Death and the Cyprian Society Page 22

  “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?”

  “Lady Ribbonhat Gets Punched in the Stomach by a Dwarf.”

  “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.”

  “The shoes?” Belinda asked. “I haven’t heard those mentioned before.”

  “No, well, neither had I, until my enchanting encounter with the Fairbottoms. He said the shoe ribbons were tied together in a knot, and then wound round the corpse’s arm.”

  “Hmph,” said Belinda. “That can hardly have anything to do with the murder, I think. Still, it is rather singular.”

  “Oh,” said Arabella dismissively, “I suspect Zhenay went wading in the sea, and tied her shoes together to keep them from going astray. I also had to listen to Mr. Fairbottom’s account of his brilliant deduction, on finding Constance and the body in close proximity to one another. Then he began dropping the names of various illustrious persons I have never heard of, with whom he has a nodding acquaintance in London. All the while, his wife kept up a little accompaniment of her own, saying things like, ‘Ooh, yes, that’s right! You certainly know your way around the block, my love!’ and ‘Such a heavenly holiday, and we’ve only just come here, you know!’ But as she could not get a word in, they spoke at the same time. You can imagine the cacophony! It sounded as though she were interpreting for him. And all of it was the stupidest rubbish! I swear, if I had found that rock of Constance’s, I’d have brained them both w
ith it!”

  “You poor dear!” said Belinda. “It sounds as if your entire day were a complete waste of time.”

  “Not quite. Because I called upon the local magistrate after getting clear of the bores’ nest, and with the aid of a letter from Sergeant Dysart—which I was clever enough to obtain before coming away to Brighton—I have managed to arrange for Costanze’s transfer up to London.”

  “Oh!” cried Belinda. “But I am certain she will have better treatment in the little Brighton lockup than she can hope for at Newgate or someplace!”

  “It isn’t a question of Costanze’s comfort,” said Arabella severely. “At the moment, I am more concerned about the inconvenience to my attorney, who cannot be forever coming down here to question her and so forth, and the additional strain upon my already straitened finances.”

  “You sound as though poor Costanze deserves to be in gaol!” cried Belinda.

  “So she does! Not for Zhenay’s murder, but for the willful idiocy which got her into this scrape in the first place . . . no, in the second place! When I saved her from blackmail the first time, Madame Zhenay was still alive, and everything was hunky dory—that’s American slang for ‘splendid.’ An expression I learnt from Garth Kendrick Provenson. But was Costanze satisfied? Was she grateful? No! The first chance she got, she went and joined her giblets with that Harry footman’s again!”

  “Well, perhaps, as you say, she wasn’t satisfied.”

  “Don’t you be an ass, too, Bunny! I’ve had my fill of morons for one day!”

  “I’m sorry. But Costanze really cannot help being dim-witted, you know.”

  “Dim-witted? Not a bit of it! I have lately come to realize that the woman is horribly cunning. She manipulates people by refusing to use her brain, and as others are always willing to make excuses for her, she is free to do as she pleases. It fair makes me sick!”

  “I think you are wrong, Bell.”

  “Well, naturally! You would!” Arabella retorted. “Because she has manipulated you, too!”

  Chapter 17

  Dim-witted or not, the next morning found “poor” Miss Worthington gorging on strawberries in her prison cell, courtesy of Pigeon Pollard. In his haste to see her, Costanze’s benefactor had stridden down the passage ahead of Arabella and the gaoler, and by the time they caught him up, he seemed to be attempting to squeeze his big pudding face between the bars of his lady love’s cage.

  “Good morning, my dove!” he warbled. “I have the most wonderful news! Miss Beaumont has obtained a writ for your release! Now we can go home!”

  “I am afraid it’s not as simple as that, Mr. Pollard,” said Arabella. “I have merely obtained permission to have Costanze transferred to a London lockup. She is still suspected of murder, you know. Get your things together, Costanze, and make haste; your police escort is arriving momentarily.”

  “It is ‘Constance’ again,” said the prisoner, dribbling cream from the side of her mouth as she spoke. “I can never remember how to spell ‘Costanze’ because I always want to put an n between the o and the s and if I do that then it sounds as though I am trying to spell ‘Constantinople’ not that I would ever want to because the Turks are so fierce and I pray I never meet one that’s a sweet gown Bell but I do not wish to go to London yet. I am on holiday.”

  “Constance,” said Arabella, “you are in gaol.”

  “Yes, but I am in gaol in Brighton.”

  “What difference can that make?”

  “I know you for a beef wit Arabella but do make an effort please! People come to Brighton on holiday they don’t stay in London if they want to get away because Brighton is everything nice: the sea, the sun . . .”

  “But your cell has no window! You cannot see the sun!”

  “Yes. ‘The sea, the sun . . .’ That is what I just said.” Constance looked sideways at Pigeon, as though to say, “There! Do you see what I mean? The woman is thick as custard!” “Really Bell,” she continued, “if you cannot do anything but stand there stupidly repeating everything I say you may as well leave for you are of no use at all and I find your presence irritating!”

