Death Among the Ruins

Book 0: Arabella Beaumont Mystery

by Pamela Christie

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In the second in Pamela Christie's witty, deliciously unconventional Regency mystery series, Arabella Beaumont—courtesan and sleuth—discovers that the pursuit of art can be a dangerous thing. . . London's aristocrats pay handsomely for the company of courtesan Arabella Beaumont. Arabella, in turn, wisely invests her earnings in an art collection that will endure long after her legendary charms have faded. It's a decided blow, then, when her antiquities dealer is murdered before he can procure an item for which she paid dearly—a rare and provocative statue of Pan. Undaunted, Arabella decides to travel to Italy and locate the treasure herself. What begins as a delightful caprice soon takes on a sinister aspect. Arabella's quest appears to have made her a donna fatale, causing death and mayhem wherever she goes. A thing of beauty may be a joy forever, but Arabella's own life could be cut scandalously short unless she can locate the statue, and uncover the heart of an ever-deepening mystery. . . Praise For Death And The Courtesan "A delectable treat for the historical mystery lover to savor. You will be left eager for Arabella's next adventure!" —Teresa Grant, author of The Paris Affair "Historical mystery readers fond of arch and ribald takes on the genre will best appreciate Christie's debut." — Publishers Weekly

Release date: February 25, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Well,” said Belinda, “you have not sought my opinion, but I think he would look remarkably fearsome emerging from the shrubbery, all hard and excited. From that vantage point, anyone sitting in the pergola might imagine herself about to be ravished.”

“Perhaps,” replied Arabella, pensively. “All the same, I believe I shall place him on a pedestal, in the center of the reflecting pool.”

The Beaumont sisters were poring over a letter, and admiring the sender’s enclosed sketch of an ancient bronze. This, the letter asserted modestly, was only a crude portrait of the magnificent statue that had been recently discovered in the bowels of Herculaneum, an Italian city buried centuries earlier in a volcanic eruption. The author of the letter and the artist of the sketch were one and the same: a dealer in plundered antiquities who gratefully acknowledged receipt of the full purchase price.

“The workmen will have to tunnel in and bring it out, you see,” Arabella explained. “And the removal will be extremely dangerous, because of cave-ins and poisonous gas pockets. I expect that is why I was charged so much for it.”

“Well, for that,” said Belinda, “and for the extra bit.”

They studied the picture again. Arabella, who always liked to examine certain features in the best possible light, was using the magnifier.

“Yes,” she said. “I have seen hundreds, if not thousands of statues depicting naked manhood, Bunny, but this is the first I have ever beheld with two manhoods.”

“Hmm . . .” mused Belinda. “That short, slender one on top, and then the longer, thicker one beneath it . . . whatever must the sculptor have been thinking?”

“Oh, come now; you know very well what he was thinking! And once I install this piece in my garden, everyone else will be thinking it, too. Yes,” she said with a sigh, “you are probably right; I expect I have been charged more for the extra bit. And because the piece is so old,” she added, “and extremely beautiful.”

“. . . And because you are rich,” finished Belinda. “All the same, something about this does not feel quite right. Oughtn’t the statue to stay in the ground, with its dead owner? I mean, it is a kind of memorial now, is it not?”

Arabella put down the magnifier. “I wish you would not be so morbid, Bunny. The owner may very well have escaped the cataclysm, you know, and died years later, in Tarraconen-sis or someplace. Besides, this is Pan! Pan, in an amorous attitude! A doubly amorous attitude! Even if the owner did suffocate at home, what sort of memorial would that be?”

“I don’t know—a memorial to the perpetually stiff, perhaps.”

Peals of girlish laughter flowed out through the library door and along the passage, where the peerless Doyle was headed upstairs with an armful of freshly ironed flannel nightgowns, and the incomparable Fielding was toting a load of wood to the drawing room fireplace. It was autumn, and the nights were chilly now. So were the days, for the matter of that, and the one currently drawing to its close had pulled a thick mist over Brompton Park like a new shroud; all of a piece, without any holes, yet fitting so closely as to reveal the sharper angles of the trees and houses beneath it.

