Death and the Cyprian Society (21 page)

“But where shall we lodge? Brighton will be full up, surely!”

“Uncle Selwyn has kindly sent me the keys to his town house. You’ll like it there, Bunny! Fresh ocean breezes and sea views from all the front windows! We shall go riding on the marine parade in all our gay apparel!”

“What apparel?” wailed Belinda. “Everything I own is packed up in the hired coach I took from Scotland!”

“Which I have engaged to follow us down to Brighton. So you shall have your summer clothes
and
your Scottish clothes, for starters. We can purchase additional sea togs when we get to town, if we like.”

Belinda was so dispirited at the thought of another day’s travel that even the prospect of shopping failed to revive her. And she further suspected that she should
not
be allowed to sleep in the coach, for she knew Arabella. Sure enough, despite the elder sister’s promise to read a book, once they were somewhat uncomfortably ensconced, Arabella was unable to resist the opportunity of unburdening herself concerning her newly discovered feelings for Mr. Kendrick.

“Oh, Bunny!” she cried, after a lengthy discourse on her sufferings. “I cannot bear it! He is gone, because of me, and I have not realized until now how much I esteem him!”

“Esteem him?”

“Admire and appreciate him!”

“Admire and appreciate?”

“Love . . . him. Belinda! I love John Kendrick! I see that now! And it is too late!” So saying, she threw herself into her sister’s arms, there to indulge her feelings with a really good cry. Belinda patted her wearily upon the back.

“Well,” she said. “It is
not
too late; Mr. Kendrick will have to return to England sometime. And then you can see him and tell him how you feel.”

“No,” Arabella sniffled, plucking the tucker from her sister’s gown and blowing her own nose upon it. “If he ever comes back at all, he will come back married, like they all do!”

“Who ‘all’ do you mean?”

“Jilted lovers in novels. They always go abroad, even if it’s only to Croyden, and then they come back with a bride.”

“You cannot judge real life by novels, Bell.”

“But you
can!
Mr. Kendrick is an avid reader of novels! That is why he is doing this; he would never have had the idea to go away on his own . . . a mission!” she said, scornfully. “When he scarcely even believes in God! No, it’s too ridiculous. But he has done it anyway, and he will marry. And his bride will have facial tattoos, or plates in her lips, and her teeth filed to points, like a shark’s!”

“Now, now,” said Belinda soothingly. “You know perfectly well that Mr. Kendrick dotes upon you. He has never so much as glanced at another woman in your presence. Or out of it, either, probably. And this separation will help him to sort out
his
feelings, too. He will probably come home in a year or so, and when he does, he will come to Lustings direct and take you in his arms, and you will live happily ever after.”

“He will be married, I tell you!”

And she went on at some length, in a similar vein to that given above, but Belinda only snorted. Or so Arabella thought at first. On closer inspection, however, her sister appeared to be asleep. It is remarkable, is it not, the way in which that non-articulate noise, which in itself is so expressive of scorn and derision, resembles the unconscious sound of a person completely dead to the world of opinions?

 

Their uncle’s town house was elegant, and the Lustings servants had rendered the rooms most comfortable. After a good night’s sleep, both sisters awoke feeling generally refreshed and better about the world. Brighton was almost exactly the way Arabella remembered it from her childhood: raucous, vulgar, crowded, and loud, and she shied away from reflecting that, but for Costanze, she would not have to be here at all. Because she mustn’t resent the accused. Not while there was work to do, at any rate. Poor Costanze! How terrible all this must be for
her!
Charged with murder; locked up in gaol . . . even so, our heroine did not sufficiently trust her temper to actually go down and see the wretch just yet; Belinda could do that, whilst Arabella examined the area under the pier.

“But why?” Belinda asked. “The arrest was made over a week ago! What are you searching
for?”

“For something I hope I do not find. Now, go to Costanze, and see whether you can discover just what it was she was doing under there with that rock.”

Chapter 16

“B
uilding a staircase,” said Costanze.

