The Venetian Venture (10 page)

‘Remarkable,’ Cedric said.

‘Precisely,’ purred Felix.

The next day, returning from their evening ramble (or
passeggiata
as Felix preferred to call it), they found a small white envelope on the table by the front door evidently left there by Hope-Landers. Cedric glanced at it casually and then turning to Felix said, ‘Oh, this would seem to be for you.’

Felix was startled. ‘For me? Really? Perhaps it’s from Cousin Violet, though I can’t think why she would want to—’

‘Oh there’s no postmark, it’s local; delivered by hand. Look.’ Cedric handed Felix the envelope.

Puzzled, Felix scrutinised the meticulous script. ‘How odd. Surely not a bill already! We’ve only been here a short while.’

‘Could be I suppose; although in England tradesmen’s envelopes are invariably brown – and in my experience
crumpled. This is pristine. Though I daresay Italian style permeates all classes.’

Releasing the dog Felix pocketed the letter and they embarked on the stairs.

‘So who’s it from?’ Cedric asked as they reclined on their separate sofas in the salon.

‘What?’

‘The letter, who’s it from?’

‘Oh yes of course, the letter. I’d quite forgotten that. All this sightseeing it quite tires one out!’ Felix fished in his pocket and reaching for the paperknife on the bureau slit open the envelope.

My dear Sir
, the words ran,

‘Not sure what this is all about,’ Felix said, ‘but it’s from a chap called Carlo who wants to come here tomorrow night. Seems to think Violet has a book of his. What do you think?’

He passed the note to Cedric who read it through carefully. ‘I wonder where he acquired his English, Miss Prendergast’s Academy for the Cultured & Aspiring? I like the myriad gems bit – very dulcet!’

‘Blow the style. What do you think he wants? And shall we be “
a casa
” tomorrow evening?’

‘No reason not to be. Doubtless we can squeeze him in amidst the
myriad
demands of our social whirl!’ Cedric scanned the letter again. ‘Carlo Roberto,’ he mused. ‘You don’t think it’s the same Carlo that Lucia Borgino was talking about, the one she was going to introduce Rosy to and then changed her mind?’

Felix shrugged. ‘Possible I suppose: he appears to read books. Ring the number, it won’t hurt to confirm.’

Cedric tried the number but there was no answer. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ he remarked. ‘Meanwhile I must get ready.’

‘Get ready for what?’ Felix asked.

‘I told you: the soirée musicale at the Goldoni. I think there are still tickets if you’d care to come.’

Felix shook his head. ‘Too fatigued from the rigours of the day, dear boy: one needs a soothing evening. I’ll have a light snack and then curl up with Caruso and my embroidery.’

‘Don’t tell me you brought that with you!’

‘But naturally – I take it everywhere. After all, music isn’t the only thing that soothes the savage breast.’

‘But you don’t have a savage breast.’

‘I might just develop one if you don’t hurry up and leave me in peace!’ Felix closed his eyes.

Snack, dog and embroidery did their work and Felix was suitably soothed. In fact after a couple of hours he was soothed enough to contemplate a short stroll and a
digestivo
. He glanced at his watch. Cedric wouldn’t be back for at least an hour; time enough to have a little wander and explore that rather charming little campo behind the palazzo … And he
might
of course drop in on that corner bar the gondoliers seemed to patronise. After all one was always being encouraged to fraternise with the locals … He smiled and sleeked his hair in the mirror.

When Felix returned he found that Cedric had preceded him and was lying on the sofa with what could only be described as a beatific expression on his face. It was a face that was normally fairly immobile, but that night it was suffused with a look both barmy and inebriated.

‘Good concert was it?’ Felix enquired.

‘
Fantastico
,’ Cedric sighed.

‘Delighted to hear that. So what was so good about it?’

‘What wasn’t?’ came the slurred reply.

Felix went over to the cocktail cabinet and mixed himself a drink, carefully omitting to offer one to Cedric.

‘But what in particular?’ he persisted. ‘You clearly enjoyed it.’

‘Oh yes, dear boy, but not something you would understand.’

‘Try me,’ Felix said evenly.

There was a lengthy pause as Cedric evidently mused. ‘It was,’ he pronounced, ‘a sort of exquisite harmony of Bach,
Borodin, and Noël Coward; a melange so potent I thought I would lose my mind!’

‘I think you have,’ retorted Felix dryly.

‘Hmm, per … haps,’ Cedric replied, and passed out.

On the dot of six the following evening the bell sounded and a voice on the intercom announced itself as Carlo Roberto.

