an open space just above the shore, containing a derelict hut. In a city so crowded that its buildings seemed almost to be growing into and out of one another like forest mushrooms, this hut stood by itself, with nothing close around it but weeds. Arabella instinctively drew back when she saw it.

“Pietro . . . do you know why this place has been abandoned?”

“It is
maledetto,
” he said simply. “You know, cursed. Quickly,
signorina!
The guards have gone. We have an only little bit of time!”

There was nothing to do but forge ahead. Arabella walked up to the hut and began fishing about in her burgling kit for the glass cutter. “The things I do for art,” she sighed, carefully shearing and lifting out the windowpane. “Now, for heaven’s sake, be careful, Pietro.”

The boy scrambled through the opening, and then, feeling his way to the door, admitted Arabella, who handed him two candles from her bag. She struck a spark from her steel and flint, and lit the first one. Pietro touched their wicks together to light the second. The candles failed to produce much light, but it was better than nothing.

In the first of the hut’s three rooms, a long table and a profusion of chairs filled most of the space. Evidently, this place was used for meetings. The second chamber contained a number of large, sheeted objects, and Arabella felt her heart quicken with excitement, but it was only furniture. Handsome furniture, to be sure, and likely to bring its thieves a good price, but the collection was not ancient, and not even slightly erotic. The third and largest room contained more covered forms. Some of these had the appearance of upright, human shapes. Arabella lifted a sheet at random, hardly daring to hope. Underneath it was a statue.

“Quickly!” she whispered. “We must pull all these sheets off!”

Exquisite white shapes blossomed one by one amidst the gloom, and soon the chamber was full of sculpted beauty. She trailed a loving hand along a life-sized marble Cleopatra, reclining on a couch and holding a snake to her breast.

“Oh,” breathed Arabella. “Did you ever see anything so exquisite?”

“I live in Ercolano,” Pietro replied with a shrug. “I always see these things.”

It did not take long to examine the collection. Apart from Cleopatra, and a group of tigers bringing down a black buck, they all seemed to be portrait statues of contemporary people. The men wore frock coats, and there were a number of busts of Napoleon, in his cocked hat. The provenance of the female figures was more difficult to ascertain, given the current fad for ancient Greco-Roman fashions. In any event, Arabella’s doubly priapic god was not among these. In fact, there were no bronzes at all; everything was marble, or imitation marble, and all were quite new.

“
Signorina,
” said Pietro. “If your statue is not here, we should go, before . . .”

The crunch of approaching footsteps sounded on the shale outside, and he quickly blew out his candle. Arabella blew hers out, too. “Hide!” she said, keeping her voice low, and ducking behind Cleopatra.

“No,” he whispered back. “You stay here. I will go and see.”

A moment later, he crawled to her side.

“There are two guards. And more men on the road, headed this way. I am afraid we are . . . how you say? Trapped like the rats.”

Now they could hear wooden clogs and boots stomping on the floors, and rough voices, coughing and speaking together. But the men stayed in the first room, where the table was. Perhaps they would just have their meeting and leave. Then, Arabella thought, she could help Pietro to escape out the paneless window, and he could goad the guards into chasing him, so that she might escape through the door. But the meeting could take hours, by which time Belinda would have decided to tell Charles and Kendrick where she was. They would come looking for her then, and walk right into this den of thieves. But perhaps it would only be a short meeting.

And then, Arabella, who was crouching in an uncomfortable position, attempted to ease a cramp in her leg, and inadvertently kicked over the housebreaking kit. The sound of the striking steel, the pocketknife and the crowbar, knocking against one another as they hit the floor, was as loud as it was alarming. And almost before the reverberations had died away, the room was filled with men and lanterns.

 

“Carte blanche,”
said Charles, displaying his hand. Kendrick had run out of money, so they were now playing piquet for buttons.

“It’s no use, Beaumont. You always win. I am rather tired of this, if you want the truth.”

“I don’t,” said Charles from around his cigar. “Give me cozy lies over uncomfortable truths any day.”

Belinda entered the room, looking aggrieved.

“Charles,” she said. “I promised not to tell you this, but I believe I must.” She regarded her brother for a moment. Then she turned to Kendrick. “No, it makes more sense to tell
you,
doesn’t it?”

“What has happened?” asked the rector, mild concern contracting his brow. ”Has your sister’s headache worsened?”

“She doesn’t have a headache,” said Belinda. “She has gone out to find her statue with that orphan child from Ercolano!”

 

While Pietro and Arabella lay trussed like chickens on the floor in the meeting room, their captors—Arabella counted twelve of them—began to argue, with animated gestures.

“What are they saying?” she murmured.

The boy turned a stricken face toward her and shook his head. “Please,
signorina,
do not ask me to tell you this.”

“I must! I am certain it is not the sort of thing that you should have to bear alone, Pietro. Besides, if I know what is coming, I shall at least be able to compose myself and face it bravely. If not, the strain of uncertainty, and the shock of not finding out what they’re going to do until they actually do it, will be much worse.”

“They are going to kill us,
signorina,
” he said gently. “And they are trying to decide how.”

“I see. What are the choices?”

