Death and the Cyprian Society (24 page)

Lady Ribbonhat’s brow puckered beneath its powder. “What would you suggest I do?”

“Regular church attendance and heartfelt prayers are what we typically recommend for newly converted heathen,” said Mrs. Drain, “but I confess I haven’t much experience with
English
prodigals. You really should ask your pastor. He is certain to know about the expectations for lifelong urban Christians.”

“No!” cried Lady Ribbonhat. “Not that! I
hate
Reverend Clydesdale!”

Mrs. Drain pulled herself up straight. “ ‘Hate’ is not in the Christian lexicon,” she said severely. “Especially directed against a rector! I am afraid, Lady Ribbonhat, that you may not be a good candidate for the Elysian Fields, after all—you still have so very far to go!”

”Oh, all right, then!” grumbled the dowager. “I’ll go and talk to the old windbag, if I must! You’re certain that it’s the only way?”

“If there is another,” said Mrs. Drain, “God has not seen fit to shew it to us!”

Chapter 18

A
rabella, in her writing turban (which was striped like Madame de Stael’s, but with narrower stripes) was once again seated at her desk, surrounded by the crumpled balls of her rejected drafts. She had not been working on her novel this time, but on a last, heartfelt attempt to induce Reverend Kendrick to return to England. It wouldn’t come right, though. Probably because she wasn’t clear about what it was she truly wanted to say.

No good! She’d ended with a preposition! Besides, just
how
was she going to endeavor to deserve him? Give up being a courtesan? No, no, no, no! And yet, she earnestly desired Kendrick’s return: Arabella had never wanted anything so much in her life. Grown accustomed to the instantaneous gratification of her slightest whim, she was experiencing this challenge to her will as something new and irritating, like a rash.

Finally, she gave up on trying to write her letter, and turned instead to read one that had just come in. It was from Puddles:

“Mr. Provenson’s here, miss,” said Doyle, putting her head round the door. “And tea’s been set up in the aviatory, as ye requested.”

“Excellent,” said Arabella. “Where’s my sister?”

“She’s in the aviatory, too, miss.”

Arabella went downstairs to receive Mr. Provenson. “Hello, Kendrick,” she said, extending both her hands to him. (Having once called him by his middle name in error, she had decided to do so henceforth, for she especially liked the name.) “I was sorry to hear about your godmother!”

“You were?”

“Yes. You see, a sort-of friend of mine has been accused of her murder, and if she is convicted, I shall be bankrupted.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re sorry?” he asked, as they headed down the passage. “Isn’t that a little coldhearted?”

“Perhaps, a little,” she conceded.

“Hmm. Well, if I am supposed to be a gentleman, I’ll have to say something even colder, won’t I? So as to cover up for you? All right, then: I was
not
sorry to hear about my godmother, whose death was one of those occasions where the phrase, ‘It’s God’s will’ is on everyone’s lips. By all accounts, she was a very unpleasant person. And now I am going to inherit her money, which makes me very happy.”

“It’s really too bad, though,” said Arabella, handing him an umbrella. “She was on the point of marrying a duke, you know. You’d have been a good deal richer.”

“Poorer, you mean,” said Garth. “She was about to change her will, and make everything over to
him.”

The droppings of exotic birds spattered their bumbershoots as they made their way toward the little rotunda, snuggled like an egg in its nest of tropical foliage.

“She was?” asked Arabella. “And you knew about it?”

“I . . . well, you see . . . she’d told my mother . . .”

But by this time, they had arrived at the rotunda, where Belinda awaited them at the little table, along with a perfectly splendid tea.

“Bunny, this is Garth Kendrick Provenson. My sister, Belinda.”

He bowed over the dimpled hand, and Arabella at once perceived that her sister disliked him.

“Kendrick has just been telling me what a wealthy man he’s become, now that his godmother is dead,” said Arabella, picking up the heavy silver teapot. “Do you know, I don’t believe he feels a bit sorry about it?”

