Death and the Cyprian Society Page 9

  Despite her avocation, Arabella was averse to crime as a subject for study, except for highway robbery, of course, which she and everybody else considered dashing and romantic. That profession had all but died out now, though. The other sorts of crime were generally associated with garbage, violence, and unattractive locales. Why would anyone want to go to such places voluntarily, when they might stay comfortably at home? Why should she? Well, there was the danger, of course. And danger had an attraction all its own, for some people.

  “I wish it were possible to arrest all the criminals—every last one—and send them to Tasmania,” she said.

  “It isn’t possible, I’m afraid. What we really want is a strategy to prevent the commission of crimes in the first place.”

  “You’re right, Frank. That would make far more sense. But it would also take a long time to see any results, and something should be done immediately. Law-abiding citizens are virtual prisoners after dark, cowering in their houses, afraid to go out. It’s not even safe to visit the theater or the opera, despite the presence of so many other people.”

  “What do they expect?” Frank asked her. “People refuse to vote for a police force, because they’re afraid it’ll be a government spy system like the one they have in France. Londoners don’t want their liberty threatened.”

  “Ridiculous!” snorted Arabella.

  “Not at all—it will be threatened! We have good laws here, that no one pays any attention to, at present. It’s unlawful to wander about drunk and disorderly; illegal to pick up a girl on a street corner for salacious doings. Half the practical jokes the bucks and dandies play on each other should by rights earn them a pleasant holiday in the stone jug! (Newgate, miss.) Nobody wants to be nicked for those things. Particularly the nobs, and they would be, if the laws were enforced.”

  “Well,” said Arabella, “things would definitely be different if women had the vote.”

  “Yes,” said her escort, who had always harbored a private respect for the fair sex. “No doubt, no doubt. Life would be safer if cooler heads prevailed.”

  A rowboat was pulling silently along the river toward them, its red and green lights winking in the darkness.

  “That’ll be the River Patrol,” said Frank quietly, as they watched the boat draw nearer. “I’m thinking of going over to them.”

  “What! You’d leave the Runners?”

  “I’m considering it. They’ve passed me over for promotion twice now, and the River Patrol has offered me a captaincy.”

  “Well,” said Arabella uncertainly, “that is something, isn’t it? What is it these fellows do, exactly?”

  “They patrol the river by night, miss.”

  “No, I know that, but why? What are they looking for?”

  “Thieves, mostly. Because there’s no effective way to lock up a boat, you see.”

  Arabella’s mind was racing: Would Frank really leave the Runners? He was such a useful connection! A river patrol captain would not be nearly as valuable to her, but Frank was prattling on as though he’d already accepted the post:

  “Just imagine what it would be like if all the merchants on Bond Street were to leave their shop doors wide open behind them when they went home at night. That’s what the Thames is like after dark.”

  “I should think you’d be bored, Frank, spending your nights rowing up and down, looking for thieves.”

  “The job also requires body retrieval, miss. Occasionally the river police are able to save suicides before they drown. Seems a waste of time, though, as they just have to hand them over to the hangman.”

  “How beastly! It seems to me that a person should have the right to take his own life if he wants to.”

  Frank was shocked. “Oh, by no means, miss! That’s a crime against God!”

  “Oh, well; put it out of your mind, then,” said Arabella, whose views on the subject were somewhat unorthodox.

  “Yes, miss; that I will!”

  By now, the patrol boat was almost directly beneath them, and Frank, spotting an officer he knew, waved his arms. “Hoy!” he cried. “Up here!”

  The man in the bow raised his lantern.

  “Cap’n Dysart,” he called, cupping his free hand around his mouth. “Something here for you, sir! Can you come down?”

  “Why is he calling you ‘captain’ already?” Arabella asked, suspiciously. “I thought you were just thinking it over.”

  “Yes. Well, I am. But they’re quite keen to bring me on board, as it were.” He coughed, diffidently. “I’m just going to nip down there and see what they’ve found.” He moved to the head of the stairs. “Come along, if you please, miss. I can’t risk leaving you alone up here.”