‘
Un momento. Scendo subito!
’ Felix announced with a flourish. And feeling rather pleased with himself trotted down the staircase to welcome his guest.

He pulled open the heavy door and was confronted by a small man in a raincoat bearing a sheaf of pink gladioli. He gave a brisk formal bow and stepped inside.

Felix was startled. He hadn’t expected bouquets and was both flattered and flustered.

The visitor beamed and with the faintest of accents said in perfect English, ‘Forgive this little liberty Signor Smythe, but your cousin once told me of your floral pursuits and the prestigious emporium in London. Please accept these with my compliments on your recent royal honour.’

Felix felt even more flattered. (How news travelled: that was the second person who had alluded to his warrant!) He especially liked the term ‘prestigious emporium’, a most fitting description of his modest establishment. He smirked inwardly and made a mental note to repeat the term to Cedric.

Upstairs he took the man’s raincoat and made introductions. Drinks were poured and lighters clicked.

Carlo Roberto nodded appreciatively as he swept his eyes around the salon. ‘Such a lovely room I always think.
Violet has delightful taste. It is an invariable pleasure to be here – so restful. Alas my own apartment though large is too full of books to seem truly spacious. I dwell in what I believe the English call organised chaos! And as for charming pictures’ – he gestured to the Canalettos – ‘I fear such embellishments perforce give way to printers’ ink.’

Cedric was amused. The man’s oral delivery was as formally poised as his verbal. (And certainly preferable to the mutual discomfort of fractured grammar and tortured idiom. Fluency, even of an old-fashioned kind, made communication so much easier!) From the reference to his books the fellow could very possibly be the same Carlo that Lucia had spoken of.

Felix too had made that assumption. ‘So you’re a book dealer, are you?’ he enquired a trifle baldly. ‘Someone mentioned your name only the other day. She said—’

The man winced and cleared his throat. ‘No I am not a dealer. I do not do deals. The commercial element plays little part in my interest – although I will occasionally procure an item for a friend. I am a
collector
: one of those oddities who cherish books for their own sake and cannot keep his hands off the beautiful, the quaint and the rare. My volumes are my children and I have far too many of them!’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘And like children, from time to time they become wayward and unruly and must be restored to order: summoned or (dare I say it)
called to book
and re-catalogued. A laborious process and one I am currently engaged upon.’ He spread his hands in a suddenly very Italianate gesture: ‘And thus my mission here. I come in the hope of finding a lost child.’

‘Which one?’ Cedric asked.

Carlo explained that a couple of months earlier he
had dropped in at the palazzo to partake of a coffee and a nightcap with his dear friend Violet Hoffmann. (‘She mixes the most ethereal Bat’s Wing,’ he confided.) And on that particular evening he had been returning from a bibliophile convention in Verona. He had with him several new acquisitions which he was eager for his friend to admire. They had spread the books out on the coffee table and he had commented upon each, detailing its content and provenance. Unfortunately such had been the potency of the Bat’s Wing and the lateness of the hour that he had lost his usual alertness; and thus when he had scooped up the books prior to leaving he had carelessly left one behind. The following morning Violet had telephoned pointing out the error and he had assured her he would call back to collect it. In fact, ‘things being what they so often are,’ he had omitted to do this and subsequently forgot all about the book. ‘Until now.’

‘Why now?’ Felix asked.

‘My annual inventory. As said, October is the month for the Grand Reckoning!’

‘Ah yes of course,’ Cedric nodded, ‘but you still haven’t given us its title.’

‘Didn’t I? How silly of me. It’s a collection of nineteenth-century English translations of the poet Horace. Rather a rare edition compiled by one R. D. M. Bodger.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Cedric, ‘that did cross my mind.’

There had followed an awkward silence while the two hosts pondered the best way to inform Carlo Roberto of his wasted journey.

Felix was the first to speak. Hastily offering his guest
another cigarette he said, ‘Actually, I am afraid the bird has flown.’

Carlo looked puzzled. ‘What bird?’

‘Well to be exact your book.’

There followed apologies, explanations and earnest assurances that they would retrieve the book from Miss Gilchrist the very next day.

The man took the news well – that is to say he showed no outward sign of annoyance, but made it clear that rather than rely on Felix and Cedric as intermediaries he would approach the lady himself and explain the situation. ‘She will be sorry to give it up,’ he smiled, ‘and thus the least I can do is to go in person and offer my apologies. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me where she is staying.’

They gave him Rosy’s address; and after a few pleasantries and a polite enquiry after Caruso, Carlo Roberto took his leave and went on his way.

After he had gone they looked at each other in some dismay.

‘She won’t like that,’ Cedric sighed.