“I really don’t,” he admitted, smiling. “I hear she was ruining the lives of a lot of people. It’s better she’s gone.”

“And
you
call
me
coldhearted!” cried Arabella.

“I’m an American,” said Garth. “We didn’t win our independence from you through being impractically sentimental!”

“So,” said Arabella, after he had gone. “What did you think of him?”

Belinda picked up a bright little pail of painted tin and began collecting kumquats with it. She could do this without leaving her chair, as the shrub grew hard by the rotunda, and had inexplicably begun producing fruits out of season.

“Do you want the truth?” she asked.

“I could tell you didn’t like him. There is much about the boy that’s objectionable, I suppose, but he’s American, which is not his fault. He is also young, and that’s not his fault, either. The nice thing about very young men is that they’re such
ardent
lovers, a quality that makes up for a multitude of faults.”

“Then I am happy for you,” said Belinda.

“Well, I hope you can find a way to dislike him less, dear, because the connexion is likely to last a while. Particularly now that he is in a position to afford my company.”

“What I feel for your friend goes beyond dislike,” said Belinda quietly. “I think he murdered Madame Zhenay.”

“Oh, Bunny, how could he? Kendrick was with me when it happened!”

“I wish you would not keep calling him that. You sully the name of a good man every time you do. Anyway, he probably hired someone, the same way Madame Zhenay hired someone to kill
you
.”

“He saved my life, you know.”

“The newspapers credited the roses on your gown.”

“Well, yes; but Kendri—I mean, Garth, helped, too. Hmm . . .” she said. “He certainly had a plausible motive, though, didn’t he?”

“For murdering his godmother? Yes. He did.”

“But so did any number of other people; Zhenay was blackmailing half of London! Anyway, Ken—Garth was here with me when the corpse was recovered, and he says he didn’t find out about the will till he got home.”

“Perhaps he decided to have her killed before that,” said Belinda, “so as to get his hands on the money without waiting for Zhenay to die of natural causes. The timing might have been a coincidence.”

She chose a kumquat from the pail and began to chew it.

“Well . . . I don’t think so. Anyway, there is no
need
for us to find the killer. All we have to do is establish Constance’s innocence, and I don’t suppose we really even have to do that.”

“What do you mean? Of course you’ll have to do that!”

“No, dear; in this country the accused are innocent until
proven
guilty. And the burden of proof rests with the prosecution.”

“I think you’re trying to avoid the issue,” said Belinda, “because you want to go on sleeping with the Yank.”

“That’s not it at all! I simply disagree with you. You don’t know Garth like I do; I don’t believe him capable of such an act.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Belinda.

“I have heard from Glen
deen
today,” said Arabella, abruptly changing the subject. “He says he has presents.”

“Presents?” The dark cloud was lifted from Belinda’s mind, and the sun shone in, again. Actually, she was only too glad to have something else to talk about, because Arabella’s apparent attraction to danger disturbed her, and she knew instinctively that no amount of discussion about it would make the slightest difference. The prospect of presents would provide a welcome distraction, even if the gifts were not intended for herself, personally. Besides, her sister was always generous about sharing the duke’s largesse.

“I shall invite Glen
deen
to call on us when I return from my legal consultation,” said Arabella. “So whilst I am gone, I would advise you to look through your jewels and shawls, and see what sorts of additions you might be requiring.”

 

That was interesting, thought Arabella, as the carriage bore her townward: Bunny usually liked everybody, but she had not cared for Garth. Somehow Arabella felt that John Kendrick would not like him, either, and she felt a sudden stab of longing for her absent friend.