Belinda had discovered the prisoner to be living in circumstances much more comfortable than she had imagined, for the ever-attentive Mr. Pollard, who was currently seated in a chair outside the cell, had been providing the accused a steady supply of blankets, books, pillows, and foodstuffs with which to keep up her spirits. Today he had brought her the best gift of all—a feather bed.

“Building a staircase?” Belinda repeated, bewilderment showing in her countenance. “That is what you were doing with the rock? A staircase to where?”

“Up one of the posts.”

“One of the posts that hold up the pier, d’you mean?”

“I
don’t know what they’re for, Belinda! They’re just
posts
with . . . branch things at the top. And they’re down under the pier you know but they’re quite a lot taller than I am so I had to build a staircase in order to get up there.”

“And why did you want to do that?”

“Well because there was a gull’s nest at the top with a gull sitting on it.”

“Oh,” said Belinda, in some relief. “And you wanted the eggs, I suppose?”

This was not so stupid, after all—lots of people ate gulls’ eggs.

“No—I wanted the gull to teach me her language so that Pigeon wouldn’t be the only one of us who could talk to birds. After all a seagull might teach me the secret of flying as well as a pigeon even better if you like because gulls can soar and kind of hover can’t they whilst pigeons only flap.”

This comment rang a vague bell in Belinda’s memory, which Costanze kindly amplified for her.

“Pigeon speaks to pigeons,” she said, with a fond glance at Mr. Pollard, “but Bell won’t allow me to ask him to ask them how they fly so when I saw the gull up there I decided to see whether I could speak Gullah and ask her myself.”

Belinda was suddenly glad that Arabella was not present. “You decided to
see
whether you could speak
Gullah?”

This was so mixing that she felt herself beginning to go light in the head.

“Yes I have never tried to speak it before you know so I don’t know whether I can or not.”

“In the first place,” said Belinda, “Gullah is not the language of seagulls . . .”

“You have asked me what I was doing under the pier and I am trying to tell you but you keep interrupting to lecture me! Do you want to know what happened or do you just want to show off your knowledge?”

Belinda opened and shut her mouth. “I am sorry,” she said at last. “Pray, continue.”

But Costanze had not finished following up her newest thought. “Now I
know
that
you
cannot speak Gullah Bunny you do not speak anything but English. And isn’t it wonderful,” she added, “that out of all the countries in the world you were born in the only one which speaks your language?”

“This
isn’t
the only one, Shortcake,” said Pigeon kindly, as though, but for this slight factual error, the rest of her statement were perfectly sensible. “There’s America and Australia and New Zealand, too. And Canada.”

“Yes but Canada does not count for they speak French there as well.”

Belinda’s head was fairly buzzing by this time.

“Well there’s not much more to say really,” said Costanze, returning abruptly to her original tack. “I was building stairs so that I could climb up the pole and ask the seagull how she flew and then this couple came strolling along and the woman screamed which startled me so that I dropped the rock and the next thing I knew the man was holding me by the arm and shouting to the woman to fetch a constable.”

Pigeon was stroking Costanze’s arm through the cell bars. The sight made Belinda queasy, for some reason.

“Then what happened?” she asked.

“Well after a bit the woman came back with a constable and I was brought to this place and Pigeon came to see me. He’s been ever so kind to his widdle birdie-brain sweetheart hasn’t you moochie-woochie? . . .”

Whereupon, Pigeon and his widdle birdie-brain sweetheart began to bill and coo at one another through the iron bars.

 

“We shall never be able to explain such a ridiculous story to the jury,” fumed Arabella, when Belinda had given her a full account of the morning’s proceedings. “And you may be certain that the prosecution will attempt to cross-examine her on exactly that point.”

“Which may be all to the good,” said Belinda. “If Costanze can be certified as a lunatic, they will not hang her. I am glad she has Mr. Pollard’s devotion. It is very touching, though observing them together makes me seasick. He calls her ‘Shortcake. ’ ”

“Does he? I should have thought ‘Fruitcake’ more apt, especially if the court has her certified. I have also heard him call her ‘Pet,’ you know; probably because she reminds him of his first horse.”

