Death and the Cyprian Society Read online

  I shall miss her, thought Arabella. For such interesting nemeses were not easily come by. And without enemies, as we know, there can be no victory.

  Watching Lady Ribbonhat today has made me wonder: Could pirates have kidnapped Madame Zhenay in Eastbourne, taken her aboard a boat and then sailed to Brighton? Not pirates, exactly, but somebody like pirates? Take that troll I met at the pub, for instance, Gun Jensen, what was it he said?

  She flipped back through her notes to locate the earlier entry:

  “We aim to find the bastard who ordered [Greely’s murder]. We won’t stop looking till he’s found.” Or words to that effect.

  Could Mrs. Greely have sent a retributive army after Madame Zhenay? No doubt there were scores of people who wanted her dead, but Gun Jensen’s oath struck me as both determined and sincere.

  Zhenay would have been too powerful to be taken by a single assailant. One person might hit her over the head, and then tie her up whilst she was unconscious, but he would never be able to remove her to a boat unaided.

  So let us say there are three murderers. They bundle her onto a boat, sail to Brighton, and then what? Tie her shoes together and push her overboard? That makes no sense. If Zhenay knew how to swim, she could easily have kicked off her shoes and make for shore. And if she didn’t know how, why tie her shoes together?

  Murderers who drown their victims at sea usually tie their arms, not their shoes, like the pirate puppet did with Punch. No. I am quite certain that Madame Zhenay took off her shoes and tied them herself, so as to keep the pair together.

  By the end of their second day in Brighton, the Beaumont sisters had effectively changed position with respect to their opinions of the town. Belinda had just wanted to go home, but now she was finding it ever so gay, and Arabella, who had originally viewed their journey thither as an immediate necessity, was nearly beside herself in her longing to leave.

  “There is no privacy,” she complained. “I don’t know what Uncle Selwyn was thinking when he bought this house . . . it is on the street! People passing by can look straight into the lower windows!”

  “I think he must have wanted to feel a part of the summer festivities,” said Belinda, “and I quite agree with him! Everyone needs to join in the fun and forget who they are from time to time.”

  “I’ve no choice, have I?” cried Arabella. “Everyone else has evidently forgotten who I am! Unless I meet with one of our friends, I am not recognized when I go out—not a single stranger has doffed his hat to me and reverentially murmured my name!”

  “Oh, Bell! The post is crammed with invitations every day, and the salver is brimming with visiting cards! Everyone wants to see you!”

  “I cannot accept invitations right now,” said Arabella perversely. “I am working, as you know. But since Constance has made up her mind to stay on, there is no longer any reason for my presence here. We shall return home as soon as may be. I cannot wait to leave this horrible place!”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Belinda. “I think Brighton is a nice town!”

  Arabella sniffed. “It may be for you; I have no great liking for the hurly-burly of the hoi polloi!”

  “Oh, but even you must admit that the sea is beautiful, Bell! Look there—today it has the color of emeralds. Yesterday it was gentian blue.”

  And greatly to her sister’s surprise, Arabella burst into tears.

  “I cannot bear to look at the ocean!” she wept. “Every time I do, I think of John Kendrick, living on the other side of it! We should not have come to this house, with its sea views from all the front windows, but I did not know it would affect me in this manner!”

  Belinda patted her and made sympathetic noises, and she genuinely was sorry for her sister’s pain, despite the fact that Arabella had brought it on herself. But Bunny, who was straightforward when it came to expressing her own passions, could not understand why it had taken Arabella so long to acknowledge her love for John Kendrick. How could anyone be confused by such a simple emotion?

  Fortunately, Arabella had got started on one of her nostalgic tangents again, and did not, for the moment, require understanding. All she wanted was her sister’s undivided attention.

  “When he looked at me in his rajah disguise,” she said, through her tears, “all his submissive slavishness was gone. It’s true, he was bringing me a cup of punch, but that was out of sheer politeness. I think by that time he had already made up his mind to leave, which freed him of his obsession for me. For the first time I saw the actual man who’d been hiding behind all that tedious adoration. It fair took my breath away.”

