Death and the Cyprian Society Page 4

  But Belinda was loathe to leave. Her sister had been anxious and angry by turns ever since receiving the bad news from Costanze, and Bunny was heartsick at the thought of Arabella, rattling round the house all alone in a foul temper. Just now she was calm enough, though. Belinda found her sitting at the long, mahogany dining table that often doubled as a crafts center during the daylight hours, bending over a thin copper sheet with great concentration, and employing an engraving tool.

  “How does the calling card progress?” Belinda asked.

  The plate was shewn to her.

  “Oh!” she cried, clasping her hands in ecstasy. “How beautiful! It is the most exquisite design since . . . since . . .”

  She was unable to think of a suitable comparison. This may have been because there really was nothing in all the world to compare with Arabella’s engraving. But it is equally possible that Belinda was exaggerating her approval in order to flatter her sister into a better humor. We shall probably never know.

  “I am glad you like it, Bunny,” said Arabella, “because this illustration is going to serve as the crest for our new club. Birds of paradise5 shall be carved in wood and plaster over the interior doorways, woven into the public room carpets, painted and glazed upon the club china service, and wrought in iron at the center of the window grilles. I am having stained-glass bird of paradise motifs inset in the upstairs windows, bird of paradise–embroidered napkins stocked in the linen cupboards, and bird of paradise bookends placed in the club library. The fireplace andirons shall be topped with them, as well!”

  “But . . .” said Belinda.

  “Yes?”

  “Crests are created by the College of Arms, you know, and only people with titles may apply for them. You have thought this up yourself!”

  “It is not my fault that Father failed to complete the application process,” said Arabella huffily. “Besides,” she added, “this isn’t for me, or for us; it is for the club. And once that becomes famous, it won’t matter whether the emblem is registered or not.” She smiled and gazed upon her handiwork. “Centuries hence, this clever device—two birds of paradise, perched aspectant on an azure field with tails braced and bent sinister—will be more instantly recognizable than the royal coat of arms, for all its harps and lions!”

  “Will it have a motto?” asked Belinda.

  “Of course it will have a motto! I have taken one from Epicurus, the wisest person to have lived so far: ‘Effugiat dolorem. Voluptatem!’ ”

  Belinda was never very good at Latin, having been educated by a governess who had seen no reason to teach it to her. Still, she had managed to pick up a smattering, from books and from Arabella.

  “ ‘Take pleasure in sadness . . . thou strumpet thou?’ ” she ventured.

  “What? No! It means, ‘Avoid pain. Pursue pleasure.’ Where do you get ‘strumpet’ from?”

  “Voluptatem. I supposed it to mean ‘voluptuary’.”

  “Well,” said her sister. “That’s not bad reasoning, actually. But you should have guessed from the ending that it was a verb, rather than a noun.”

  . . . And Arabella’s good humor was restored. Just like that.

  Wait! cries the skeptical reader, how can this be? The funding problems are long-term ones, with potentially serious consequences! Shewing off her knowledge and having the last word will not compensate our heroine for that, surely!

  No, reader; you are right enough there. But Arabella recognized that gratification in the short term is better than none at all. And she was an expert on the subject.

  “How are you proposing to pay for all these window grilles and napkins and bookends and fire irons?” Belinda ventured. “Have you spoken with Costanze? Perhaps you should arrange to stay with her for a while, and see who—”

  “I have anticipated you, Bunny,” said Arabella. “But Constance will not answer my notes, except to say that she is ‘furrius,’ and does not wish to hear from me ‘evir, evir agian.’ Of course, she will forget all about it in a week or two, but in the meantime, I must find some other means of divining the blackmailer’s identity.”

  “What other means can there be?”

  “I . . . do not know.”

  “That settles it,” said Belinda. “There can be no question of my leaving you when you have such need of my help! Have Trotter remove my trunks from the landau whilst I write to Sir Birdwood-Fizzer, tendering my regrets.”