  Arabella considered: There was really no need to bring Constance back to London. The Brighton lockup was undoubtedly cozier than its London counterpart would prove, and sensible persons did not, as a rule, endeavor to bring Miss Worthington closer to themselves. Distance was the thing, and the more of it there was, the happier the circumstances for all parties concerned. In arranging the transfer, Arabella had been thinking chiefly of the convenience to counsel, and of her own pocketbook. But mightn’t it be better if the barrister couldn’t speak to Constance? Especially since Arabella now knew for certain that Miss Worthington’s testimony would be of no use, except, perhaps, as proof of insanity?

  So, leaving the lovebirds to nuzzle through the bars, Arabella re-traced her steps to the entrance. But Pigeon followed her up.

  “Miss Beaumont? Do you really think this case will go to trial?”

  “I am almost certain that it will, Mr. Pollard.”

  “And you have retained counsel, have you not?”

  “I have put Sir Corydon-Figge on retainer, yes.”

  “Excellent! I shall write to him, too.” He dipped into his pocket and removed a very large packet of crisp, new hundred-pound notes, neatly bound with a circlet of white paper. “I know that you have been put to some expense, and no little inconvenience on my little Shortcake’s behalf,” said he. “This should cover it, but pray let me know if you should require more.”

  So saying, Pigeon handed her the packet, took his leave, and returned to Constance.

  Arabella was still staring at the bills in her hand when she was hailed by a troop of courtesans, coming toward her down the passage. She returned their salutations with a grateful heart: The Cyprians had come to Brighton to offer her their support! Now Arabella should have all the assistance she required in the way of money and company! They could be her advisors, and she might dispatch them on little errands she would rather leave to others. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d had in mind when she started the CS—a tightly knit group of female allies, aiding one another through life’s difficulties.

  “To what,” asked Arabella, modestly, “do I owe the pleasure of this delightful encounter?”

  “We have come to see Costanze,” May explained. “The poor dear must be simply wretched in this awful place!”

  And Arabella now saw that they were carrying food hampers and packages of books. “On the contrary,” she replied sourly. “I think you will find Miss Worthington in wonderful spirits.”

  Outside the lockup, Marine Parade was chockablock with holiday makers. Hordes of them were strolling along the street, shouting, eating, riding the ponies, pushing each other and laughing, shoving each other and cursing, punching each other and having to be separated, purchasing spun sugar wands and painted bladder balloons and having their fortunes told, or their silhouettes made. Many of them, of course, were engaged in watching the various performances: fire eaters, conjurers, jugglers, a trained monkey. One of the largest groups was massing round a makeshift puppet theater, where the antics of Punch and Judy were eliciting loud, communal guffaws.

  Arabella recalled her recent conversation with Belinda, and wondered whether she should still find Punch funny after so many years. The moment she stepped off the pavement, our heroine found herself caught up in the eddying swirl of color and noise all about her. She believed herself far above this society of simple gawkers, and yet she was part of it, too; part of the very center of it, in fact, with bits of dancing bear, and winkles, and toy tin trumpets poking out round the edges.

  Has the reader had occasion to observe the way in which mature minds revert to childhood pleasures when they want to relax? Take this puppet theater crowd, for example. Arabella noticed that there were easily more adults than youngsters, including that child-sized adult who was pushing her way through the children in order to obtain a front-row view of the . . . goodn
ess! It was Lady Ribbonhat! What was she doing in Brighton, the Happy Kingdom, when her best friend had just died? But then Arabella remembered that Henry’s ship was due to come in. It already had, probably, and perhaps Puddles had wished to loiter in town for a bit. Only, he was nowhere to be seen. Lady Ribbonhat was attending the performance alone, without so much as a footman to clear the way for her.

  Up on the stage, a pirate was attempting to make Punch walk the plank, forcing him out at sword point, and laughing into his black beard. But each time, the wily Punch saved himself by clutching the plank with his little legs as he fell, and then climbing back onto its upper surface, his arms still tied behind him.

  Arabella took a closer look at the dowager. She certainly didn’t appear to be grief-stricken. In fact, she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the show, if “enjoyed” was the proper term for what she was doing. Well, no; perhaps it wasn’t.

  Lady Ribbonhat stood very close to the stage, watching the action with the concentration of a cat waiting for the cuckoo to emerge from a clock. Her eyes were wide open and glazed, like one of Dr. Mesmer’s patients. Her lips were moving, too, and Arabella edged in closer, to try to hear what she was saying.

  “Get him!” muttered the dowager, who seemed be siding with the pirate.

  Punch had re-boarded the ship, and was being forced to re-walk the plank. The crowd shouted with approval when his self-preservation maneuver was repeated.

  “Kill him!” cried Lady Ribbonhat, her voice rising about the tumult.

  When the puppet was planked for the third time, he remained suspended beneath the board and upside down, in order to lure the pirate out onto the beam to dislodge him. Anticipating some clever trick on the part of their hero, the audience began shouting suggestions. And Lady Ribbonhat’s voice rose above the rest in a horrible shriek:

  “Tie his feet together next time!”

  Arabella reflected that her old adversary was growing progressively more eccentric with the passing years. Shouting at a puppet was, well, it was childish. Perhaps Lady Ribbonhat was become senile at last, and it was time for Puddles to have her shut up at home.