“To throw us into the sea . . . or to slit our throats first, and
then
throw us into the sea . . . or to tear down part of a wall in this place, seal us up inside, and leave us to die. That way, the bald man is saying, we will die slowly in the dark, and no one will ever discover what became of us. . . . Now the one with the big mustache is saying that we should be killed at once. That is what they are discussing.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. But they will wait for ‘Il Duce’ to make the final decision.”

“For whom?”

“‘Il Duce.’ The leader. They cannot act without his orders.”

Suddenly, one of the men pushed back his chair and stood up, shouting and pointing at the captives. Pietro and Arabella were roughly hauled to their feet, although, with their ankles tied, they could not walk.

“What is this?” asked Arabella, her voice trembling. “Have they decided not to wait for the leader after all, then?”

“No,” said Pietro. “We are being moved to another room, because we talk too much.”

They were carried out like sacks of corn, over the shoulders of two of the men, and taken to the room with the sheeted furniture. At least, in here, there would be some chairs.

The two men remained in the room, and one of them addressed a remark to Arabella in Italian.

“I don’t speak your language, I’m afraid.”

“Ha!” he said in English. “What kind of spy can you be if you cannot even understand what we talk about?”

“I am not a spy. I am an Englishwoman.”

“Yes. You have said that before. But you are lying.”

The other guard took a bread roll from his pocket and began to chew it, appraising her body with his eyes.

“Stop and think a moment,” said Arabella. “Would a woman spy come out on such a bitter night, with a child? Just to hide in a filthy fisherman’s hut? Even if I did speak Italian, I could not have heard what was being said from two rooms away. It does not make sense. No; a female spy would stay in a warm hotel, making love to her enemy, and getting him to tell her his secrets in bed.”

She had begun to shift her body sinuously whilst she spoke, as though to ease the strain of her bonds. But the action was deliberately provocative, and the jaws of the bread-eating guard went slack.

 

“You should have come to me at once!” cried Kendrick, hastily pulling on his coat as he ran down the stairs.

“Bell told me not to!” cried Belinda. She was right on his heels, and Charles not far behind, when they emerged into the great medieval hall. Kendrick made unhesitatingly for the crossed heirloom swords, and liberated one of them from its place on the wall.

“Take up the other, Beaumont!”

“Me? Handle that cheese toaster? I should be no earthly use in a fracas! But I shall act as your second, should you require one.”

Fortunately, at that point, another member of the household ran up behind them and snatched down the remaining sword.

“I’ll come with you, sir!” he declared.

And thus the four of them, two fighters and two onlookers, proceeded in a body toward the fishing hut, where the long-awaited leader had just arrived.

 

The five members of Lustings’s domestic staff were gathered in the kitchen, earnestly regarding something that they could not, in fact, see: There was an offer on the table.

“ ’Tis a powerful lot of money,” said Doyle softly.

“I know it is,” replied Mrs. Janks.

“And it’s not like we couldn’t all of us use a few extra thickers,” said Fielding. “We don’t exactly
need
it, I guess; the mistress pays us more than enough, but think what we could do with that kind of push!”

“Oh, but we could not theenk of spending any of eet until we ’ave told Mees Beaumont!” said Mrs. Moly. “Aftair all, eet ees her cat, even if she does not want eet.”

“How d’you figure that?” asked Fielding.

“Well, it come in through ’er window,” said Mrs. Janks, “which she had to pay to replace, and we caught him in ’er house. By rights, it’s ’er cat
and
’er money, though I’m fairly certain she’ll let us split the take and welcome. We’ll still need to tell the missus what we’re up to; it’s only right.”

“Noooooooooo!”
wailed Tilda. “You can’t sell Rooney! He b’longs to us!”

“Buck up, Tilda,” said Doyle. “ ’Twill all work out for the best. You’ll see.”

But the scullery maid refused to be consoled, and ran from the room, weeping, as heavy footsteps trudged down the service stairs outside, and a fist pounded on the kitchen door. The four women looked at each other.

“I’ll go,” said Mrs. Janks.

“No! I’ll do it!” said Mrs. Molyneux, picking up the sack.

“Have ye got it firmly tied round the top?”

“
Oui.
I have used ze very hard knots.”

 

Il Duce cut a sinister figure in his long black cape, and he wore his cocked hat sideways, like Napoleon’s. Once he had shaken off the rain, the assemblage observed a lengthy, formalized, fraternal greeting ritual, fraught, no doubt, with mystic symbolism and secret signs. But Arabella could only see such portions of it as were visible through the doorway, and to tell the truth, she wasn’t really very interested. Terror had taken up most of her mind. Suddenly, her ears caught the clang of steel against steel, and she observed the men in the next room, running to the window. A sword fight was evidently taking place outside. It was Kendrick, of course, come to save her. And he could have no idea how vastly outnumbered he was. Arabella moaned with despair. This was all her fault. Her obsession with art was going to get them all killed: Mr. Kendrick, Pietro, and herself.

A voice reached her from the other side of the window: “We’re here, Bell! Can you hear me? We’ve come to save you!”

Dear God! That was Belinda! Well, of course it was! Her plucky sister would not have permitted Mr. Kendrick to come alone. So Bunny would die, too. And all because she, Arabella, had stubbornly refused to back down. She had to have what she had to have, whatever the cost.