Arabella loved this season. The rich smell of the woods in Regent’s Park gladdened her heart when she took her walks there, the flame-colored leaves bringing out the deep auburn tones of her hair. She enjoyed reading by the fire, with a quilt thrown over her legs, and few events could so reliably elevate her spirits like donning a fur-lined, fur-trimmed pelisse before stepping into her carriage on her way to the theater. Most of all, though, she loved what autumn did to men—the way it made them want to snuggle up next to some warm female body and reward the owner of said body for favors bestowed. Gentlemen of her acquaintance were apt to be especially generous in the autumn.

The Duke of Glendeen, for example, her own particular protector when he wasn’t off fighting naval battles, had just presented her with six magnificent horses of a most unusual color. Hides like golden toast they had, with black manes and tails. Three of them, anyway. The other three were cream-colored, but they, too, had the dark manes and tails. Arabella had started a regular trend in carriage horses with these beauties: three each of two complementary colors, as opposed to the more traditional, perfectly matched sets. The idea was very new and widely imitated. And all she had done was to murmur one morning, as she and the duke lay together after a particularly vigorous quarter of an hour, that her carriage horses were tiring more easily, now that they were older. Puddles was always a generous patron—Arabella never wanted for anything—but six horses! And it wasn’t even her birthday! Yes, she adored the autumn.

Belinda did, too. But then, Belinda loved all the seasons, as she loved the whole world, being by nature a happy, tender, appreciative creature. The poor child was a trifle morose this evening, however, for the capricious princess regent had abruptly terminated their friendship without giving a reason, and Arabella had shewn her sister the sketch of the naughty statue to cheer her up. It had worked for a few minutes, but now that Belinda had seen it, enjoyed a laugh over it, and offered her opinion on where to put it, she was wistful again.

“I should be glad this has happened, I know; the woman is selfish and vulgar, and I am well rid of her.”

“Yes, you are! Only consider,” said Arabella. “What was the princess wearing, the last time that you saw her?”

“Oh! A profusion of colors, which jumped and clashed together like I do not know what, covered by an ill-fitting spencer of lilac satin! Her gown was cut so low that the tops of her nipples were exposed! I cannot recall the rest.”

“Not even her shoes?”

“Oh, yes! Half boots! Primrose-yellow ones, with the flesh of her fat legs hanging over the tops, and a cap like a pudding bag—with the pudding still in it!”

“Wait a bit,” cried Arabella. “Shakespeare has described that very thing!”

She opened The Taming of the Shrew, which she was reading for the fourth or fifth time, and leafed through it till she found Petrucchio’s scene with the haberdasher.

“A custard coffin!” she said triumphantly. “One would think the bard was describing modern apparel! How ever does he do that?”

But Belinda, briefly revived by the amusing memory, had grown listless again. “I was hoping that the princess would introduce me to someone I might marry—I do so hate being a burden on you, Bell!”

“You could not possibly be a burden, dear! You are a wonderful, darling companion, and the longer you stay with me, the better I shall be pleased.”

“Truly? Oh, I am glad somebody wants my company. Because it is humiliating to be dropped, even by a person as horrid as the Wolfen Buttock!” (This was the Beaumonts’ private nickname for the princess, whose title before her marriage was Caroline of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel.)

“Of course it is humiliating, Bunny. But you must try to forget about it. Because Lord Carrington is on the brink of proposing to you, and you need to look as pink-cheeked and sparkling-eyed as you possibly can, for him.”

Belinda smiled at this, and there stole across her countenance such an expression of dreamy contentment that it did her sister’s heart good to see it. But Bunny’s heavenward gaze was interrupted in its journey up the library wall by the portrait of Oliver Wedge that hung there, and her smile faded.

“Bell,” she said. “I own I do not understand why you keep that thing!”

Arabella regarded the picture with wistful affection.

“For three good reasons and one foolish one: as the last bequest of a condemned man, as a warning not to trust in surface appearances, and as a reminder to believe in myself—to recall that I may, with application, accomplish miracles.”

