They both looked over at his evening clothes, which lay where he had shed them, in a heap near the fireplace.
“Eagan lent me those.”
“Oh. Well, that was nice of him. Come, my love; let us dress and go down, for we have expended ourselves overmuch, I believe, and require more sustenance than mere cheese and wine may bestow.”
“I love the way Englishwomen talk!” said Garth. “It’s so refined and old-fashioned!”
“I was doing that on purpose,” said Arabella. “How would an American woman have put it?”
Garth picked up one of his stockings and, using it like a puppet, said, in a falsetto voice: “ ‘I’m just about
starved,
dammit! If you think you can fuck me all night without feedin’ me up good next day, then you got another think comin’!’ ”
“How delightfully crass!” cried Arabella, laughing. “It must be wonderfully freeing to speak without thinking!”
“Well,” Garth admitted, as he buttoned her up the back. “They don’t
all
talk like that. Just most of them.”
“Most
of them? Most of the women in
America?
Goodness! You have rather extensive experience for a nineteen-year-old!”
“Yep.”
The Lustings breakfast room had been renovated by John Soane himself, and boasted his signature handkerchief ceiling, but with a convex mirror instead of a skylight. Arabella was pleased to see that the reflection of Garth and herself was so striking: She did not suffer at all in comparison with a youth of nineteen.
They continued their conversation at the table, over apple pie and sausages.
“I presume that at some point you called on Madame Zhenay,” said Arabella.
“Momma did. She hadn’t heard from Zhenay in years, and was always kind of scared of her, but she was our only hope. And as things turned out, it was lucky we found her: I’m her heir.”
“Really! Well, congratulations, Garth! The Palais de Beautay fortune is reportedly worth millions. So, why are you borrowing Eagan’s evening clothes? Surely Zhenay can manage an advance on your inheritance?”
Garth shook his head. “She won’t give me anything now. But she wants me to manage this gentlemen’s shop she’s opening in the fall. Zhenay doesn’t trust anyone, but she says I’m the best bet, since, if I steal from her, I’ll be stealing from myself. Can you imagine what it’s like, Miss Beaumont? To have financial expectations and then suddenly discover . . .”
“. . . That it’s all turned to fairy gold? Yes, indeed,” said Arabella grimly.
“Well, it’s happened to me a few times, now, and I have to say, this last arrangement seems kind of underhanded. Where I come from, a healthy, sober white man has to really work at it if he wants to be poor. There’s opportunity everywhere, and practically no limit to how far a fellow can go, unless he’s Irish. But it takes time to get established, and I got my Momma to think of. She’s been in low spirits since Poppa died, and she’s unwell, to boot. So when she wanted to come to England I figured it might be dangerous to refuse her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that your mother is unwell,” said Arabella, pouring him another cup of coffee.
“Zhenay’s probably going to outlive her. But as long as Momma has that fantasy inheritance to cling to, she is a little more cheerful, at least.”
“Have you spoken to Zhenay recently?”
“Sort of; I saw her just before she left.”
“Oh. I had not heard she was going away. When was this?”
“Yesterday. Said she was meeting some friends at a place called . . . what is it? . . . Peach Head or something. You folks have the funniest names for things! Anyway, I was surprised that she
had
any friends.”
“Do you mean ‘Beachy Head’?”
“That’s the one! You know it?”
“Mmm-hmm. I’ve heard of it, anyway.” (This was good news. With her enemy out of town, perhaps Arabella could relax her vigilance.) “How did Zhenay seem when you saw her?”
“Furious.” Garth chuckled to himself. “I never saw a body in such a state! Pacing up and down, swearing revenge on some woman who’d put her behind bars—to tell the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if the old witch winds up back in prison pretty soon, for murder!”
Arabella cut herself another slice of pie. “Did she say who this person was?”
He shrugged. “Someone who used to work for her under a false name.”
Garth regarded her for a moment and grinned.
“Actually,” he said, “it was you, wasn’t it?”
Arabella stood by the open door, marking her visitor’s progress as he swung off toward town. He had a marvelous walk, marvelous legs; and that rear portion of his anatomy, to which the legs were attached, was marvelous, also.
