Death and the Cyprian Society Read online

  “How do you account for the scratches and bruises?”

  “There was a struggle.”

  “But Frank, this theory cannot possibly hold water, if you’ll forgive the expression. Why should Madame Zhenay have started out for Eastbourne, and then changed for Brighton in the middle of her journey? She couldn’t have received word from Costanze whilst traveling by coach, and if she had planned to see her before leaving London, she would have gone to Brighton direct.”

  “Well, perhaps she did, miss.”

  “Have you found the coachman who supposedly took her there?”

  “Not yet; no.”

  “Well, I do not think you will ever find him. Because I do not believe he exists. Zhenay went to Eastbourne.”

  “We have not found anyone who claims to have taken her there, either.”

  “How strange! Well, moving on: According to the Brighton field notes, the newlyweds apprehended Costanze moments after she killed Zhenay. The body must have been fresh, then? Still almost warm, was it?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, miss. If it’s not in the field notes, we can only guess at what might have happened.”

  “Is there a doctor’s report? Surely they called in a doctor to establish the time and cause of death?”

  “No. It doesn’t appear that they did. It’s Brighton, miss. The police don’t see as many murders down there, so they don’t always know what to do when they get one. And between ourselves, the investigating officer, this Constable Norton, does not strike me as being particularly quick off the mark.”

  “Well,” said Arabella, “if Costanze and Zhenay had struggled, Costanze, too, would be covered in scratches . . . and probably bite marks,” she added, recalling the ones bestowed upon her own flesh by Madame during the course of their erotic encounter. “I have my own reasons for suspecting that the victim would not hesitate to use her teeth in a physical altercation. Ask the gaoler at Brighton, if you would, whether Constance shows evidence of similar abuse on her own person. Zhenay was taller, heavier, stronger, and a good deal cleverer than Costanze. If those two had ever come to blows, I am quite certain that Miss Worthington would have been the one to end up in the puddle.”

  “What’s your theory, then, miss?”

  “I do not presently possess one, but neither can I accept your approximation of the prosecution’s probable version of events.”

  “What do you think Miss Worthington was doing under the pier with that stone?”

  “God knows. Does the report reflect any of her actual remarks?”

  “No. It only states that she was incoherent.”

  “Yes. Costanze is always incoherent. But she has not murdered Madame Zhenay; of that I am certain.”

  Certainty and proof are two different animals, however. Arabella knew that if she were going to recover her money, she would first have to establish Miss Worthington’s innocence beyond a reasonable doubt. And she had a feeling that that word, “reasonable,” which was always difficult to prove in any matter involving Costanze, would be something close to impossible, in this case.

  There had been no time to apprise Bunny of this, for she had already left Redwelts, and could not be reached—was due to arrive in St. Albans the next day, in fact, where accordingly, Arabella drove out in the brougham to meet and to dine with her at the Cocks.

  “How is dear old Birdwood-Fizzer?” asked Arabella, after the two had exchanged kisses, hugs, and typical reunion sentiments.

  “Just the same,” Belinda replied, removing her gloves. “All mouth and no trousers.”

  The waiter entered the private dining room that Arabella had engaged, with two pints of ale for the weary travelers.

  “Bunny,” said Arabella, after he’d gone to get their dinner, “something rather awkward has come up since you left Scotland.” She outlined the situation as briefly as possible.

  “Well, well!” chortled Belinda. “This is splendid! With Madame Zhenay dead, Costanze needn’t worry about being blackmailed anymore, and you’re out of bodily danger, at last!”

  “Costanze needn’t worry anymore? Whatever can you mean? She is in gaol for murder, Bunny, and if she swings for this, I shall never see another farthing of the amount she owes me!”

  “Oh. That is true, I suppose. But what a strange way you have of putting it. I almost have the impression that you are more concerned over your money than you are over the fate of poor Costanze.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Bell!”

  “Stop pretending she’s a dear friend. We both loathe her. Do you remember that book of gallows etiquette she insisted on reading to me when I was accused of Euphemia’s murder? If I thought her capable of comprehending the irony, what joy I should take in reading it to her now!”

  Belinda was going to protest, probably, but the waiter returned at that moment with a tureen of oxtail soup, and the weary traveler, suddenly finding that she was ravenous, fell to.

  “Personal feelings toward Costanze aside,” said Arabella, who was less hungry than Belinda, and therefore able to speak at greater length, “I shall have to go to Brighton and see what can be done for her.”

  Belinda nodded whilst chewing on a slice of bread and reaching for her glass.

  “And, as there is a good chance that the Brighton Police are even more inept than our London ones, I am afraid there is no time to be lost.”

  Her sister drained her glass and said, “Well, I shall be very sorry to miss you again, after we have only just been reunited, but I do understand.”

  “I knew you would, dear,” said Arabella. “So finish up your soup, and we’ll be off directly. I have packed the brougham with everything required for our immediate needs, and the servants have been sent on ahead to make everything ready for us.”

  “Us?”

  “Why, yes! I shall require my little sister’s wise counsel and unflagging support if I am to get through this.”

  “Oh, but, Bell!” cried Belinda. “I have only just returned! I am exhausted! All I want to do is go home and keep to my bed for a few days!” The young woman could not help whimpering a little, as she added, “I really do not think I am fit for more traveling right now!”

  Arabella was unmoved. “I am afraid that you cannot go home, dearest, as there will be no one to look after you there. You can sleep on the way. I shall read a book, or something.”

  “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 l
ate; 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

  “Building 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!”