  Belinda had been engaged by the earl to replicate Redwelts, Scottish family seat of the Birdwood-Fizzers since 1574, in miniature. And though she could not afford to decline the absurdly generous fee he was offering, Belinda had never been really keen on the idea. As for Arabella, she could not imagine solving a case without Bunny’s assistance and, in her heart of hearts, did not know how she would bear her sister’s absence. So, with both of them dead-set against the journey, there was only one possible course to take.

  “Of course you will go!” cried Arabella, throwing her arm round Belinda’s shoulders and walking her into the morning room. “All is in readiness, and we have much need of the money. Besides, I am looking forward to our night at the Cocks. Press on, Bunny dearest! Never doubt that that which you have engaged to do is well worth the doing!”

  They took their seats at the breakfast table, and Arabella picked up the post beside her plate. “Oh dear,” she said, automatically placing all the “requests for payments due” to one side. “Here’s one from Frank Dysart!”

  “That is odd,” said Belinda, unfolding her napkin. “Frank is not in the habit of writing letters to us.”

  “I have a dreadful sense of foreboding,” said Arabella, handing it over. “Read it to me quickly, Bunny; I do hope it is not bad news!”

  It was, and it wasn’t.

  Dear Miss Beaumont. I hope you will pardon the liberty of my writing to you, but it seems I’ve no one else to turn to.

  “There!” cried Arabella. “What did I tell you?”

  “Would you like me to stop?” Belinda asked.

  “Yes, I should! And I should like even more for that letter to never have reached me! But as it has, I suppose we may as well know the worst. Pray, continue.”

  Like many another child in our neighborhood, Edwardina caught the measles and her mother as you know, cannot bear to be round any type of illness so Sarah Jane has left us to stay with her sister in Wigglesex.

  “I did not know Sarah Jane had a sister,” said Belinda.

  “She doesn’t. Frank writes rather well, for a constable, don’t you think? Run-on sentences notwithstanding, of course.”

  “Which would you rather do,” asked Belinda crossly. “Sit there and pick apart his writing style, or listen to what the man has to say?”

  Arabella huffed. “Get on with it, then.”

  I found myself obliged to take time off from work in order to stay home with Eddie who was improving for a while, but the disease took an alarming turn for the worse and we almost lost her. Doctor says she is out of danger now, but still very weak and cannot remain at home unattended and I must return to Bow Street or face dismissal. And so I ask, no, I implore you to take Eddie into your home miss until she is well enough to get about and come back again to look after her doting papa.

  “Goodness,” said Belinda, letting her hand, with the pages still in it, fall to her lap. “How noble of him! Think of that wonderful man, caring by himself for a child that is not even his!”

  “Yes,” replied Arabella, reaching for the egg scissors. “It makes me so terribly ashamed of Charles!”

  Their brother, Edwardina’s real father, had been somewhat remiss. In fact, he had never, to their knowledge, so much as set eyes upon his daughter, who had attained the age of eleven years.

  “Imagine that brainless Sarah Jane,” Belinda continued, “running away because she is afraid of illness! I never thought very highly of her character anyway, but I am surprised to find her such a coward!”

  Arabella snipt the top off her soft-boiled egg and stuck her spo
on into the cheerful white and yellow depths. “D’you know what Charles calls these, Bunny?”

  “What?”

  “Cackle farts. That’s rather good, don’t you think?”

  Belinda did not appear to think it was.

  “Well, anyway,” said Arabella, “I expect Sarah Jane simply got tired of being a wife and mother, and has run off with an actor or something. Never mind. Frank and Eddie will both be better off without her.”

  “Not if poor Mr. Dysart loses his job.”

  “There is no question of that. Eddie will come to us until she is better.”

  “Oh, Bell!” cried Belinda. “I am so glad! You know, you really are a very kind person!”

  “I am a very selfish person. If I don’t agree to take Eddie now, then, as you say, Constable Dysart will lose his job, and I shall be responsible for the child for the next six or seven years! An ounce of prevention today is worth hundreds of pounds in upkeep down the line.”

