Death and the Cyprian Society

Book 0: Arabella Beaumont Mystery

by Pamela Christie

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Arabella Beaumont, courtesan, adventuress, and sleuth, romps her way through Regency London into a dangerous affair of blackmail. . . Arabella Beaumont is the fortunate possessor of one of England's most celebrated bodies--with a formidable business brain to match. Her latest venture: transforming a London hotel into a social club for courtesans. To afford the lavish renovations, Arabella needs her featherbrained friend Constance Worthington to repay the fortune she owes her. And now that Constance has a wealthy protector, Pigeon Pollard, she's finally good for the cash. Alas, the imprudent Constance has also been dallying with Lady Ribbonhat's footman, and a mysterious blackmailer is threatening to tell all. If Constance pays up, there will be no money left for Arabella's renovations;if she doesn't, the cuckolded Pigeon is bound to leave her penniless. But as the case escalates rapidly from extortion to murder, Arabella's life, as well as her fortune, hangs precariously in the balance. . . Praise For Death And The Courtesan "Saucy. . .the effervescent and free-thinking Arabella is a delightful heroine." -- The Bellingham Herald "Historical mystery readers fond of arch and ribald takes on the genre will best appreciate Christie's debut." -- Publishers Weekly

Release date: December 30, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 306

Sample

Imagine, reader, a small, secret room, hidden away from the world; a room so private as to be without windows, its only illumination provided by a few candles and a dirty skylight. A room—well, more of a closet, really—with nothing in it but a bed. And what more would one need? A decanter of plum cordial and two glasses, perhaps? But those are extra!

Now picture an amorous couple in this chamber. Young and comely, the partners murmur softly as they assist one another to undress: White Alençon lace and velvet livery whisper over smooth, young limbs and drop to the floor. Shifting light from passing clouds filters through the skylight, and in the patterns that dance upon the wall, the heads of this couple, close together, form the shadow of a single heart.

Passionate moans. A rustling of sheets. The mingled scents of candle grease and vanilla toilet water, carried aloft by the flaming wicks, rise toward the ceiling, where a row of human eyes peers down at our lovers from behind the loose weave of the burlap wall covering.

Only the occasional lewd gleam of an eyeball betrays the presence of these silent watchers, each of whom has paid half as much again as the pair utilizing the bed—this couple who, all unknowing, has provided an afternoon’s entertainment for a collection of dissipated degenerates.

“Well . . . ? How do I look?” Constance demanded, bursting into the pergola and thrusting her homely face at the younger Beaumont sister. “Am I not beautiful?”

“Of course,” said Belinda kindly. “I have always thought so.”

Constance flung her hideous reticule toward the opposite bench, causing Belinda’s little greyhound to leap aside with a terrified yelp.

“No,” she said, “but I mean, especially. Now. Am I not beautiful now?”

To be frank, she was not. With her thin lips and powerful jaw, Miss Worthington bore an unsettling resemblance to men in pantomimes who pretend to be women for comic effect. That her breasts were unusually large only served to heighten the impression, for males invariably exaggerate this attribute when they cross-dress, even when they are not trying to be funny.

“She’s had something done,” murmured Arabella, making an entry in her stud book.1 “Something to her face or hair or something.”

“Yes, I have,” said Constance defensively. “I’ve spent the entire morning at La Palais de Beautay!”

“Oh! Have you really?” cried Belinda, and she began to chant from the advertisements:


“—From cotillion to coffin!” muttered Arabella, under her breath.

“Bell says their claims are preposterous,” Belinda explained, “and she is a very clever woman, but the rest of us do so want to believe in miracles, don’t we? Well . . . ?” she asked. “Is it true, then? Are their methods efficacious?”

“Apparently not,” replied Constance bitterly. “I have just spent thirty-eight pounds for a series of skin enhancifiers, and no one can tell the difference!”

She plumped down on the bench next to Belinda, heedless of the number of little violet and lavender cushions she squashed or displaced.

“I can see a difference,” said Arabella, without looking up.

“You can?”

“Yes. Your sprint through the upper garden has pinkened your cheeks.”

“ ‘Pinkened’? Is that even a word?”

“It is now,” Arabella grumbled resentfully. Belinda was on the point of leaving for Scotland. The sisters had brought their small occupations with them from the house in order to spend as much of their remaining time together as possible—Arabella, as has been seen, had brought her stud book, and Belinda was knitting an athletic supporter for a gentleman of whom she was fond—and the advent of Constance to their poignant garden idyll had not been welcome.

