“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 with 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
D
im-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 . . . goodness! 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.
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.”