He’s an altogether marvelous man, she thought dreamily, and then realized, with a start, that when she had said good-bye, she had called him “Kendrick.”
“Garth? Is that you?”
“Yeah,” Garth replied, hanging his hat on the vestibule hook.
“Where on Earth have you been?”
“Staying with a friend, Momma,” he replied, entering the sitting room of their rented lodgings. “I went to the theater, and it got so late I decided to sleep over.”
Though the day outside was riotous with sunshine, in here the heavy drapes created a twilit netherworld of quiet shadows, which might have been pleasant, but wasn’t: the mingled smells of vomit and alcohol rendered it nauseating. Mrs. Provenson, a pale, frail woman in a soft cap and ribbons, reclined upon an Empire sopha with a fur rug over her legs. She was drinking tea . . . and something more.
“Well, thank heaven you’re back, anyhow. I was worried sick. I don’t know what I’d have done if—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” said Garth. “I just didn’t want to come in at all hours, disturbing you and the rest of the household.”
“You just missed Zhenay,” said Mrs. Provenson, sipping her tea. “She was hoping to see you before she left.”
“I thought she left yesterday.”
“Her trip was postponed. She wanted to talk about the will before she went off to Eastbourne, but you’re too late to catch her now.”
“I thought she was going to Peachface.”
“Beachy Head is
in
Eastbourne. Or near it, or something.”
“Ha!” he exclaimed, pouring himself a glass of hock. “Wanted to discuss the will, did she? Excellent!” He drank down the contents in a single swig and glared at the empty glass. “German wine! And last night I was drinking prissy little cordials! What I wouldn’t give for a good bottle of whisky! I thought they had that here.”
“Oh, they do. Or at least, they did. Zhenay says most of it came from Scotland, until the English taxed it or shut it down or something. So now it’s illegal, and hard to find.”
“Don’t they make it in Ireland, too?”
“Probably. Zhenay will find us some when she gets back.”
“Hmm,” said Garth. “How far away is this place she’s gone to? Maybe I should follow her.”
“There’s no need, son,” said his mother. “She wasn’t bringing very good news. Garth, she’s going to be married.”
“Married?! That battle-ax?! Who in his right mind would marry her?”
“Englishmen have queer tastes, dear. Anyway, she still plans to settle some small amount on you, and you’ll have your job at her shop, of course, but Zhenay says she is changing her will in favor of her husband-to-be.”
“What?!”
Garth slammed his glass down on the table so hard that it broke.
“Again?!
Goddammit, Momma! We’re right back where we started!”
“Well—at least you’ll have a job, now.”
“A job!” He stared at her. “I don’t want a
job!
Money’s what I want! Enough of it so I’ll never have to work
again!”
“But you seemed so pleased about the manager’s position!”
“Don’t you understand? That was all dumb show, for the sake of your ugly friend! It was
supposed
to lead to something better! Now it’s all there is! I wasn’t born to work,” he muttered, “and by God, I’m not going to!”
“I’m so, so sorry, darling!” said his mother. “You know I don’t like your drinking, but this has been a terrible shock. There’s a bottle of malt whisky in the cupboard. Let’s both have a glass.”
“You’ve been holding out on me!” he cried, opening the cupboard and seizing the bottle. “Why, this thing’s three-quarters empty! How could you be so selfish?”
“If I’d told you about it, we wouldn’t have any now, when we need it.”
He savagely pulled out the cork with his teeth, and swallowed straight from the bottle—once, twice, three times, four . . .
“Hey!” cried his mother. “What about me?”
“You’ve already had yours,” he said, throwing the empty bottle into a trash receptacle, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, at least I won’t have to pretend anymore. I’m so goddamned sick of pretending all the time!”
The letter from Belinda had inexplicably gone astray at Hamsterhead, and consequently was delayed for some days:
Dear Bell,
My heartiest congratulations on Madame Zhenay’s incarceration! Now we can all breathe easier, knowing you won’t be plagued by creditors anymore!
Arabella cast a rueful glance at the post tray, where the latest pile of vendor demands lay awaiting her attention. It had been a full week since the Bird’s opening night, but there had been no new developments in the case. Obviously, Belinda had written this before receiving the explanation that the chase was not only resumed but reversed, with Arabella as the quarry this time.