“Now, Bell,” chided Belinda, who was more polite than Arabella was, “La Palais de Beautay is being touted all over town, by some of London’s most famous beauties.”

“I am one of London’s most famous beauties, and I am no tout!”

“Some of them, I said. Perhaps, Constance, as it’s a series of treatments, the effects won’t be noticeable till your fourth or fifth session.”

“This was my fourteenth!” wailed the visitor. “And anyhow, you are not to call me ‘Constance’ anymore. It’s ‘Costanze’ now.”

Belinda blinked. “ ‘Costanze’? Whatever for? The name scarcely suits you!”

“That is what you think!” replied Costanze with withering scorn.2 “Madame Zhenay, La Palais’s proprietor—‘la’ stands for ‘the’ by the way did you know that I didn’t—thinks otherwise for ’twas she herself gave it me along with this!”

She thrust her jingling red glove at Belinda, as though to punch her.

“Dear God!” exclaimed Arabella, looking up at last and leaning across the table for a closer inspection. “What is that?”

“My new-pink-and-blue-enamel-flowers-and-birds-and-crystals-charm-bracelet-on-a-gilt-chain-with-silver-coin-pendant-clasp. Don’t you wish that you had one?”

“Not particularly,” said Arabella. “I have just donated all my useless and ugly things to the Effing jumble sale.”

“It is exceeding pretty,” Belinda lied. “Did Madame Zhenay give it you for being such a faithful customer?”

“Well, in a way. She sold me this new-pink-and-blue-enamel-flowers-and-birds-and-crystals-charm-bracelet-on-a- gilt-chain-with-silver-coin-pendant-clasp for a very reasonable price.”

“Bracelets are usually sold in pairs,” observed Arabella. “Don’t tell me you actually possess two of those monstrosities!”

“No,” replied Costanze defensively, “Madame Zhenay says single bracelets are all the rage just now!”

“So she has doubled her profit by selling one to you, and the mate to some other booby,” said Arabella. “How much were you charged for this?”

“Twenty-seven pounds. But it is worth a great deal more.”

“Oh? I suppose Madame told you that, too, did she?”

“Naturally! Otherwise I should have had no idea what a new-pink-and-blue-enamel—”

“Costanze, dear,” said Belinda, fingering the hideous dangly bits. “What do you call this thing for short?”

“There is no short,” Costanze replied. “It’s simply my new-pink-and—”

“Whilst you are here,” said Arabella, “I should prefer that you refer to it—if refer to it you must—as a bracelet.”

Costanze sniffed. “Madame Zhenay believes in calling things by their true names and so do I! ’Tis the fashion these days.”

“If Madame Zhenay believed in calling things by their true names,” said Arabella, “she wouldn’t be calling herself ‘Madame Zhenay’! The woman’s probably as common as come-ask-it! I’ll hazard she wanted a French-sounding appellation, but not speaking the language and fearing to be found out by the many who do, she has opted instead for an Assyrian spelling. Nobody round here speaks that.”

Costanze’s intrusion had unsettled everyone, and now that she had apparently run out of things to talk about, an awkward silence fell over the little company. Fortunately, the parlor maid appeared a moment later, carrying a tea tray piled with delicate lavender cups and saucers. For it was a Lustings custom to offer tea to any visitors who stopped by, regardless of the hour, and even if it were only Constance.

“Look at this, Fielding,” said Arabella, holding out her visitor’s arm to display the gaudy bauble. “What do you think? I’ll let you have it for two and six.”

The arm’s owner squawked in protest.

“No, thank you, miss,” said the parlor maid, expertly laying the cloth and setting out the sweet and savory dishes and the little, golden teaspoons. “I don’t hold wi’ trash such as that.”

Her mistress raised an eyebrow. “I think you must be mistaken, Fielding. This bibelot cost Miss Worthington twenty-seven pounds! It is a rare and costly piece!”

“Your friend was rooked then, wasn’t she, miss? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and fetch the teapot now.”

Arabella gave Costanze her arm back.

“Madame Zhenay!” she sneered to herself.

“Well,” said Belinda, not unreasonably, “La Palais de Beautay has made pots of money, so I cannot see that it signifies how the proprietor chuses to spell her name.”

