The Venetian Venture (4 page)

‘
Signor
,’ she said nervously to a small and sharp-suited man on her left, ‘
Può aiutarmi? Cerco una libreria si chiama
Pacelli e Figlio. E qui in vicino forse?
’ She smiled hopefully.

The man regarded her solemnly and then said in impeccable English: ‘For one from Perfidious Albion you speak extremely well. My compliments, signora.’ Rosy didn’t know whether to feel flattered or furious. Perfidious bloody Albion indeed! The cheek of it! Her indignation must have shown for with a light chuckle he said quickly, ‘A little joke of course. Your country is charming, I know it well … And yes, I also know the bookshop you seek.’ That was something at any rate and she asked if it was far.

‘Not at all. It is the second turning on the right and then straight ahead to the end of the cul-de-sac. If you permit me I will be your companion.’

‘Be my companion?’ she thought. ‘No fear!’ And then realised that of course he was merely suggesting he should show her the way. She smiled her thanks and they set off.

As they walked he enquired whether the signora was looking for something special; what was her interest in this particular shop? ‘Since his old father’s demise not many serious tourists come to Giuseppe – he caters for what one might call esoteric tastes.’ He eyed her quizzically and for a moment Rosy felt that something was being implied that she didn’t entirely understand … or rather she hoped she didn’t.

‘My boss has sent me to look for some poems by Horace,’ she explained stiffly. ‘It’s a rather special edition.’

‘Really? A special edition?’ He frowned and seemed to look puzzled. But after a slight pause gave a laugh: ‘Ah Horace! Yes of course: “
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus tam cari capitis? Praecipe lugubris cantus
…” Your
boss must share my tastes: I used to read a lot of Horace at Eastbourne, I became quite a specialist.’

Rosy stopped in her tracks. ‘At
Eastbourne
! Why on earth should one want to read Horace at Eastbourne?’

‘Ah but not the town itself, some miles outside. I was a prisoner of war in the area for three years. One had to do something.’

‘Oh – yes. Yes I see …’ She didn’t particularly but by this time they had reached the bookshop doorway, and wishing her a happy and fruitful time in Venice her guide took his leave.

Anyone less like the pope would be hard to imagine. Giuseppe Pacelli possessed neither the height nor the El Greco features of his namesake. Squat, bald and snub-nosed, he resembled rather Charles Laughton playing Quasimodo – though judging by the speed at which he rushed to greet his new customer, without the latter’s handicap. He beamed unctuously. ‘
Signora – bellissima donna – c’e cosa posso fare per lei?
’

Taken aback both by the speed and effusiveness, Rosy stammered, ‘Er …
per favore, parla Inglese?
’

The smile broadened and the voice took on an ingratiating lilt. ‘A leetle, a leetle, my lady.’

Rosy cleared her throat and spoke slowly and firmly, as befitted an Englishwoman explaining something to a foreigner. ‘Good, because I am trying to find a book of poems by the Latin author Horatius Flaccus.’ She took a card from her pocket and laid it on the counter. ‘These are the details and I gather this bookshop may once have had such a copy.’

He glanced down at the card. The smile waned somewhat
and there was a brief silence. Then picking it up for closer scrutiny, he said, ‘Of course, of course, we do have such a book. You would like to buy?’

‘Very likely,’ she answered.

Without a word he disappeared into a back room and was gone for some time, presumably raking the dusty shelves. ‘Well,’ she said to herself, ‘couldn’t be simpler. Just shows, occasionally things do work. With a delayed report to Dr Stanley I can spin out another four days here in art and fun.
And
return with the goods!’ Grinning in triumph she glanced casually at the titles on a nearby table. These were not quite as she had expected – translations of Hank Janson, Frank Harris, Henry Miller, a lavishly illustrated Marquis de Sade, something called
Tales My Mother Should Not Have Told Me
and a book with no author but entitled
Histoire d’O
. She was about to see who O was but was interrupted by the return of Giuseppe with the Horace. He flourished the volume under her nose and immediately began to wrap it.

‘Just a moment, signor,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘if you don’t mind I’d like to take a look.’ She started to give it a cursory scan, and then stopped. The editor’s name was certainly Bodger but there was no sign of a signature or an inscription. She trawled the pages. Nothing. No handwriting anywhere, whether in quill, nib, or even pencil.

She sighed. ‘I am so sorry, but this is not what I am looking for. It is essential I have the signed edition with its inscription. This has no mark at all.’

He gave a blank stare and shrugged. ‘But there is no other, signora.’

‘But I gathered that there certainly was … Perhaps it got sent to another shop. I was told that—’

‘Who told you?’ the man interrupted sharply. ‘A person here in Venice?’ The obsequious tone had assumed a hostile edge.

