Free Death and the Cyprian Society by Pamela Christie Page A

unlovely sounds of him being sick out the library window.
    “Waste of a good dinner, that,” Arabella remarked.
    “Yes, miss,” replied Fielding. “Cook will be furious!”
    “Let’s not tell her, then.”

    Two days later, the Duke of Glen deen stood once more upon Arabella’s doorstep. Outwardly imposing in his gold-braided, brass-buttoned, medal-bestrewn naval officer’s uniform, he was inwardly wondering how soon he might get through the tedious preliminaries with Arabella, and so proceed to the main event: There wasn’t much time left before he had to catch his ship. But as he was lifting the rhinoceros-headed knocker, the front door swung open and the lady herself appeared, obviously on the point of departure.
    “Why, Puddles!” she cried in astonishment. “Had I been informed of your coming, I should not have made plans to be elsewhere!”
    This was meant as a not-so-subtle hint that he had breached decorum in failing to fix the time and date of his visit in advance. But the duke was too incensed to take it.
    “I say, Arabella,” he said, frowning and removing his gold-braided bicorn. “You might have waited till I’d sailed before keeping assignations with other men!”
    Now it was Arabella’s turn to bristle. “And you ought to know me well enough by now, Henry, to realize that I would never do such a thing! As a matter of fact, I was on the way to my club, to quiz some witnesses.”
    “Witnesses? To what?”
    She sighed and opened the door wider. “You had better come in and sit down,” she said. “This will take some time to explain.”
    All the while she was describing what had happened with Constance, the blackmailer, and the witless witnesses, the duke roared with laughter till he got a stitch in his side, and Arabella began to hope that Glen deen might volunteer to provide her with the funds she so desperately needed. She was not broke, exactly, but at the rate the construction and other costs were mounting, she soon would be. However, after Arabella had finished her story, as the duke sat wiping his eyes and sipping from a tumbler of water, he made it quite clear that she was on her own.
    “I told you not to start this club, Bell,” he said, rising from the couch and reaching for his hat. “I won’t pay for it, you know; makes me look like a whoremonger.”
    The duke was the sort of man who can only entertain one idea at a time, and it wasn’t till he was driving away that he realized he had forgotten to press for his farewell frolic. By that time he was halfway to the dock, and it was too late to go back again.
    Directly after he left, Arabella went upstairs to take leave of her niece.
    “Where are you going, Aunt Bell?” asked the child weakly.
    “I must talk with some people, dearest—but I promise to be back soon.” She smoothed the bedclothes and tucked them under Eddie’s chin. “Doyle and Mrs. Janks will look after you whilst I’m gone. Cook is poaching a lovely chicken for your luncheon, and I want you to eat every bite.”
    “I shall try. Will you come back in time to sit with me?”
    “Probably not, dearest.”
    “But I shall be lonely!”
    “No, you won’t. You will be sleeping. And if you are better by this evening, I shall read to you.”
    “Oh! Shall you? What from?” cried Eddie.
    “A new collection of old German stories that I think you will like—they’re full of witches and wolves. In one of them, a lady is popped naked into a barrel with nails driven through it, and dragged along the street by horses till she dies.”
    “Is she a bad lady, then?”
    “Yes; a terrible, wicked lady!”
    “Oh,” said Eddie. “I like it better when such things happen to good ladies.”
    Arabella was shocked. “Why ever do you say that?”
    “Because when awful things happen to the wicked, we cannot help but feel glad, and it is not right to take joy in the suffering of others. But when mishaps befall the virtuous, we get to feel sorry for them. Sympathy is a