‘No. What you might call a turn
down
for the books!’

‘Actually I wouldn’t call it that,’ Cedric replied witheringly. ‘My days in the fourth form are long since passed.’

Felix was about to agree wholeheartedly with the latter statement but thought better of it. Cedric was right, it wasn’t one of his better jests. Besides this was not the time for verbal skirmish, they had to decide what to do about Rosy. ‘Do you think we should telephone and tell her the bad news ourselves? Or would it be simpler to say nothing and let her find out from this Carlo? He obviously intends to go there.’

Cedric mused. ‘My instinct tells me to do nothing – often the best course in such matters. Leave others to relay the bad news, less stressful.’ Felix nodded. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, ‘I suppose it would be a courtesy; and also less of a shock when friend Carlo makes his approach – forewarned is forearmed et cetera. Not that she needs arming of course, he seemed a very mild little fellow; quite pleasant in fact. Will you telephone?’

‘Oh no,’ said Felix quickly, ‘I’ve got the dog’s dinner to deal with. We’re experimenting with some new biscuits. Frightfully expensive; Paolo recommended them.
Wooffo: Biscotti migliore per i cani migliore
. Apparently they are based on a recipe by a Signor Fortnum.’ He giggled and went off to the kitchen to prepare the feast.

Rosy was none too pleased to get Cedric’s phone call. In fact she wasn’t pleased at all. The prospect of admitting defeat to Stanley so soon after reporting the good news was a blow, and already she could hear the torrent of anguished protest echoing down the line.

She brooded on what Cedric had told her. Apparently the man was an obsessive bibliophile and was clearly anxious to reclaim his lost Horace. Well, she grumbled to herself, if it was so damn important to him why had he been so careless in the first place? Fancy leaving it at the Palazzo Reiss and then forgetting to pick it up! Surely if the thing was so precious he would have returned like a shot the next day. Her mind darted back to childhood and she heard her mother’s exasperated voice: ‘Frankly, Rosemary, if you persist in leaving your toys about like that you don’t deserve to have any.’ Precisely: such negligence didn’t deserve reward. Anyway what about finders keepers?
She
had found it. (Well not literally perhaps, but as good as.) And it wasn’t as if this Carlo had put his name in the
thing; other than Bodger’s own signature there was no stamp of possession. She heaved a sigh staring irritably at the book. One moment she had the damn thing and the next she was expected to give it up. It was a bit much! The cheerful postcards she had been writing suddenly became irrelevant – mocking even – and pushing them aside she gazed resentfully out at the lagoon. Somehow it seemed to have lost its sparkle since she had last looked.

She reached for her lighter, lit a cigarette and brooded. Cedric hadn’t said when she might expect the man but presumably his approach would be imminent. Perhaps she could make a diplomatic withdrawal, i.e. scram and spend the whole of the next day on the Lido. Such an absence would at least be a delaying tactic. After all, the Carlo person had made no appointment and there seemed no obvious reason why she should give him the chance of making one. Elusive, that’s what she would be. And with luck if she could play the absence game long enough perhaps he would forget about the book altogether just as he had before … Yes that was the answer – decline to be ‘at home’. Wasn’t there a rather fashionable hotel on the Lido which did excellent lunches and where one could swim? Fearfully extravagant of course, but she could put the jaunt on expenses: a necessary means of protecting the literary spoils while confounding overtures from marauding foreigners. She grinned. Yes, put like that Dr Stanley might feel a surge of rare generosity!

Thus the following morning those were Rosy’s plans: to quit the Witherington residence early and spend the whole day elsewhere.

Plans of course are made to be thwarted. And so just as Rosy was descending the stairs poised for a quick
getaway, she encountered Mr Downing coming up. He held a small white card in his hand. ‘Ah Miss Gilchrist,’ he exclaimed, ‘how fortunate to catch you! There’s an Italian downstairs – very polite I may say – who seems anxious to see you. I can’t find our hostess so he gave me his card and asked if I would be so kind as to present it to you with his compliments. I told him you were bound to be still in and I should deliver it immediately.’ Downing gave her the card, and stood back breathing heavily from his staircase exertions. He had the air of a biddable retriever waiting for a pat. Rosy sighed. Wouldn’t you know – foiled by the marauding foreigner! Withholding the pat she thanked her messenger and continued down the stairs and into the lobby lounge to confront the visitor.

At her entry the small man in the raincoat swung round to greet her. She recognised him instantly as he did her. ‘Ah the so charming English lady,’ he exclaimed, ‘you may recall our recent meeting near the Pacelli bookshop. From your friends’ description I rather thought it might be you. Life is full of exciting coincidences.’