“But,” said Belinda doubtfully, “I remember you said, if Costanze is officially declared insane, she will go to the madhouse, and you will never see your money.”

After a moment’s thoughtful silence, Arabella cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She and Belinda were sitting on the narrow balcony, facing the sea.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s true. I seem to be unable to collect my thoughts here—the wind confuses me and scatters them everywhere. But you and I needn’t worry about it, in any case. I have engaged Sir Clifton Corydon-Figge, a barrister of more than ordinary assiduity and perspicacity. He will surely know best what’s to be done. I shall interview the newlyweds, and lay all my findings at his learned feet.”

“Good,” said Belinda. “How went the pier inspection? Did you find your bloody rock?”

“Not a bit of it, thank God!”

“Hmm. And did you by any chance find a heap of stones next to a piling?”

“Yes,” said Arabella. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“So Costanze’s story is true, it seems.”

“Don’t be silly; of course it is! Costanze is constitutionally incapable of conceiving a lie. Lies require cunning, and the ability to plan. Speaking of plans, have you made any for this afternoon? I thought perhaps you would care to accompany me to interview the newlyweds.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said Belinda, “but Lord Tittington has invited me to the matinee.
The Three Chumps
is on offer there. So many of our friends are in town, Bell! Why not postpone the newlyweds and join us, instead?”

“I thank you, but French farce is not to my taste. It always features people injuring one another, and the audience is expected to laugh.”

“They
do
laugh!”

“In France, perhaps. But remember, that is the nation where, not so lately, they made life-sized puppets from the headless corpses of guillotine victims. The French laughed at that. I feel certain that British people would not have.”

“I never figured you for a Francophobe!” said Belinda.

“Nor am I!” Arabella asserted. “If you will recall, I have paid France the compliment of wanting to live here, as though it were there. Paris is wonderful beyond words, I believe. I love champagne, and French food, and French furnishings. And I remain an ardent admirer of Voltaire’s—though even he resorted to torture and disembowelings to get a laugh. Consider: Who or what is the most famous French comedian of all time? Punch, a puppet, whose very name denotes a violent act!”

“Punch is Italian, actually.”

“It’s the same thing! People being injured is not in the least funny. I wonder that
you
can like it, Bunny!”

“Come now,” said Belinda. “You have laughed at Punch and Judy shows.”

“When I was a child! And in any case, I was not laughing at the
violence
, but at the absurdity. Punch was pretending to be a cripple, and claiming he couldn’t walk because of a bone in his leg.”

“I do not recall specifically what it was you were laughing at,” Belinda admitted, “but violence can be funny, sometimes. It all depends on who is being attacked, you see; authority figures and whatnot.”

“I disagree.”

“Really? Picture this: Lady Ribbonhat is lecturing the poor, deriding them for their lax morals and slovenly ways. Suddenly, a very short person, a dwarf, in fact, goes right up to her and punches her in the stomach. Just one punch. And he doesn’t say anything.”

For a few moments, Arabella stared straight ahead, her face expressionless. Then her mouth started to wobble, and shortly thereafter she was shrieking in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“How,” she gasped, “did you ever manage to think of that example?”

“It’s from a play that I am writing in the small hours, when I cannot sleep. Do you really like it?”

“I love it! What is it called?”

“What! Do you mean that’s the title?”

“Why not? What would you suggest I call it?”

“I don’t know. I have not read your play, although I hope you will let me read it when it is finished. But don’t you think the title will spoil your best scene?”

“Not at all!” said Belinda. “The audience will be expecting it, you see. The anticipation builds and builds, until finally. . . it happens!”

“Hmmm. It will have to be a very small dwarf, because the dowager is nearly a dwarf herself. If it ever gets produced, I think you must expect to hear from Lady Ribbonhat’s solicitors.”