  “Hmmm,” said Belinda shrewdly. “Are you saying, then, that the key to your heart is indifference toward yourself?”

  “I don’t . . . no!”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you are unhappy here, we had better leave at once.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Arabella, “I have had a letter from Uncle Selwyn today. He is coming to town tomorrow, and wants to spend time with us.”

  “Oh, that is splendid!” Bunny replied. “It is ages since we have seen him! You must vacate the master bedroom, Bell.”

  “He means to stay at his club,” said Arabella. “The dear soul says he is loath to incommode us.”

  Two years earlier, Lord Selwyn had returned from the Indian colonial service in poor health, and no one, seeing his frail physiognomy, expected him to live very long. His wife had died abroad, so that he was alone in the world, and it was doubtful whether he would survive to see another Christmas. Then, greatly to his nieces’ satisfaction, he had married an old flame, a woman for whom he had long carried a torch. (Was she the flame in his torch, Arabella had wondered, or had he been wanting to carry his torch to her flame, in order to light it?) At any rate, as the woman had herself been recently widowed, and was also in delicate health, the pair had hoped to be a comfort to one another in their waning days.

  But to everyone’s surprise, instead of fading away, both had flourished under an agreeable matrimonial regime, and had promptly purchased a number of houses, envisioning their remaining years (not weeks or months) as a pleasurable round of short trips and extended visits to those parts of the country which they liked best.

  Brighton was one of those parts, and thanks to what their elder niece deemed the Selwyns’ “poor taste and lack of propriety” (for it will be remembered that Arabella thought Brighton vulgar), she and Belinda had managed to find comfortable lodgings in a fashionable resort, at the height of the season, and absolutely free.

  Lord Selwyn having said in his letter that he was longing for a picnic on the beach, his nieces gave orders accordingly, and the next day sunshades, rugs, and a luncheon hamper were set up at the water’s edge. Mrs. Selwyn arrived unexpectedly (she’d been visiting a brother in Saltdean) to lend her delightful presence to the party and render her husband’s happiness complete. Thus, the family whiled away a pleasant afternoon, idly chatting and watching the rollers wash in, whilst swatting at the sand flies and picking grit out of their sandwiches. Belinda was worried about the depressive effect of the sea upon Arabella’s spirits, but there was nothing for it, since their host had his heart set on spending a day in the sand.

  “I hear you’re working on a murder case, my dear,” he said, passing the olives. “It’s been mentioned in nearly all the papers, and when Mrs. Selwyn (Mrs. Ironmonger-that-was, you know) first read me the account, I was practically bowled over!” He smiled at his wife, fondly patting her little hand.

  “Bowled over? But why, Uncle?” asked Arabella. “You know I have a tendency to mix myself up in situations of this kind.”

  “Of course, yes; it was the connexion which came as a surprise, you see. Because I was personally acquainted with the victim.”

  “You knew Madame Zhenay?”

  “Well, not actually knew her. I met the woman once, many years ago, when she nearly s
nagged your protector.”

  “What?”

  “Of course, she wasn’t calling herself Madame Zhenay in those days; went by the name of Jeanette or something. In fact, I would never have made the connection from seeing her name in the paper, only I happened to have bumped into her for the second time only a few months ago.”

  “I beg your pardon, Uncle?”

  Despite the fact that she was seated upon a rug at the shore, Arabella was beginning to feel herself very much at sea.

  “You see, Mrs. Selwyn swears by Zhenay’s products (don’t you, my dear?), so I went to that Palais whatever-it-calls-itself on my way to a meeting once, when I was in London. Because Mrs. Selwyn asked me to look in. Normally, I should never dream of invading any place that was so obviously meant for . . . for ladies and their beauty secrets, but I went there, for her, you see; yes. For my wife. It was her idea, wasn’t it, Miranda? Anyway, whilst I was there, buying Cleopatra’s Moisturizing Immortality Lotion for Mrs. Selwyn, I saw this Zhenay behind the counter.”