Coincidences yes, Rosy thought, but as to exciting she wasn’t too sure. ‘Yes of course I remember,’ she said politely. ‘How nice to see you again.’ (It wasn’t at all nice: the man had come to take her book away!) She gestured to a chair. ‘Please sit down, I gather we have something to discuss.’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Unfortunately yes and I wish the matter were less delicate, but as you now probably realise there has been a slight misunderstanding. Your friends gave you a book which by rights belongs to me, and with the greatest respect I ask that you return it.’ The eyes smiled and the tone was precise.

‘Yes,’ Rosy said non-committally. ‘You are referring to the Bodger Horace.’

‘Exactly. And I have to admit that when you told me the other day you were looking for a copy of Horace’s Odes it never occurred to me that it might be this particular version. I had assumed it was one of the many contemporary editions. I don’t know how things are in England, but here in Italy there has been an enormous resurgence of interest in the poetry and every publisher seems to be bringing out a collection.’

‘I see. Sort of two a penny you mean.’

He laughed. ‘And tuppence ha’penny for five. Wouldn’t that be the English phrase?’

Rosy acknowledged that it probably was the English phrase, while inwardly cursing that at any moment she would have to go upstairs to fetch the book and place it meekly in his hands. Perhaps if she were tougher and of a more entrepreneurial bent she would hold out: suggest something more transactional or request a token fee as a gesture of goodwill or whatever it was business people did. But she was no businesswoman and would simply make a fool of herself. Besides, presumably if the thing were his, he had every right to take it back.

Thus reluctantly she heard herself saying, ‘Well I expect you would like me to get it. I won’t be a minute.’

‘Yes please,’ he said simply.

Book in hand she started to descend the stairs again and was once more waylaid by Mr Downing. (Really, had that man nothing better to do than loiter aimlessly on staircases?)

‘Everything all right?’ he enquired in a sepulchral whisper.

‘What?’

‘Your visitor, I trust he’s … ahem, I mean
all’s well
I take it?’

‘Oh yes,’ she replied airily, ‘as right as rain.’ (Like hell!) She wondered if Downing expected the front parlour to be a scene of rape and carnage, reflecting bitterly that pillage might be nearer the truth.

She re-entered the room and with a gracious smile presented Carlo Roberto with his long-lost volume.

The man was clearly relieved to be reunited with the book, and nodding in satisfaction ran his hands over the binding and began to leaf through its pages. Suddenly he stopped and she heard a faint intake of breath. He bent his head to make closer inspection; and then reaching into his pocket produced a magnifying glass. Vaguely curious, Rosy watched as he squinted through the lens at the writing on the flyleaf.

Straightening up he pushed the book aside and regarding her intently said, ‘This is not my book. This is a fake.’

She had gazed at him bemused. ‘But it is the one that was found at the Palazzo Reiss, the one you left there. Whatever do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say, signora.’ Rosy noticed a slight change in his demeanour. The smooth genial tone had turned hard. ‘I can assure you that this is not the one that I left there. It is not mine and I believe this one to be a forgery.’

‘But I—I don’t understand,’ she stammered.

‘No more do I,’ he said dryly.

There was a silence as he continued to watch her closely. She felt that she was being assessed, judged. What did he imagine – that she had tried to pull a fast one, had tried to palm him off with some crude imitation while she could scuttle back to England bearing his own as her trophy?
What nonsense! But as she saw the sharp expression and noted the impatient twitch of his little finger, she realised that was probably exactly what he did think. She sighed in exasperation. ‘How do you know the book isn’t yours? I gather you only had it in your possession for a short time – hardly long enough to spill jam on it!’ She gave a caustic laugh.

‘No not to spill jam, but long enough to write my initials on the third page from the end – underneath the ode beginning “
Phoebus volentem proelia me loqui
” … Perhaps you know it?’

Rosy felt like saying that no she didn’t bloody know it and why should she, but was determined to keep cool. Thus she said lightly that alas it was not a line familiar to her and added, ‘So you put your initials in all your books do you? A sort of secret stamp of acquisition?’

‘Yes,’ he replied gravely, ‘the moment I get them.’

Rosy cleared her throat, and feeling not unlike an inquisitorial schoolmistress said, ‘I don’t suppose there is any possibility that on this occasion you may have forgotten to do so. Memory plays such odd tricks. I mean you may have
meant
to but were distracted by—’

‘I was not distracted, signora. My initials are in the original and this is not it.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Besides there is something else wrong: the inscription. In the original the word “joyous” is used; in this one it is “joyful”. I may also add that anyone at all familiar with the technique of forging will recognise that this ink, although cleverly dulled, is no more than five years old. The foxing too is questionable.’ He paused, and then said: ‘Besides there is no BF.’