Of all the rooms in the Redwelts model, I am proudest of the grand saloon, which has been the most exacting. The draperies, alone . . .
Arabella skipped the descriptions, knowing full well that Belinda would tell them to her all over again when she returned.
The quarantine is lifted at last, and I am starting for home on Tuesday!
I cannot wait to get back to you, and out of this place, lovely though it is. Sir Birdwood-Fizzer is the most considerate of hosts, but I cannot say as much for his friends, who fair give me the chills. They look at me, and then at each other, sidelong; not in an open, admiring manner, but furtively, with evil grins, the way I imagine wolves must smile at one another when they exit from a forest to discover a lone, unguarded sheep. There are horrid books in the library, and the torture devices in the dungeon show signs of recent use. Last night, when one of the guests got up from table, there was blood on his chair. I know that you’ll say I am being silly. In fact, I can hear your voice now: “They are only men, Bunny, however they might remind you of beasts.” And really, I am not worried, for I am understood to be under Birdwood-Fizzer’s protection. But I should hate to think what might happen, if I were not.
“Express post, miss,” said Mrs. Janks, entering the library and handing Arabella an additional letter. “This just arrived. I think you’d better open it at once.”
“Oh, all right,” grumbled Arabella, holding out her hand for it. “It’s probably just another tradesman’s bill.”
It was postmarked Brighton, though. Arabella laid Bunny’s letter aside, in favor of this new one, and read the brief contents with mingled horror and disbelief.
“Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed, half rising from her chair.
“What is it, miss? What’s wrong?” cried the housekeeper.
“Constance is in prison for the murder of Madame Zhenay!”
Chapter 15
“T
he situation looks bad for your friend, I’m afraid,” said Sergeant Dysart, returning to his desk with a sheaf of documents. “It says here, ‘Deceased discovered under pier with crushed skull. Accused apprehended next to body, with large stone.’ ”
“Who wrote that?” cried Arabella indignantly. “You must sack him at once! The fool has left out all the articles, as well as the past tense singular form of the verb ‘to be’!”
“It’s a faster way of writing, miss,” Frank explained. “A formal version is written up later, but this abbreviated style saves time in the field.”
“I thought you said the body was discovered at the seashore.”
“Yes, miss. Saves time there, too.”
The Bow Street office was littered with loose piles of papers obscuring a motley multitude of desks and tables. Unsightly wooden floors that cried for carpets revealed every scuff, stain, and splinter in the relentless light from naked windows that could only be
shuttered
—plunging the room into total darkness, or
un
—with no way of filtering the sun on rare days like today, when there was too much of it. A few hard benches, placed at random for the public’s inconvenience, stood against the dirty walls, where a ponderous clock ticked away the doleful minutes, heedless of the busy men who worked against it.
Arabella’s sense of order was offended by the place. Her fingers fairly itched to hang up curtains and set it to rights.
“Costanze could not have murdered Madame Zhenay,” she said with conviction, striving to maintain both her balance and her dignity upon a wobbly chair in front of Frank’s desk. “She hasn’t the sense to plan a course of action.”
“Well, perhaps she didn’t plan it. Perhaps it was a spur of the moment occurrence.”
Frank lifted off the first page of the preliminary report and read from the second: “Suspect apprehended with stone unable to account for self.”
“I’ve never met a stone that
could
account for itself,” sniffed Arabella, though she had to admit that Costanze never could, either. “What is that document, again?”
“The field notes section of the police record.”
“And what is that?”
“A report, written by the first officer to arrive at the scene of a crime. It’s a new idea, but a sound one, and destined to become standard practice.”
“Very sensible. What else does it say?”
“ ‘Deceased found floating in large puddle seawater. Depth: six inches.’ ”
“The tide was out, then?”
“I presume so. The report doesn’t indicate one way or another.”
“Don’t you find it odd that a member of the local constabulary should be taking a stroll on the beach while on duty? And that he just happened to find himself under the pier in time to apprehend Costanze, moments after she supposedly murdered Zhenay?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a constable found the body; it was a couple. A Mr. and Mrs. Fairbottom. Newlyweds, spending their honeymoon at Brighton. The husband held fast to Miss Worthington, whilst his wife went to inform the authorities.”