  Arabella briefly wondered whether her uncle had gone there for the type of voyeuristic amusements enjoyed by Charles and his friends, or whether he was simply trying to hide the fact that he bought Cleopatra’s Moisturizing Immortality Lotion for himself.

  “It took me a moment to place her,” he was saying, “because it’s been more than twenty-five years, and time had not been terribly kind to the poor woman. But when I realized where I knew her from, and told her who I was, she acknowledged the connexion at once, and told me she was finally going to be married to her duke, after all, with his mother’s blessing!”

  “How had you met, originally?” asked Belinda.

  “I was friends with Glendeen’s uncle. Good old Dagan Brody. A self-made man . . . but Irish, you know, and not shy about expressin’ his views on Irish home rule and Catholic emancipation. The Tories did for him in the end; ruined his business and blackened his name, and he shot himself whilst I was in India.”

  Selwyn looked down at his naked toes and shook his head regretfully. “He was a good man, old Brody was. I still miss him, but I am glad he did not live to see his sons convicted, in the Luddite uprisings.”

  “Oh, no,” Arabella groaned. Her uncle nodded.

  “After their father was ruined, the boys had found honest work in the weaving trade, but the power loom came along a few years later, when they all had young families to support. They were put out of business and their families starved. You know the rest: When the angry weavers destroyed the new looms, the angry government executed the weavers.”

  “Well, we can’t have that!” said Arabella bitterly. “Machinery is revered, but new machinery is sacred! What’s a few starving families to the glories of progress?”

  This was why she so hated politics. The stories were never happy, and the innocent never triumphed—they seldom even survived. Sometimes she fancied she could see the future writ large upon the walls of the banks and the big companies and the government buildings. And what she read there froze her to the marrow.

  “In any event,” said her uncle, “long before all that happened, I was dining with Brody at his house when Glendeen arrived, with Jeanette. They didn’t stay long, and after they’d gone, Brody told me in strictest confidence that his nephew had made up his mind to marry the girl. Lady Ribbonhat wasn’t to know about it, he said. So I kept mum, of course. But it must have been difficult for Brody to keep such an important secret from his sister. They were very close, you know.”

  “I cannot believe it!” cried Arabella.

  Lord Selwyn nodded. “It did seem strange that the duke would want to marry a commoner, but you’ll have to take my word for it; Madame Zhenay was quite striking when she was younger, and she had this . . . I don‘t know . . . this powerful presence. You could feel it, the moment you met her.”

  “No,” said Arabella. “I mean I cannot believe that Lady Ribbonhat was ever close to anybody.”

  “Oh. Well, she quite doted on old Brody. But wasn’t that remarkable of me? To recognize Madame Zhenay again, having met her only once, and after she had so much changed in appearance?” Selwyn tapped his forehead. “The old noggin may have gained some wrinkles and lost its hair on the outside, but the inside is still as sharp as ever!”

  “What happened?” Belinda asked.

  “I got older.”

  “No, I meant what happened between Madame Zhenay and the duke? Why didn’t they marry?”

  “Lady Ribbonhat found out. And had the girl deported as an undesirable.”

  “What?” cried Arabella.

  “She was sent to France, poor thing, when they were chopping off the heads of foreigners left and right.”

  “Uncle Selwyn, didn’t Glendeen ever try to bring her back?”

  “He never knew where she was. His mother told him the girl had run off with a tradesman. But the duchess admitted to Brody what she had actually done. That’s how I came to know of it.”

  “Interesting,” said Arabella that evening as the sisters were preparing for bed. “One would hardly think Zhenay was the type to forgive and forget. Yet she was thick as thieves with Lady Ribbonhat right up to the time of her death.”

  “Perhaps Lady Ribbonhat apologized,” said Belinda. “She has supposedly turned over a new leaf, remember, and I should think having somebody deported to a war zone would seriously hinder one’s chances of getting into heaven.”