  Arabella was not looking forward to whatever it was the river police had pulled out of the water, but she saw the folly in remaining on the bridge alone, and reluctantly followed Frank down the stairs.

  “It’s deuced hard hauling a corpse into a boat from the river,” Frank was saying. “All dead weight, you see. I’m working on patenting an attachment for the stern, whereby bodies can be seized and hauled aboard over a roller device.”

  They descended the steps and stood in the ooze at the river’s edge whilst the oarsmen brought the boat ashore. Inside, a sodden white corpse lay curled on the burden boards like an outsized shrimp. Its hands were tied behind it, and the throat had been slashed. There was no blood, though. It must have all drained out after the victim was dumped in the river. Arabella turned her head away, pulled down her veil, and shut her eyes.

  “Where’d you find him?” Frank asked with genuine interest.

  “Just here, sir; near Wapping Steps. He’s been dead a few hours.”

  “I thought as much. Fellow up the pub as good as confessed to this. Miss Beaumont,” he said, “may I present the late Mr. Jerry Tyke?”

  She whipt round, and saw the beam from the lantern sparking off a pink jewel in the corpse’s ear.

  Arabella was something of an expert when it came to gemstones, and was capable of making instant identifications, even in poor lighting.

  “Tourmaline!” she exclaimed. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Chapter 6

  When she woke the next morning, the sun was streaming through her windows, as if inviting Arabella to enjoy life again, and chiding her for sleeping so late. But she ignored the summons, and sat up only to draw the pineapple bed curtains closer together.

  Well, she thought, turning her face to the wall, at least I shall have my money now. And for some minutes she lay reveling in the luxury of her silken pillows, her lace-edged sheets, and the warm, rich, floral scents wafting through her window from the garden. Thus, laved in the atmosphere of a summer morning, she could almost have fancied the previous night’s sinister adventure a bad dream . . . except for the corpses, of course. There could be no question that those were real—Tyke in the bottom of the patrol boat, with his slashed throat and maggot-white face. And Greely, his probable victim. Greely hadn’t deserved that death, whatever he may have done, and the ghosts that haunted Tyburn Gallows would be surprised to find his shade among their number—a newcomer, after so many years. No doubt they would end by snubbing him. After all, they had been lawfully executed; Greely didn’t belong there.

  But this was not what Arabella wanted to think about on her first trouble-free day since Costanze’s last visit. She should have been able to go back to sleep. She should have been happy . . . relieved . . . a lot of things. Instead, Arabella felt as if she had swallowed a heavy, chilled stone the size of her own stomach. The case, such as it was, had been too quickly solved. Now she would have nothing to do until Belinda returned.

  That reminded her of Belinda’s letter, which had arrived yesterday when Arabella had not had time to read it, and she rolled over to pluck the missive from her nightstand.

  Dearest Bell,

  Following my last letter to you, I decided to take a walk in the woods by myself. The day was warm, and very still. There were no b
irds singing, which I found odd, if not ominous, and the only sound I could hear was that of the river.

  Presently, though, I became aware of another sound, a buzzing, which I took for bees until I drew closer and realized that it came from flies.

  Then I smelt blood. As I rounded the path, there was a great flurry of black wings and the alarmed croaking of ravens, which had been feasting upon half a stag. Just half. The poor creature, bisected at the midriff, was quite fresh, and the hind end appeared to have been dragged off into the bushes.

  I was frightened, Bell, for there is no predator in these parts large enough to do that. Then I heard something in the undergrowth, so I left, but all the way home I fancied I could hear it coming along behind me.

  Mr. Gentry says there is a local legend about some sort of tiger, with fangs like scimitars—ridiculous, of course. All the same, he says the next time I feel like a walk, I must take him with me, and he’ll bring a gun!

  Belinda’s letter was a trifle unsettling, but in the company of Peter Gentry and his gun, Arabella decided that Bunny could be in no real danger.

  At that point, the door creaked, and Rooney pushed it open wide enough to admit his head. Then he leapt onto the bed, where he began smiling and kneading the coverlet even before Arabella had begun to stroke him.