  She scraped the last of her egg from its shell and pushed the egg cup away from her.

  “You enjoy playing the cynic,” said Belinda, smiling, “but your heart is really as soft as that egg was. After all, you are the one responsible for bringing Sarah Jane and Mr. Dysart together. I think he only married her because he was so fond of Eddie.”

  “Pure self-interest again,” said Arabella. “I was hoping that by providing stable home lives for Eddie and Neddy, I should be seeing a lot less of them. But I am not very good at matchmaking, apparently.”

  Neddy was another of Charles’s by-blows, fathered on a woman named Polly, whom Arabella had introduced to Constable Hacker, another Bow Street Runner. That marriage was not a happy one, either. Nor did Neddy and his stepfather get along.

  “Come, dearest,” said Arabella, rising. “It’s time we were on our way.”

  Belinda put down her napkin and pushed back her chair.

  “Regardless of your motives,” she said, “Frank Dysart has been the saving of our Eddie. You have made a world of difference to her life, Bell.”

  The ladies donned their hats and gloves, bid good-bye to the servants, and headed for the porte cochere, where the loaded landau awaited them.

  “I am certain that you will find Sir Birdwood-Fizzer to be a perfectly amiable host,” said Arabella. “But he does have one or two harmless vices, and indulging him will make the visit far more pleasant for both of you.”

  Belinda had already ascended the carriage via the foldout steps, and was busy settling her little dog upon the seat. “Vices?” she asked. “What vices?”

  “Toe sucking,” said Arabella as the driver helped her in. “His toes, not yours. (Thank you, Trotter.) Also being told that he is a bad, naughty boy. It is nothing, Bunny; I am confident that you will handle it.”

  Trotter shut the door and hoisted himself up to his seat.

  “Oh, yes,” said Belinda faintly. “I daresay I shall.”

  Unlike Arabella, Bunny was accustomed to bestow her favors only upon gentlemen whom she found attractive, and was consequently disinclined to charge them for the honor. This was a pity, since she was blessed with great personal charm, and might have made a splendid fortune for herself. But Belinda was predisposed toward fidelity and marriage, and that was all there was to that.

  “Yes, I am quite certain I shall,” she said again, attempting to harden her voice. “I shall be fine. Won’t I?”

  “Brace yourself,” said Arabella.

  The carriage started off with a violent jolt, and the passengers were thrown forward. But they were not jostled too badly, having prepared for this ahead of time.

  “All right,” Belinda said, raising her voice so as to be heard over the carriage wheels, and the horses’ hooves, and the coachman’s directives to the horses. “Birdwood-Fizzer is a naughty boy. Is there anything else I should know about him?”

  “Well,” said Arabella thoughtfully, “he may want you to dress like his old wet nurse, and speak to him as though you have no teeth. But probably not. After all, he barely knows you.”

  Arrived at last at the Lustings front door, Glendeen wondered, idly . . . no, he did not, he wondered feverishly whether Arabella were at home. For his mother’s reference to his first love had caused an abrupt resurgence of manly energies, which badly wanted releasing now. He shifted from foot to foot and vigorously applied the rhinoceros-headed knocker,6 but this only served to increase his agitation, for it made him think of pounding, and horns. In point of fact, his ship would be sailing soon, and it might be months before—

  Ah! Here was Fielding, come to the door at last! But after handing her his hat and preparing to enter the house, Glendeen heard with disagreeable surprise that Miss Beaumont and Miss Belinda had left not ten minutes earlier.

  “Your Grace may catch them up if you hurry,” said the maid.

  But he did not want to do that. Arabella, busy with family matters, would hardly be in a mood to oblige him just now. The duke whirled about and headed for his gig, savagely kicking a stone along the way that had deliberately placed itself in his path.

  “Sir!” cried Fielding, running after him. “Your hat!”

  He leaned down from his seat to take it from her. “What day is today?” he asked.