‘BF! What does that mean – Bloody Fool?’

He gave a wintry smile. ‘Not in this instance. It was a piece of Bodger’s vanity. He did it with three of his publications, this being one of them. The initials mean
Bodger fecit
, an affectation. It was his way of claiming ownership, a stamp of authenticity; rather like an artist declaring it was his own work and not that of an assistant. He wrote it in tiny letters bottom left of the inside cover. As you can see this has none such.’

Rosy shot a cursory glance. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘I am afraid I can’t help you there. This is certainly the book I was given by Cedric and Felix and the one they said they had found in Violet Hoffman’s bookcase. I cannot see why they should try to foist a forged copy on to me. I never asked for the damn thing, it came out of the blue! And while you may remember putting your initials in your own copy has it occurred to you – memory being so fallible – that perhaps you didn’t leave it at the Palazzo at all but lost it somewhere else, left it in some bar perhaps and that the one found by Cedric has nothing to do with you or your collection.’

‘It hasn’t,’ he said and stared at her grimly; while Rosy feared that her truculence had only made matters worse. She had so meant to be cool and detached.

To her surprise his features suddenly relaxed and he gave a bark of laughter. ‘My dear lady you seem determined to put me in some early stage of dementia. First I forget whether I have put my initials in the book or not, and then I mistake my evening at the Palazzo Reiss for some city bar. At this rate I shall shortly be sectioned on San Servolo!’ He continued to chuckle but Rosy felt uncomfortable and felt herself going pink.

‘All right, so what do you think?’ she asked.

The mirth stopped but the initial cordial tone returned. ‘I should say there are a number of possibilities: a) that you are a woman of supreme guile, ruthless enterprise, and who being in love with her boss at the British Museum will do anything to gain his favour; b) that your colleagues Cedric and Felix are inveterate liars and for some reason want to pass this book off as the genuine article … Who knows, perhaps they are fond of you and want to give you pleasure; such altruism is not unknown. Conversely perhaps they simply wish to cause you embarrassment; c) that my dear friend Violet is in league with a forger, and recognising mine to be the original hastily instructed him to fake a replacement while selling the one I left to the highest bidder. Perhaps she needed a little extra cash to fund her Chicago trip and—’

‘Oh this is ridiculous,’ Rosy burst out, ‘these are absurd suggestions!’

He smiled ruefully. ‘How disappointing. I thought they were rather persuasive, especially the first.’

‘That was the silliest of all!’

‘Yes I daresay, I daresay …
mea culpa
Miss Gilchrist. I fear I have a suspicious mind. Clearly you are a stranger to such duplicity.’

Rosy wasn’t entirely sure whether he was confirming her honesty or implying she was a fool. But assuming the former she said, ‘There must be another possibility, something more likely than your list of nonsensical whimsy.’

Carlo looked serious again. ‘Oh indeed. There can be only one explanation: someone known to Violet, or in her house, seeing the book there – or being told of it – deliberately made the switch knowing she wouldn’t notice.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Plausible?’

‘Perfectly … But you are assuming this happened in the past, shortly after you left the book there. How about the present? Supposing the switch was done much more recently, such as between the time of Cedric discovering the thing and his giving it to me.’

‘Hmm. I recall Professor Dillworthy saying they gave you the book a couple of days after it was found. Rather a narrow space in which to perform such an operation, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes but it
could
be done.’

He nodded but looked sceptical. ‘In principle yes; in practice I wonder … Still, I think we are both agreed, dear Sherlock – or Miss Christie if you prefer – that at some point in the last year
someone
, not yourself or Violet or your friends, appropriated the book and substituted another.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially: ‘In time-honoured tradition we should perhaps refer to such person as X.’

‘And what is X’s motive?’

‘Nefarious gain naturally. Doubtless it has something to do with that pathetic piece of hokum purveyed by the poltroon Berenstein. That’s it, I’ll be bound!’

Rosy suddenly found herself giggling. ‘Tell me, Signor Roberto, where did you learn your English – not I imagine in that Sussex prisoner of war camp?’

He looked indignant. ‘I most assuredly did! What’s wrong with it? The sergeant major was a most assiduous reader. He would read anything from Gibbon to James Joyce to Wodehouse and Chandler, and then relay it to us. “You ’orrible little wops,” he would roar, “I’ll teach you bleeders to speak the King’s perishing English if it kills me!”’ Carlo grinned. ‘I don’t know about him but it nearly killed us, that I do know!’