  “It’s highly unlikely,” said Arabella, “given Lady Ribbonhat’s temperament, and yet it’s possible, too, I suppose, given her new fear of God. ”

  “What other explanation can there be?”

  “Well,” said Arabella, brushing out her hair, “I am certain Zhenay remembered Lady R., but perhaps Lady R. failed to recognize Zhenay.”

  “Oh, but she must have done,” said Belinda. “Otherwise, why ever should she associate with a commoner?”

  “You heard Uncle say that Zhenay was much altered since her youth.”

  “No. Lady Ribbonhat’s kindness to Zhenay was an act of penance,” said Belinda firmly, smearing her face with Palais de Beautay’s Soothing, Softening Syrup. “I am as certain of that as I am of never again finding a night serum that performs as this one does.” She sighed and gazed into the depths of the jar. “This will only last me another week or two.”

  Arabella half turned. “Is that the jar I sent you during my apprenticeship?”

  “The same. It is wonderful stuff. And there won’t ever be any more of it.”

  “What would you say if I told you that you could have as many Palais de Beautay products as you liked for the rest of your life?”

  “What’s the use of your saying that?” asked Belinda crossly, “when you know perfectly well that La Palais de Beautay is no more?”

  “The shop is no more, I’ll grant you. But on the night I retrieved Constance’s letters from Madame Zhenay, I also pocketed a ledger, which I took to be a file index, listing the victims. When I actually came to look at it, however, I found it contained the receipts for La Palais de Beautay’s beauty formulas!”

  “Huzzah!” shouted Belinda. “That’s the best news I’ve had since . . . since I cannot remember when! To know we shall never run out of wonderful creams and lotions and serums and soaps!”

  “Better than that,” said her practical sister, “now, no matter what the future holds in store for us, and regardless of what happens to us financially, we may someday have to lower ourselves by working in trade, but we shall never starve!”

  Three days later, the Beaumont sisters were back in London. And Lady Ribbonhat, who had preceded them by a day, found that, with the exception of Madame Zhenay’s absence from her life, everything was much the same as before. Almost exactly the same, in fact: She encountered Mrs. Drain once again, on the same stretch of Piccadilly Street where they had met before, on the same day of the week. The missionary’s wife was even wearing the same dress, and Lady Ribbonhat had a sudden presentiment that she would be running into Arabella again
, as well. So, rather than stand there talking of nothing and worrying about everything, she was obliged to invite her tiresome acquaintance to tea at Charburn House, in order to be able to make her excuses and hurry away.

  But Mrs. Drain’s visit, which took place later that afternoon, proved unexpectedly stimulating: The Drains were to go abroad again in the near future, and Mrs. Drain was not happy about it!

  “My husband has been posted to Puka-Puka,” she said, and the hostess was gratified to note the visible droop in her visitor’s countenance.

  “No!” exclaimed the duchess.

  “Yes! He’ll be relieving Reverend Kendrick, who has come into the title.”

  Lady Ribbonhat had not known of this, but nor had anyone. The fact had been communicated to Mr. Drain direct from the Bishop of Bramblehurst, in the very strictest of confidence. Drain had told his wife, though, and that good lady, with the generosity typical of her faith, had decided it was too good a piece of news to hoard all to herself. Hers was a sacrifice without purpose, however; Lady Ribbonhat had no interest in Mr. Kendrick’s doings. Having ascertained that the rector would not be returning to Effing, where he might have been of some use to her, she lost all interest in him.

  “It might interest you to know, Mrs. Drain,” said the dowager, “that I have had a change of heart since our last meeting, and have undertaken a program of local good works.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Drain dryly. “So I have heard.” And something about the way that she peered into her teacup whilst stirring the contents told Lady Ribbonhat that her visitor was attempting to close the subject.

  But this was not acceptable! In the first place, the duchess doubted that Mrs. Drain had heard about her acts of selflessness in detail. And in the second place, she wished to brag of her good deeds, and be complimented and admired for them.