“Oh!” cried Costanze. “Pots of money! That reminds me of something I was going to say! Do you remember that forty-six thousand pounds I owe you, Bell?”

“Do I remember it?” Arabella asked. “Do I remember it? Constance, I cannot see your face or hear your voice without being somehow reminded of it. I cannot read the words ‘constant’ or ‘worthy’ or ‘ton’ without speculating on how soon you will be able to repay me.”

And then, because this person always had to have things explained in a particular way, she added, “Yes, Constance, I do remember that forty-six thousand pounds you owe me. What about them? Do you recall what I taught you?”

“I . . . uh. I am to tell Pigeon everything, and then ask him to write me . . .”

“No,” said Arabella.

“Write you a checque for that amount. Only it’s to say ‘pay to bearer’ instead of your name. And you are to come and collect . . .”

“No . . .”

“That is, he is to collect . . .”

“Constance . . .”

“I told you, Bell; it’s Costanze now.”

“What is to happen to the checque, Miss Worthington?”

“Pigeon will post it to you.”

Pigeon Pollard was Costanze’s wealthy new protector, who was going to be recompensing Arabella for all the money his mistress had scrounged from her over the years. Mr. Pollard did not know he was going to do this, but Arabella, who had kept meticulous records of every penny Constance had ever borrowed from her, felt certain that he would. The payments were to be disguised as his inamorata’s monthly allowances, and Mr. Pollard was going to be told that Arabella would be keeping the money in trust for her. After all, if Pigeon was so mad about Constance, how bright could he be?

“Very good, Constance,” said Arabella. “Because . . . ?”

“Because, if I were to bring it here, I should either lose it or spend it on the way over!”

“Très bien,” said Arabella, passing her a plate of confections. “That ‘stands for’ very good. Would you care for a coconut biscuit?”

“Oh, yes! Might I have two?”

“Just this once. Remember, though, you don’t want to lose your figure, or you might lose Pigeon, and then where should we be?”

“I hate to think.”

“Yes, dear; I know you do.”

Fielding returned with the teapot, and Arabella distributed the fragrant libation with a practiced hand.

“Pigeon is such an odd nickname!” Belinda mused, tipping a little scalding tea into her saucer to cool it. “Where does it come from?”

“Oh, from his friends, I expect,” replied Costanze.

“No, we know that,” said Arabella. “Bunny meant, why? Does he breed pigeons? Or race them? Is he excessively fond of hunting them or eating them? Does he look like a pigeon? Is he an easy mark? Did he return from some exotic locale, speaking ‘pidgin’? Or was his wife overheard to have called him that, once?”

“ ‘Speaking Pigeon’?” asked Costanze. “Do you mean to tell me that they have their own language? How interesting! I must ask him!”

“Constance. You will do no such thing.”

“No I shall. Indeed I shall! If Mr. Pollard can speak to pigeons he must be able to understand what they answer back mustn’t he? And there is a particular question that I have always wanted to ask them!”

“Oh, Lord!” murmured Arabella. “If she asks him whether he can speak to birds, he will certainly drop her, and then I may just go and sing for my money!”

“Not necessarily,” said Belinda. “I’m told he loves it when she talks nonsense.”

“Well, he would have to, wouldn’t he? Even so, there are limits to how much a man can stand, despite his predilections.”

Here the reader might well wonder at the Beaumont sisters conversing in this open fashion before the very person they were disparaging, but they knew their friend of old; knew everything there was to know about her, which was not a great deal, and one of those things was the fact that she never marked what people said unless they addressed her directly. Hence, you could sit next to Constance and talk about her in a normal tone of voice to a third party or a roomful of third parties, with full confidence that she would fail to heed you. This was especially likely if she had something else upon which to focus her attention meanwhile, and in this case, like the coconut biscuits absorbing her tea, the process of dunking and eating them had completely absorbed Miss Worthington’s powers of concentration.

“For instance,” said Arabella, spearing a lemon slice with an exquisite little fork, “what do you suppose it is that Constance has always wanted to ask of pigeons?”

“Why they keep defiling Charles the First?”

“That would be the obvious thing, wouldn’t it? No; it has to be something much sillier, even, than that. Something so stupid that neither you nor I could possibly anticipate it. Let us see, shall we? Constance,” said Arabella, “what question have you always wanted to ask of pigeons?”

Her guest looked up, a few moist crumbs adhering to her chin. “How they fly,” she said, around a mouthful of biscuit and tea.