Longing is a tedious, painful emotion. It is quite common though, I believe. At least, “common” would certainly be one word for what Reverend Clydesdale was doing, in order to relieve his own longing for Arabella. Because he was seated in his library, with a large, open book upon his lap, and open trousers below that! The book, at least, was innocent enough—Reverend Kendrick’s album, no less, and Mr. Clydesdale had turned to a study of Arabella’s head, which Kendrick had once sketched from memory. But the rector was engrossed (and I think you’ll agree that this, too, is the perfect expression) in privately expressing his admiration for this piece, when the housekeeper entered to announce Lady Ribbonhat. Fortunately, the album was of sufficient size to conceal the activity taking place beneath it, and the reverend further reduced the chance of discovery by roaring at his servant.

“Don’t ever
dare
intrude upon me again without knocking! Is that clear? The next time you disturb me in this fashion, you’ll be sacked without a reference!”

Mrs. Hasquith never turned a hair. “Your visitor can ’ear you,” she said. “What would you like me to do, send ’er packin’, or open this door wider, so’s she don’t miss a thing?”

And with that, the servant quitted the room, leaving Reverend Clydesdale with his pants down, so to speak. He hastily buttoned them up again, though, slicked back his hair with one hand, and went forth to greet his bread and butter.

“You do me honor, Lady Ribbonhat!” simpered the rector, displaying all of his tombstone teeth. “To what am I indebted for this flattering visit?”

“I would have you know, sir,” said the duchess grimly, “that I hold you in the lowest possible regard. You are everything I detest in a churchman: a pompous prattler, an arrogant fool, and probably a secret practitioner of vice and corruption. But for extreme necessity, I should not be here.”

The reverend tilted his head deferentially to one side, and smiled as though she had paid him a compliment. Outright rudeness was the prerogative of the wealthy. After all, they could afford it.

“I have not led a blameless life,” said the duchess, once she was comfortably situated with a cup of tea. “In fact, some of the things I have done might be construed in certain circles as selfish, or cruel . . .”

“One moment, Lady Ribbonhat. If you came here for the purpose of confessing your sins, I must caution you that I am not a Catholic priest, nor is this a Catholic confessional. You would know that, if you attended our church more often.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” she cried. “This is exactly the kind of thing I meant when I told Mrs. Drain why I didn’t want to come here! I would never trust my secrets to you, under any circumstances!”

“Then why
have
you come?”

“Because I was led to believe that you could provide me with instructions on how to get into heaven. If I’ve been misinformed, I would be obliged to you for telling me so at once, rather than prolonging this tedious interview!”

A light went on behind the rector’s eyes. “A
course of instruction,
did you say?”

“No, that is
not
what I said! Course of instruction, indeed! Do you think I’m going to drive out here every day? Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Over the ensuing quarter of an hour, the duchess described her predicament without naming her sins directly, but including Mrs. Drain’s observations concerning her conduct.

“So you see,” she concluded uncomfortably, “I have . . . made some slight errors here and there, which, though not important in themselves, might add up to . . . well, Mrs. Drain is convinced that my prospects for heavenly admission are slight to nil.”

The reverend smiled with those teeth again, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and placed the tips of his fingers together. “I shouldn’t worry, Lady Ribbonhat,” he said.
“All
the well-born get admitted to heaven, you know.”

“No, they don’t,” she replied. “What about the rich? And the needle in the camel’s eye? Besides,” she added somewhat uneasily, “not all titled persons are born to their titles. Some obtain them through marriage.”

“Insofar as the rich are concerned, the needle’s eye applies only to those who fail to support their church. And as for titles, God sees marriage as the ultimate union, in which man and woman become one. Therefore, the personal attainments of the husband, whether by birth or merit, become the provenance of the wife, also.”

“Truly?”

“Lady Ribbonhat . . . my
dear
Lady Ribbonhat—may I call you so?—I am a man of God, ordained by the church. I would not lie to you. Indeed, I
could
not, or I should be sent straight to . . . a place that is better not mentioned in polite company. Yes, I speak truly when I tell you that you are guaranteed a place in heaven, provided that you donate generously to your—and by ‘your’ I mean
this
—church.”