  “Well, I am glad that you don’t have fangs like scimitars,” she said, scratching his ears. “Feeding you half a stag a day would be far too expensive!”

  She reflected that even Belinda was having adventures now, whilst her own had clearly come to an end. Of course, it was a vast relief to be free from monetary worries, but the case had provided a welcome distraction from loneliness, and from those obtrusive reflections concerning Mr. Kendrick, whose face kept popping into her mind at odd moments. Like now.

  “Oh! What am I doing?” cried Arabella, throwing back the covers and slipping into her satin slippers. “I have the Cyprian Society to think about!”

  She floated down her spiral staircase, in the rosy glow produced from the round skylight and the softly tinted walls, imagining herself inside a nautilus shell and at one with the universe. She tried to tell herself that she was happy, but in the pit of her stomach, the heavy, empty sensation persisted.

  And it only oppressed her more when she saw that her morning post contained a reply from the heretofore missing Cuthbert Savory-Pratt. He had “concluded his business abroad,” he said, and was most eager to meet with her. This was not surprising: Arsy-Varsey was a voracious womanizer.

  “Well, finally!” said Mrs. Janks, with whom Arabella was having breakfast.8 “Now you can interview the last of your brother’s gnat-brained friends, and have done with them, once and for all!”

  “Well, this comes a bit late, I fear. The blackmailer was murdered last night.”

  “Murdered! There now; what did I tell you? That’s what comes of you traipsin’ about Putney at all hours!”

  “It was Wapping, Mrs. J.”

  “I’m sure it was! And it might have been you that got murdered, ’stead of the blackmailer! I don’t suppose you ever thought of that, did you?”

  “Not for a moment. Because Constable Dysart was with me all evening,” said Arabella, sipping her coffee. “Anyway, don’t you want to hear about it? Somebody trussed the fellow like a chicken, cut his throat, and threw him into the Thames.”

  “You don’t say so?” said the housekeeper with genuine interest. “Now, there’s a to-do, if you like!”

  “Quite,” agreed Arabella, ripping the end off her croissant. “It seems to have been a vengeance killing: the murdered man committed a murder himself early yesterday morning, and I’m told his victim was quite popular, in certain sinister circles.”

  “Hmm. They done him the same way, I expect,” murmured Mrs. Janks.

  “No, actually they didn’t. The first victim was hanged at the old Tyburn Gallows.”

  “At Tyburn! Bless my soul! Why they don’t tear that place down is beyond me, so it is! Maybe now they will, seeing as it’s been christened as an official health hazard!” She paused to sprinkle pepper on her egg. “Well, leastways now you know that Mr. Savory-Pratt wasn’t killed.”

  “Yes,” said Arabella, “but as he’s a friend of Charles’s, that can scarcely matter to me.” She tore the letter in two and dropped it back onto the tray. “Between ourselves, Mrs. Janks, I am only too glad to wash my hands of this business!”

  The housekeeper wiped her buttery fingers on her napkin. “Well, I think you ought to see the gentleman anyways, miss. Just to tie up all them loose ends and what have you.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “Didn’t you say this Snivelly-Pratt was the one who paid for the peep show?”

  “Half of it.”

  “Then why not hear what he has to say? Either he’ll confirm your suspicions about this Mr. Tyke or he won’t. And perhaps he’ll have something more to tell you. Then you’ll be able to finish your CIN.”

  “That is sound advice, Mrs. Janks,” said Arabella, retrieving the letter halves from the postal tray. “Thank you. I shall write to him and request an interview for this afternoon.”

  A quarter of an hour later she was dripping sealing wax upon her letter when Fielding announced the arrival of Miss Worthington and Mr. Pollard.

  “So, Costanze has ‘forgiven’ me, has she?” asked Arabella with a grim smile. “Tell her I am not at home! . . . but stay a moment, Fielding; what is Mr. Pollard like?”

  “I couldn’t say, miss,” replied the maid. “ ’E looks all right. But that don’t mean ’e is.”