“I see. And I presume that the stone was admitted as evidence?”
“The which?”
“The alleged murder weapon. I should like to examine it.”
“I don’t believe anyone thought to bring it in. I don’t see it listed on the evidence report.”
Arabella flung up her hands.
“What have they got working down in Brighton, chimpanzees?”
“We’re doing our best, miss,” said Sergeant Dysart. “But it’s deuced difficult sometimes. Detection is still a very young science.”
“It’s more art than science, at this point,” replied Arabella, making an effort to control her impatience, “and bad art, at that. I am sorry, Frank; I did not mean to insult your profession. It is just that, if Costanze had really used this stone on Madame Zhenay, it would have been covered in blood, hair . . . bits of brain, perhaps. And if, as I suspect, it bore no traces of any such things, she should have been cleared of the murder charge by now. What else can you tell me?”
Frank consulted the report again, this time reading from the formal write-up: “ ‘The victim was last seen alive making her way to Eastbourne, where her companion was expecting her.’ ”
“Her companion?”
“Lady Ribbonhat,” Frank explained. “ ‘The two were planning to stay at an hotel there, where—’
”
Arabella interrupted him. “But Eastbourne is more than twenty miles from Brighton!”
“Twenty-four, miss . . . ‘where, according to the witness
. . .’ ”
“What witness?”
“That would be Lady Ribbonhat, again. We have been instructed to use official jargon as much as possible when writing up cases. You see? We
are
attempting to establish standards. Soon this kind of lingo will seem completely natural, though it’s bound to be a bit confusing to a lay person like yourself.”
“ ‘Lay person,’ ” said Arabella thoughtfully. “I like that expression.”
Frank suddenly became so engrossed in the report that his ears burned bright red from concentration. “Anyway,” he continued, “ ‘the victim and the witness were planning to meet, by mutual arrangement, at Eastbourne . . .’ ”
“Why is Lady Ribbonhat a witness? She didn’t actually see anything, did she?”
“We questioned her, miss. So we have to call her
something
.”
“Then why not call her ‘Lady Ribbonhat’?”
Frank read on: “ ‘In order to meet the witness’s son, Vice Admiral Seaholme, the Duke of Glen
deen,
who was going to be married to the victim. According to the witness—’ ”
“Frank,” said Arabella firmly. “Would you mind referring to the parties by name, rather than designation, in view of the fact that it is only I whom you are addressing, and not a fellow professional? I am only a ‘lay person,’ you know.”
The scarlet hue of concentration was spreading to Frank’s cheeks. “Very good, miss,” he said. “I’ll carry on reading from the final report. That’s got all the grammatical bits put back in.
“According to Lady Ribbonhat, she retired early, as the vic—
sorry, Madame Zhenay
—was not expected to arrive until very late that night.
Around noon the next day, the body was found floating in a large sea puddle beneath the Brighton pier. The limbs were scratched and bruised, and the back of the head was crushed. The suspect—
I mean, Miss Worthington
—was apprehended at the scene, with a large stone in her hands and unable to satisfactorily account for herself.”
He looked up and added, “A little digging on the part of the Brighton Police turned up Madame Zhenay’s blackmail attempt against Miss Worthington.”
“Frank! You
told
them about that?”
“I didn’t have to. A Brighton constable came in requesting to see any records we had pertaining to the accused. When you informed on Madame Zhenay, I had to make out a report, miss. That’s standard procedure.”
Arabella groaned. “So they’ve established a motive! How do you think the prosecution will present the case?”
“They’ll probably say that Miss Worthington lured Madame Zhenay to Brighton with regards to the blackmailing matter, promising to make her a payment of some kind. Naturally, Zhenay wouldn’t want her prospective mother-in-law to know she was a blackmailer, so she changed coaches at Eastbourne and proceeded to Brighton, planning to meet with the duke and Lady Ribbonhat later the following day. Then, at Brighton, she was done to death by the suspect under the pier.”
“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.”