“I know. I shall give them free tickets.”

“But what else happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, something else has to happen, besides that!”

“Why?”

“Because the audience will want to know what comes next, or what came before. I mean, that isn’t a story by itself.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! This scene needs to come at the end or the beginning or in the middle of a story. We need to know how Lady Ribbonhat
reacts
to being punched in the stomach.”

“Oh!” said Belinda. “I forgot to tell you that part! She falls down.”

“No, I mean . . . look, Bunny; don’t you think that’s awfully short for a play?”

“Well, of course! It’s a one-act!”

 

The Fairbottoms—greedy, surly, superior—were prime examples of that hard new breed that proliferates in towns with lots of offices where the men can make money, and lots of smart establishments where the women can spend it. Our couple was sharp and ambitious; they were nobody’s fools, who, despite their youth, thought they knew more about the world than all the great thinkers who have ever lived in it, and consequently believed themselves entitled to anything they wanted.

For the Fairbottoms saw themselves as the human embodiment of the tree of all knowledge: Art, science, philosophy, and the great inventions of civilization were mere baubles dangling from the ends of the stately Fairbottom boughs. When they spoke of the illustrious achievements of other individuals, they used the term “we,” as in: “We discovered America,” or “We invented movable type,” readily claiming their share in the glory, even if the person whose discovery or invention or idea it actually was merely hailed from the same nation or continent as themselves, or belonged to the same race.

Mr. and Mrs. were spending their “tinsel weeks” in a honeymoon cottage with a Dutch door, and Mr. Fairbottom spoke to Arabella from over the top of the bottom half, without inviting her in.

“The police have already questioned us,” he said, with all the arrogance and suspicion of a man who is determined that no one shall put anything over on
him
. “Why should I tell it all over again . . . to
you?”

“Because I am a friend of the accused, and I know that she could not have done such a thing,” Arabella replied.

“That,” said Mr. Fairbottom loftily, “has been said of every murderer since Cain. The truth is, anybody might commit a murder, given the right circumstances.”

“Oh, not
anybody,
Walter,” simpered his wife, who was standing behind him in order to hear everything without directly involving herself.
“You
could never murder anyone!”

“I’m afraid we have nothing more to add,” said Mr. Fairbottom firmly, preparing to close the top half of the door. “Good day to you.”

“One moment, if you please.” Arabella’s tone conveyed such unassailable authority that even the great Walter Fairbottom stayed his hand.

“I should have introduced myself to you earlier: I am Arabella Beaumont.”

Mrs. Fairbottom gasped. Arabella was counting on this couple to be just snobbish enough, and common enough, to want to enhance their own prestige in the eyes of their acquaintances by being able to say, “We met Arabella Beaumont on our honeymoon!” The bride could add, “It was quite all right—Walter never left my side the entire time she was in the room!” And the groom, in an aside to his cronies, might embroider the truth a bit, by hinting that she had given him some wonderful advice for the bedroom when his wife was out of earshot.

In any event, the realization that they had come face-to-face with a living, breathing celebrity had the desired effect. Mr. Fairbottom not only refrained from closing the top portion of their door; he opened the bottom half, too, and so Arabella was at last admitted to the inner sanctum.

When Belinda returned from the matinee, replete and rosy from the ardent attentions of her escort, as well as from the effects of an afternoon of laughter and a paper cone full of toffees, Arabella felt an unaccustomed stab of envy. She herself had spent a miserable afternoon with the newlyweds, who had had nothing to tell her, yet would not let her leave.

“Lord preserve me from middle-class mooncalves!” she replied, when Belinda asked how the interview had gone.

“Were they no help at all, then?”

“Well, the wife mentioned that the corpse was barefoot, but that hardly signifies, I think. And the husband
would
not stop talking! I had to hear all about the linen drapers’, where he is almost certain to be tapped for a management position before Christmas; the highlights of his honeymoon thus far and his erudition in surmising that something rum was afoot when he spied the shoes.”