“With application . . . and my assistance, d’you mean?”

“Of course, Bunny! I should never have tried to save myself from the gallows, but for your urging!”

“And the fourth reason?”

Arabella rose and began to pace the room. “You have just had the three good ones. Can you not be satisfied with those?”

“No! I want the foolish one, as well!”

Arabella sighed with feigned reluctance—for really, she was all eagerness to tell it. “Because,” said she, stopping beneath the portrait, and gazing up at it, “he was the best lover I have ever had, or am ever likely to have.”

“Oh, Bell; how can you say so? With only one encounter, on an untidy desktop? It was probably just the danger that somebody might walk in upon you.”

“Pooh! I should not have cared if they had! But there is something in what you say: the danger.” She glanced out her window at the misty garden. “When . . . he was strangling me, I was certain I should die. But when he stopped, just for a moment, I felt . . . as though . . . I wanted to have his child.”

Belinda was shocked to the core. “That is the most perverted statement I have ever heard you utter!”

“I know. As I said, it was only for a moment. The feeling passed. But the memory of the feeling haunts me still.”

“Some people are addicted to danger,” said Belinda. “They seek it out, because it gives them a kind of thrill not otherwise obtainable. I truly hope that you are not one of those people—they have a tendency to die years before their time.”

“Me? Heavens, Bunny; what nonsense! I am perfectly happy as I am. Home at Lustings, with my library and my cook, my trout stream, my parchment ponies, and my aviatory. What more could I possibly want?”

“I’m sure I could not say, if you could not,” said Belinda with an injured air.

“I shall tell you, then,” said Arabella, pulling her sister up from the chair and enfolding her in her arms. “The love and constant support of the best, the dearest little sister in all the world!”

Belinda, mollified, returned her embrace, glancing down over Arabella’s shoulder at the sketch of the statue.

“Perhaps we should place him in the aviatory.”

“Oh, no, dear; he would be coated with droppings inside of a week!”

“Birds fly over the garden, too.”

“Yes, but he stands more of a chance outside.” Arabella picked up the letter and gazed at the little sketch with fond affection. “Now, why could not this have been the deity who created man in His own image?”

“Because,” said Belinda gravely. “Life is not fair.”

It was too late in the year for crickets, even in Italy. But a threatening storm lent the proper atmospherics as a knot of men stood waiting beside an excavation in the cold wind. Around them, the ghostly ruins of a dead city bore mute witness to their activities, and one of the company gave a nervous start as a palm frond rattled in the night air. All eyes were fixed upon the tunnel entrance.

“Here they come,” said one of the men.

“Quiet!” hissed another.

(The reader may wonder at anyone hissing that word, since it contains no sibilants in English, but these men were speaking Italian, in which language I presume the word has an S in it.)

Dark lanterns were lifted as four members of the company emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, struggling and grunting with the effort of a heavy burden, wrapped in rough sacking, borne amongst them. One of the men stumbled.

“Careful with that!” growled the fellow who seemed to be in charge. This might have been deduced from the thin piece of pressboard he carried, to which a large metal clip was attached and firmly clamped over a tablet of paper. For it is well established that no other accessory conveys more authority to the mind of civilized man, except a row of medals on the breast of a uniform, or possibly, a crown.

Having set their bundle upright upon the ground, the men proceeded to pad it with more sacking, followed by a layer of canvas and a girdle of ropes. Then they wrestled it onto a small donkey cart standing ready nearby, to which other similarly wrapped items had already been consigned.

“That’s the last of them,” said the fellow with the clipboard. “Now, let’s get clear of this place before—”

But the man’s remark, like his life, was suddenly cut short by a shovel, the assailant coming down from behind with such force that the back of the victim’s skull was cleft nearly in twain. At the same moment, an earsplitting thunderclap broke directly overhead, followed immediately by a downpour that drenched the men to the skin. Seizing the reins, one of their number leapt into the cart and drove it off, whilst the others grabbed up the tools and melted into the darkness, leaving only their dead companion behind.