‘Well, no. You see …’ She trailed off, knowing her Italian was not up to explaining the situation and doubting his English could cope. She rather suspected, too, that whatever lingo was adopted such efforts would be futile.

‘You want?’ he asked curtly, pointing to the book.

‘No, no I do not want,’ she replied firmly.

He shrugged again, and reverting to Italian said indifferently, ‘
Va bene. Grazie, signora. Buongiorno
.’

Sensing a dismissal she moved to the door, but as she turned the handle he called out in English: ‘Signora, I assure you no other copy. This one only. Do not look more.’ Rosy gave a brief nod and left the premises.

‘Lying,’ she muttered to herself as she retraced her steps along the cobbled alley. He might not have stocked the one she sought but how could he possibly be so sure that another did not exist? Of course he couldn’t. And as to his injunction to look no further, she very much doubted it had been prompted by concern for her feet or time. Not so much a piece of advice as an order. Damn cheek!

She sat on a piece of wall and brooded. Fallen at the first fence. So what now? Presumably Plan B, i.e. visit the Castello establishment. She took out the map and checked its position. Yes, walkable: along the Riva degli Schiavoni in the direction of the Arsenale, on to the Via Garibaldi, turn left at the John Cabot house and with a bit of luck the Calle di Fiori should materialise somewhere on the right with the shop at the far end. Well at least she
could combine business with pleasure. The route passed a whole gamut of famed landmarks: the Doge’s palace, the Bridge of Sighs, the celebrated Danieli, church of the Pietà … and oh, of course, the very house where Henry James had completed
The Portrait of a Lady
! A splendid itinerary, especially as she would have to walk through St Mark’s Piazza to reach the waterfront.

She stood up, impatient to get going before the shop shut for lunch and to start her acquaintance with so lovely a city.

Rosy’s curiosity had been more than satisfied by her morning ramble, the places she passed stirring her impatience for further pleasures.

However, such pleasures did not include her time at the Castello bookshop, which lasted for approximately one minute. The place was closed; the notice in the window advising intending browsers that the owner was taking his annual holiday. The blinds were drawn and a mesh covered the door. Rosy was so frustrated that she stamped her foot – twice, an action which made her feel foolish. She glanced around hoping no one had witnessed so absurd a display, and then recalled that this was Italy not England: eyes were less alert to personal oddity. She started to go back the way she had come and then decided to cut to the right to explore more widely – at least something might be gained from the fruitless mission! She crossed a small campo, selected a street displaying a direction for San Zaccaria and found herself beside a narrow canal and a bridge.

Preoccupied by her recent frustration and envisaging a
restorative drink, Rosy did not see the dog at first – but she heard it all right: an explosive throaty woof like a grumpy cannon. She jumped and nearly tripped up the steps of the bridge; and then looking down encountered the mournful eyes of a stout basset hound. It stood four-square gazing up at her, brows furrowed and feet splayed.

She cleared her throat wondering vaguely what ‘good dog’ was in Italian. ‘
Buono cane
,’ she enunciated carefully, moving to circumvent it. Evidently it did not care for that, for it also moved and continued to impede her path. The expression (impassive) remained the same, as did the resolutely spread paws.

‘Oh come on,’ she protested in English, ‘do get out of the way!’

‘It won’t,’ a voice said from behind her, ‘whatever language you use.’

She spun round and was confronted by Felix Smythe, holding a dangling lead and wearing the harassed look of one in pursuit of a dog.

‘Good Lord, Felix,’ she exclaimed, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same, Miss Gilchrist,’ Felix replied, ‘but as a general answer to your own enquiry I am here on holiday; more precisely I am trying to secure this hound. Would you be so kind as to hold its collar while I clip on the lead?’ This was less of a question than a directive, and Rosy did as she was bid while Felix bent to fumble with the creature’s neck. As he did so he received an absent-minded lick on the cheek. Felix recoiled. ‘Can’t think why it does that,’ he complained.

‘Obvious. He must like you,’ said Rosy. ‘Some dogs have peculiar preferences. I remember we once had a Labrador who—’

Felix gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Fascinating I’m sure, but one doesn’t come to Venice to hear of the idiosyncrasies of your erstwhile pets Miss Gilchrist. Now, what exactly are
you
doing here? Don’t tell me the BM has dispensed with your services, I was given to understand you were its essential lynchpin, a veritable clerical
sine qua non
!’ He gave a sly titter.

‘Not by me, you weren’t,’ retorted Rosy, stung by his sarcasm. She shouldn’t have made the quip about canine tastes. Really, Felix Smythe could be so hoity-toity! She flashed him a dazzling smile and said sweetly, ‘Actually I am no more a clerk there than you are Eliza Doolittle. But tell me, how’s trade since the great accolade? I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you.’