  “Hmm, I confess I am curious to know what sort of man, with so many other options available to him, would voluntarily take up with Costanze. Very well. Shew the visitors into the morning room, if you please.”

  “Don’t ’ave to,” said the maid. “Miss Worthington’s already dragged ’im in there ’erself and ordered tea, bold as you please! You’d think she was mistress ’ere, if you didn’t know better!”

  “Don’t fuss, Fielding. I’d have given them tea, anyhow.”

  “Yes, but, seein’ as ’ow she’s bankrupted you, I thought you might want to make an exception in ’er case.”

  “That’s all taken care of, now,” said Arabella. “I am happy to report that we are once again ‘in the chinks,’ as they say.”

  “I’m pleased to ’ear it, miss. Oh, and Mr. Davies is come, too.”

  “Scrope Davies has arrived with Costanze?”

  “No, he come on ’is own. But they was all three standing on the step together when I opened the door, and so when Miss Worthington and ’er gentleman went into the morning room, I put Mr. Davies in there with ’em.”

  “Oh, dear! Poor Davies!” cried Arabella. “I had better rescue him at once!”

  “I think you’d better, miss.”

  Scrope Davies was a particular friend of Arabella’s, and too rare a wit to be wasting his time with what Costanze herself referred to as “feathered brains.” But when the hostess arrived at the morning room, she found to her surprise that Mr. Davies was already acquainted with Miss Worthington, through having been a longtime gambling companion of her protector’s. Therefore, it was Scrope, rather than Costanze, who undertook the introductions between Arabella and Pigeon Pollard.

  Mr. Pollard seemed pleasant enough. He had a fat under lip, and a good-natured, dullish sort of face, framed by a receding hairline and a small double chin. His hair, such as it was, was brown, silvered with gray, and he put Arabella in mind of an avuncular butcher. He was exactly the same height as Costanze, and did not appear to be in any way deranged or mentally deficient. Their introduction left Arabella none the wiser as to the source of his attachment to Miss Worthington.

  “Bell!” Costanze burst out, once everyone had curtsied and bowed and curtsied and bowed. “What d’you think? Mr. Brinsley Sheridan has given me a part in his new comedy! I’m to play a roll!”

  “Really?” asked Arabella in some surprise. “I should have thought Mr. Sh
eridan would know better than to tax you with a speaking part, Costanze! What sort of role is it?”

  “Oh, any sort. A yeasty white one, I daresay.”

  “Well, he could scarcely have cast you as an African. Your eyes are too blue.”

  “Rolls don’t have eyes!”

  “No; but characters do. What part will you play? The heroine? The villainess? The village idiot?”

  “Potatoes have eyes,” said Pigeon helpfully.

  And with that single remark, Arabella had her answer: Pigeon and Costanze were two of a kind.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pollard,” she said dismissively. “Whatever should we do without you?”

  “No, Bell; I told you,” Costanze insisted. “I’m to play a roll!”

  Mr. Davies, who had listened to the foregoing with amusement, now felt it time to weigh in.

  “If the ladies will permit me? Mr. Sheridan’s play is about a coffeehouse. Most of the parts are rolls or buns or meat pies. It’s a parody, you see. Young Faraday is to be a Cornish pasty; Major Scott plays a crusty roll . . .”

  “And what sort of roll is Costanze supposed to be?”

  “I believe Miss Worthington is a stale.”

  Davies and Arabella shared a knowing smile.

  “There!” said Costanze, “I am glad that you are here, Mr. Davies, for I should never in a thousand years have been able to make Arabella understand me!”

  “That is very true,” said the hostess mildly. “Ignorance and the inability to make oneself understood are generally considered undesirable traits, but I cannot imagine you without them, Costanze.”

  Miss Worthington looked gratified, as though she had just received a compliment, and moved her chair closer to Arabella’s. “Listen,” she said, winking grotesquely, “I’ve been telling Pigeon what a splendid billiard table you have! Mayn’t he go see it? And perhaps play a game or two with Mr. Davies?”

  “By all means.”

  “Come along, Pigeon,” said Scrope. “The ladies evidently wish to discuss something in private.”