John Soane, the brilliant classical architect, was an ethical man. And, as he had been the one to acquaint Arabella with the opportunity of purchasing the statue, he felt personally responsible for her loss.

She was touched by his concern, and read his letter aloud to Belinda, who, owing to her sister’s obvious dismay, attempted to repress the smile that rose unbidden to her lips. But Arabella saw it, just the same.

“May I ask what it is that you apparently find so amusing?” she asked severely. “I have just lost a good deal of money, you know; money which might have gone towards your dowry!”

This made no sense, for after all, the sum had been spent upon a statue. But Belinda knew better than to argue. It really was not fair, though; she had been happily constructing a miniature moon garden in a dish, when Arabella had found her on the glass-walled gardening porch adjoining the aviatory. Now, in addition to sculpting deep green recesses from baby’s tears and minuscule mosses, Belinda had also to negotiate the tightrope of Arabella’s volatile temper.

“I was not smiling at your situation, dear,” she said soothingly, “which is distressing, to be sure; but only at Mr. Soane’s curious way of expressing himself. Unless, of course, he really has lost his marbles.”

“He has. And I have lost my statue! At this moment, you and I are closer to financial ruin than at any other juncture of our lives, except for that time when Charles lost the house to Mr. Branscomb!”

This statement was not even remotely accurate, but Arabella was possessed of rather a peculiar attitude toward wealth, owing to her occupation and an inborn ability to plan ahead. In this she was most fortunate, for it is in the nature of courtesans to live lavishly, spend copiously, and die in ignominy. Miss Beaumont’s peers—or compatriots, rather; for Arabella had no peers—frequently spent all they had and considerably more, supporting lifestyles that rivaled the eastern potentates’. Our heroine, on the other hand, contented herself with a modest little manor house in a quiet corner of Brompton Park, which was nice enough, as neighborhoods go, but not so exclusive as Mayfair. She kept only six horses (though she did have rather a lot of coaches), hosted small but brilliant intellectual salons, ate and drank well, but not extravagantly. And whilst her counterparts were known to reserve entire wings in their enormous residences for the exclusive storage of ball gowns, Arabella contented herself with a single very large dressing room, and quickly disposed of any items therein that seemed duplicative.

She was keeping an eye to the future. And although she was presently rich, young, and desirable, she realized, rather sooner than most, that youth and allure would not always be hers. With careful planning, though, she might at least enjoy a comfortable living to the end of her days. So Arabella wisely avoided risky schemes that promised and often failed to deliver gigantic dividends, and kept her money safely tucked away in the Bank of England, with herself the sole signatory on the account. She was touchy concerning financial setbacks.

“I don’t imagine you are actually planning to call upon Mr. Soane,” said Belinda, who was so accustomed to her sister’s articulated poverty fears that she scarcely heard them anymore. “He only seems to be suggesting it as a courtesy. Besides, I do not imagine there can be much to say upon the subject.”

Belinda had stated the case with her usual accuracy. There really was nothing more to be said: The dealer was dead and the statue was gone. But Arabella had long wished to see the inside of John Soane’s house, which she had often heard described, and a visit thither would soothe, somewhat, the sting of her disappointment.

The front wall at No. 13, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, stood out—literally—from the structures surrounding it, for three pick-a-back loggias were being appended to its façade. The pavement was littered with tools, scaffolding, and large slabs of Portland stone, and Arabella had to pick up her skirts to make her way through the mess, showing off her shapely calves to a gang of vocally appreciative workmen.

Soane himself came to the door to bid her welcome, wearing a kind expression and a regrettable auburn wig. “How d’ye do, Miss Beaumont?” cried he, warmly pressing her hands. “I am glad to see you! Come, we’ll have tea in the plaister room. This is such a bad business. Oh, not the tea, I mean the art theft, of course.”

John Soane’s house was so curiously and densely decorated with plaster casts, framed drawings and paintings, models of antique buildings, and Neoclassical sculpture that it more closely approximated an art gallery than a dwelling. Any architect worth his salt collected such things, but in most cases the collections were confined to a room or two at the top of the house. In fact, Soane did keep a workshop for his apprentices upstairs, and generously supplied it with reference materials of this type, but his collection went considerably beyond mere professional interest: He lived, breathed, and dreamt architecture, and the house was a physical manifestation of the inner workings of his exceptional mind.