That did it as she knew it would. To have a ‘By Royal Appointment’ warrant displayed above the threshold of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms had been one of Felix’s dearest wishes and a source of endless hope and speculation. Its eventual award, just at the close of the grisly murder case they had all been involved in, could not have been better timed. Temporarily away from London, Rosy had been unable to congratulate him in person. But now was her chance and she made full use of it. ‘You must be thrilled,’ she exclaimed.

Felix’s taut features relaxed, and leaning a nonchalant elbow on the stone parapet he proceeded to give an animated account of his triumph. ‘Yes,’ he said modestly, ‘it was most gracious of Her Majesty to remember me, most gracious. But then I’ve always thought that the dear Queen Mother and I have a special bond where flowers are concerned: she is
very
discerning you know.’

He continued to enthuse for a while, and then prompted
by a yawn from the dog stopped in mid-sentence, and said, ‘But
what
did you say you were doing in Venice?’

Rosy started to explain and had just finished the bit about Bodger’s mediocre translation but distinguished commentary when the air was rent with an excruciating melange of leonine rumbles and peahen screeches. A small poodle and its large owner had mounted the steps, and the basset hound had clearly taken exception to both. The ensuing altercation, both human and canine, was raucous and embarrassing. However, peace and honour eventually restored the interlopers went on their way, the poodle casting scandalised glances over its shoulder.

Felix mopped his brow and glared at his charge. ‘Bloody dogs,’ he observed, ‘the sooner I get back for a siesta the better! Tell you what, Miss Gilchrist, Cedric and I will meet you at Florian’s tomorrow evening at nine o’clock, they do the most wonderful cakes … You know it do you?’

‘Er, yes. It’s in the Piazza isn’t it? Underneath the arches,’ Rosy replied, slightly surprised by the invitation.

‘Yes, beneath the
portici
,’ Felix confirmed. ‘So we’ll meet there then. Good. Now I really must go and take a rest before Cedric returns from the Accademia demanding tea. One gets so exhausted …’ He yanked at the lead, and dog and minder trotted down the steps and were soon lost in the shadows of an archway.

Undecided whether to be pleased or disturbed by the encounter Rosy bought an ice cream, sat in the sun and brooded. It was not that she disliked Felix and Cedric, simply that she felt no particular affinity – a negative which she sensed was reciprocated. Until the business of her aunt they had been little more than passing acquaintances –
figures occasionally encountered at a cocktail party or a private view, where exchanges had been polite yet distant. But the business of her aunt’s murder with all its attendant horror and embarrassment had perforce pulled them into a mutual orbit. For a period she had been thrust into a collusive intimacy and shared a knowledge it would have been rash to reveal … Mercifully that was all over now, and the painful phase firmly (if not deeply) buried. Nevertheless did she really want to rekindle false intimacies, to renew a link which had been none of their choosing?

She licked the cornet’s melting dollop, savoured its silky texture and decided that on the whole she did not … And yet even as she reached that conclusion she knew full well that come the following evening she would sally forth to Florian’s eager for chat and gaiety, however brittle. Already, like thousands of such neophytes, she had fully succumbed to the Venetian spell; and also like many was content to absorb the city’s charms alone. But it was content not averse to companionship; and the prospect of sharing cocktails and a moonlit Piazza, even with Felix and Cedric, did have a certain appeal. Besides, who knew, they might suggest something useful re the errant Horace!

‘So why on earth is Rosy Gilchrist in Venice?’ enquired Cedric. ‘I should have thought Frinton would be more her style.’ He flashed a superior smile.

‘Something to do with tracing a book I gather. That Dr Stanley person sent her here.’

‘Really? What sort of book?’

Felix frowned. ‘Uhm … not sure. Something called Hodge’s Boris I think: a collection of poetry. Can’t say it sounded frightfully exciting but she seemed keen. I wasn’t
really listening as Caruso was squaring up to attack a poodle and I had to throttle him while being charming to its owner. Quite a manoeuvre and I really couldn’t attend to a third party as well.’

‘Hodge’s Boris? Whatever’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

Felix shrugged. ‘Well dear boy, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of everything, but that’s what she said. I am merely relaying information.’

‘Hmm. Ought we to ask her here for a drink? It would be a civil gesture I suppose. Is she alone?’

‘She is alone and I have already done that – well not here but to Florian’s. Tomorrow evening at nine.’

‘Florian’s? That’s a bit excessive isn’t it, even for Miss Gilchrist. Should she wish for a second zabaglione I trust you will be the one doing the honours.’

‘Oh come now, Cedric, we’re in Venice not penny-pinching in Mayfair! I think we can permit Miss Gilchrist a second drink on the house –
our
house. And anyway you know how I adore Florian’s; any excuse to dally at one of those little gilt tables.’

‘Or indeed to dally with the little gilt waiters.’ Despite the acerbic tone Cedric lowered his left eyelid. Such ocular gestures were rare with the professor and Felix giggled.