“How they fly,” Arabella repeated slowly. “And why should you want to ask them that?”

“Well so that I may learn to fly too of course! I should have thought that was obvious! Really Arabella you should try to use your head a little more.”

Belinda choked on her tea, and had to be thumped on the back for a bit. When she had recovered, Arabella addressed herself to Costanze once again.

“Do you really think I should use my head?” she asked. “Why is that?”

“Because,” replied Miss Worthington gravely, “our brains are like hedgehogs. Without regular exercise they simply go to sleep.”

Arabella and Belinda exchanged glances.

“Oh!” said Costanze “That is what I was going to tell you! Last night . . . I saw a hedgehog! No. No, I didn’t. Last night as my brain was going to sleep . . . Yes! That’s it! Last night as I was going to sleep I couldn’t. Not for the longest time. Because I was upset over that letter that came under the door but I’m all right now; I just had to get used to the idea.”

“What idea, Constance?”

“Well, someone knows a secret of mine that I never told anybody and they won’t tell anybody either as long as I pay them . . . pay them . . . I forget how much. It’s in the letter. So I won’t be able to pay you that forty-six thousand pounds because you see I need to pay it to this other person whoever he is because if I don’t pay him he will tell Pigeon what I’ve been getting up to lately with Lady Ribbonhat’s footman and then Pigeon will cast me off and I shall be a pauper again.”

“What . . . did you . . . say?”

“Don’t look at me like that, Bell! It isn’t my fault!”

“Not your fault? You’ve been having it off with Ribbonhat’s footman! How is that not your fault?”

“Oh!” Costanze squawked. “You know my secret, too! That must mean that you wrote that letter! You . . . you . . .”

“Shut your cock pocket3!” said Arabella sternly. “Here it is: Either you find a way to pay me back the entire forty-six thousand pounds by this time next year, and make me a substantial payment six weeks from today, or I will take you to court, and instruct the bailiffs to seize all your convertible property whatsoever. That means all your gowns, all your jewels—excepting that bracelet—the house Pigeon has made over to you, your carriage, and your horses. Do you understand? I have just bought an hotel, and I need that money. I need it soon, or I shall go to debtor’s prison. That is where you will be. And if I am there because of you, I will make it my business to pinch, scratch, slap, and cuff you every day, Constance. And when I cannot sleep at night, owing to the fleas, I will come over to your pile of straw and kick you all over, till you are as tender as a veal cutlet!”

Costanze was wailing by this time, and her persecutor suffered a momentary qualm, for society abhors the mistreatment of mental defectives, and regards such behavior as cruel and uncivilized. But Arabella was able to reassure herself that insofar as Constance was concerned, extreme measures were often necessary, in order to make the poor little moron understand that she had erred.

“I want my handkerchief!” sniffled the moron, fumbling amongst the bench cushions. “Where is it?”

“In that ridicule reticule, I expect,” grumbled Arabella.

“But where’s that?”

“You flung it through the moon window4 when you barged in here.”

“What? Why ever didn’t you tell me?! It will have landed in the brook and gone all the way to sea by now!”

And in the blink of an eye, Costanze had scrambled down the little hill and run off along the stream bank, shrieking as she went, as if the purse might hear her, answer her, and so be pulled out again.

Arabella, seething all to herself, plucked a lavender-tinted flower from one of the stems twined round a pergola column and proceeded, methodically, to tear it to fragments. A veritable study in anger, she might have sat for a portrait of Alecto, and Belinda almost fancied she could see the giant wings of vengeance sprouting from her sister’s shoulder blades.

“Do not think about this now, Bell,” she said quietly. “Let it settle for a bit. We can decide what is to be done after Costanze leaves.”

“If she leaves,” growled her sister.

In the distance they could see Miss Worthington returning, in her green-striped frock, bright red gloves, and blue bonnet with brown flowers.

“Why on Earth does she dress like that?” asked Arabella, in an effort to distract her thoughts. “Has she no maid to guide her sartorial choices? Does she never look into a mirror?”

“You know how Costanze is,” said Belinda, as she buttered a muffin. “Stubborn as an ox, and equally as intelligent.”

Cara followed the buttering activity with melting eyes. Her tail barely moved, and the rest of her stayed as still as a statue until at last her mistress fed her half.

“Hmm,” said Arabella. “That is interesting.”

“What is?”