Fortunately, Mrs. Soane was not the sort of wife who says, “Take all this truck out of here, John! The Ladies’ Society for the Promotion of Cleaner Homes will be meeting in the parlor in three quarters of an hour!” She bore the same love of these odd bits and pieces as he did, and was all in favor of his peculiar notions regarding their placement.

The tour of the premises took the better part of an hour, for, in addition to escorting his guest round the half-constructed rooms and explaining exactly what he planned on doing with them, Soane had shewn Arabella the sketches for his breakfast parlor, with its handkerchief ceiling and central oculus, and read aloud from his construction journal. But at last a paint sample for the new library (Pompeian Red) reminded him why she had come, and he quickly ushered her into the plaister room.

This was not so much a room as a three-story alcove, with small balconies on either side at the second-story level. On one of them, Arabella espied a little tea table all set and ready for use.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, gazing about her in rapturous delight. And for some time, that was all she could say.

The four walls, each of which bore the impress of a soaring arch, were completely covered in medallions, urns, Greek key friezes, nautiloid spirals, cornices, plaques, molded lions’ heads, and other architectural fragments. One of the busts bore an uncanny likeness to Arabella’s brother, Charles, and without thinking, she asked, “How is your son, George?”

“I have no idea,” her host replied stiffly. “Nor do I care.”

George Soane, a chum of Charles Beaumont’s, was a notorious reprobate and his father was ashamed of him. For the great architect was a man of high moral character and impeccable standards, this private meeting with Arabella notwithstanding: Mrs. Soane was absent from home, you see.

A careless sort of man would not have minded whether his wife were present or not. Arabella was there on business, after all, and there was nothing sexual between them. But persons of refined sensibilities know that proper and improper ladies must always be kept apart, one from the other, lest their simultaneous occupation of a room, or even a building, impart a stain upon the person of unsullied reputation, which no amount of prayer, good works, or blameless conduct might ever eradicate. It was most regrettable; Martha Soane and Arabella might have been great friends, if only the latter had submitted to starvation rather than take up a life of ill repute.

At the mention of George, an awkward silence settled over the table for a few moments. But then Arabella asked whether she should pour, and everything was all right again.

“I am so relieved that you have come,” said Soane.

“Relieved?”

“Quite. Having been the cause of your losing so much money, I feared that you might not wish to continue the friendship.”

“You must have a poor opinion of me, then,” she replied, “to assume that I would terminate our acquaintance over something that was not your fault and which could not have been foreseen! Besides, you warned me there would be risks.”

“That’s right, I did, didn’t I? Still, when a sensible person takes a chance on a risky proposition, it must be because she has judged any risk to herself unlikely. Obviously, she does not expect the worst to happen, else she would have kept her purse strings firmly tied in the first place.”

“Well,” said Arabella, “I fully intend to recover it.”

“Your money?”

“Heavens, no! That has surely been dispersed to the seven winds by now! I meant the bronze! The thieves may still have it. Or they may have sold it to someone else. If I can discover the statue’s whereabouts, I shall offer its present custodian an extremely generous price for it. I have always wanted to see Italy, and this unfortunate circumstance affords the perfect opportunity.”

“But surely,” said Soane, biting into a watercress sandwich with great care, lest his false teeth should come out, “the Italian authorities are already dealing with the situation.”

“Yes,” she replied, “and I only hope that I may find my statue before they do!”

“To be frank, I should not go near Naples just now, if I were you. A general insurrection has long been expected, and the situation might erupt at any time.”

Arabella found politics dull, and always avoided reading about it or listening to it, so she had not the slightest idea what her host was talking about.

“Well, nobody is mad at us, are they?”

“No; Britain is sympathetic to the partisan cause.”

“Then I have nothing to fear.”

Soane regarded his visitor with the affable indulgence typi. . .