  “Friday, your grace.”

  “Is it?” said the duke, brightening. “Oh! Then I shall go to Green Park Farm!”

  For it was doxie day.

  I got yer love letters to that fart

  catcher an I knows what I knows but

  Pidjin Pollard don’t know do he?

  Wat do yeu think he’ll do when he

  findds out? drop yeu most like! If yeu

  wish me to keep your secret, yeu will

  have to pay me £150,000 an I want

  £500 on account. I shall send

  another letter advising you where to

  leave it.

  A friend

  “There is nothing else for it,” said Arabella, raising her voice over the commotion of the carriage wheels as she folded the letter and re-inserted it into the envelope. “I shall have to track down Constance’s blackmailer myself, and turn him over to the police.”

  “Can you deduce anything from the letter?” Belinda asked.

  “Oh, yes. Any number of things.”

  Arabella had read it over a dozen times since Belinda had given it to her the previous evening, but now she studied it once again, using her traveling magnifier, in order to elicit the appropriate sense of awe from her sister.

  “The paper on which it was written is middling good; not the best but certainly not the cheapest available. As for the writer, I should say he was a ruthless man; intelligent, greedy, and dangerous.”

  “Naturally, one might assume as much,” said Belinda, “given the fact that he is engaging in blackmail.”

  “I am not assuming, Bunny—I know. I have established these things based upon the manner in which the fellow forms his letters. You see, a man’s handwriting reveals his character in unexpected ways. For instance,” said Arabella, pointing to the name “Worthington” on the envelope, “the rounded loop on this lowercase G resembles a money bag, which means the writer is greedy.”

  “That sounds like something you made up,” said Belinda, stroking the head of her little dog.

  “I have not made it up. It is a science. Mr. Leland has been giving me lessons.”

  “Who?”

  “The bookseller at Hatchard’s.”

  “Well, it is an interesting idea,” said Belinda. “But how accurate is it, really?”

  “Naturally, I tested the concept, before committing myself to lessons. Mr. Leland agreed to analyze a variety of script samples, which I presented to him, and spotted mine at once. He said I was witty, charming, quick-tempered, and resourceful. Then he evaluated the others, and described the writers to a T.” She took the letter out again.

  “Really?” asked Belinda eagerly. “What did he say about mine?”

  “That you were loyal, sweet-tempered,
and fond of animals.”

  “Remarkable!”

  “In the present case,” said Arabella, striking her magnifier against the page to recall Bunny’s attention back from self-contemplation, “I have deduced that our blackmailer has made a deliberate attempt to sound more ignorant than he is. Anyone who does not know how to spell ‘you’ or ‘did’ would most likely not know how to spell ‘friend,’ ‘account,’ or ‘advising, ’ either. Then, at the end, you will note that he forgets himself, and accidentally spells ‘you’ correctly.”

  “That is brilliant, Bell!”

  “Thank you, dear. One thing puzzles me, though. The hand is definitely a forceful, masculine one, and yet there is an oddly feminine component which I cannot account for.”

  She pulled a wicker hamper from under the seat and removed a glass from it, along with a decanter of French brandy. The stuff was illegal in England, but Arabella had her sources. She took a sip from the glass, and gazed out the open window at the lush summer landscape.

  “Bunny,” she said, “do you know what I want, more than anything?”

  “To get your money back from Costanze.”

  “Yes, but do you know why?”

  “To avoid debtor’s prison.”

  “Of course, but I meant, what do I want the money for in the long term? You will never guess, so I shall tell you: I wish to live in England, as though it were France!”

  “You can’t,” said Belinda. “There’s not enough sunshine.”

  Arabella seemed, on a sudden, to be possessed by an overwhelming exuberance. “I want a sparkling life!” she cried. “One that is beautiful and sad, with a wicked vein of humor running just below the surface like a comic opera, with wonderful costumes and a deliberate, sensual musical score, dropping note by note into the pool of a star-filled marble fountain!”