“Your experiment. I presume you are trying to discover whether a miniature greyhound, grown fat enough, will snap its legs off with its own weight.”

“Cara will have plenty of opportunities for exercise once we get to Scotland. The park at Redwelts is said to be enormous.”

“So I have heard. I shall miss you sorely, Bunny.”

“And I you! We must promise to write one another every—”

“Oh!” wailed Costanze, bursting into the pergola for the second time that morning and practically running into Fielding, who had just arrived to clear away the tea things, “it’s gone, it’s gone! I shall never see it more!”

“See what more?” asked Arabella testily.

“My reticule! My favorite one! Such a gay yellow silk! Such a profusion of maroon beads and gray rosettes! I’ll never find another like it! Never! Never!”

“Was there something important inside it?” asked Belinda.

“How should I know? You don’t suppose I go around remembering the contents of my reticule all day, do you? I shall simply have to stay here until the tide turns and brings it back in again which won’t be for some hours I suppose. Fledgling or whatever your name is,” said Costanze, addressing herself to the maid, “go and tell Cook that I am staying to supper.”

“Do no such thing, Fledgling!” Arabella commanded.

With a crisp nod to her mistress, Fielding gathered up the loaded tray and returned to the house.

“It isn’t a tidal creek, Costanze,” said Belinda, who had collected her knitting and was carrying on with the athletic supporter. “And even if it were, you could scarcely expect the return to bring your property back to you! The reticule will have been waterlogged and sunk long ago.”

Costanze looked blank, so Belinda tried again.

“It is a freshwater stream, you see.”

Still, nothing.

“In other words,” explained Arabella, “it flows in only one direction.”

“That is what you think,” said Costanze.

Arabella suddenly found that she had reached the end of her patience.

“No!” she cried. “That is what I know! Here!” Whereupon she withdrew the repulsive accessory from under the cushion where she’d hidden it, and hurled it at the owner. “Now, go home!”

“I’ll thank you not to speak to me in that tone!” said Costanze coldly.

“Consider yourself fortunate that I am speaking to you at all!” cried Arabella. “A person less able to govern her impulses would have kicked you! I am going for a walk, Bunny, because if I remain here any longer, I shall end by throttling this prittle-prattling numbskull!”

Whereupon, Arabella strode off to the house without taking leave of the company, determined to collect her hat and gloves and be gone.

Costanze leaned back against a pillar, smiling with satisfaction.

“Well,” she said, dangling her recovered reticule by the strings and holding it out to Belinda. “Here it is, if you wish to see what I keep in it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Costanze! Why should I care what you keep in your reticule? Can’t you see how you’ve upset Arabella?”

“I’ve upset Arabella!? When she tried to steal this bag? Surely, Belinda, it is I who should be upset and did you mark the harsh manner in which your sister spoke to me I am certain that you must have for how could you have missed it?”

Here Costanze paused to open the bag and ponder its innards, releasing, as she did so, the scent of vanilla toilet water in an aggressively concentrated form. She began to recite the contents aloud, whether her listener would hear her or no:

“A large pin in case I am ever accosted by someone I don’t fancy; a handkerchief with half a sandwich wrapped in it—it is hard as stone now but that is scarce to be wondered at as I placed it in here more than a week since; another handkerchief without a sandwich; the blackmailer’s letter; a throat lozenge that I barely sucked on as I did not fancy the taste . . .”

“What?” said Belinda, dropping a stitch.

“A throat lozenge. It is stuck to the handkerchief-without-a-sandwich-in-it now but I had to spit it out because it tasted of horehound which I simply cannot—”

“Have you got the blackmailer’s letter there?”

“Yes, that’s what I said Belinda I wish you would heed me when I—”

“May I have it, please?”

The letter was handed over.

“I need to borrow this,” said Belinda, tucking it into her bosom.

“You may keep it if you like; I was going to burn the horrid thing but I brought it over here to show to Arabella so that she could see for herself that I was telling the truth only I forgot that I had it about me. She is always accusing me of falsehoods and today she was especially abusive I thought; didn’t you think she was? What have I ever done to her that she should use me thus?”

“I’ll tell you what you have done,” said Belinda. “You have been indiscreet, and your foolish behavior has jeopardized Arabella’s financial standing.” She saw that this was not getting through. “By indulging in dangerous practices,” she said, “you have risked other people’s livelihoods for your own selfish pleasures.”

Costanze. . .