The Venetian Venture (8 page)

It was nearly time for dinner and Rosy had joined the other guests in the little lounge next to the dining room. Two of the women were discussing their purchases of lace tablecloths from Burano.

‘It’s all very well their being so exquisite,’ one said, ‘but you do have to clean the damn things. I mean, can one boil them in Tide for example or would you suggest Dreft?’

‘I really wouldn’t know,’ replied the other indifferently. ‘Fortunately it’s not something I have to bother about. Our char does all that sort of thing.’

There was a silence and Rosy suspected that any burgeoning friendship had been smartly nipped in the bud. She smiled at Mr Downing who promptly began to speculate about the imminent menu. ‘
I
think that our talented hostess has something special for us tonight,’ he announced conspiratorially. ‘She has been in that kitchen for much of the afternoon, and if I am not mistaken there is something very fishy brewing,
very
fishy. If it’s the Venetian version of bouillabaisse I shall be in seventh heaven!’ To
Rosy’s distaste he made slurping noises and smacked his lips.

‘In that case,’ said the Daphne woman putting down her Italian newspaper, ‘you will be going in the same direction as Signor Pacelli – although with him it’s more likely to be the eighth circle of hell.
Not
one of nature’s gentlemen I should say.’ She sniffed.

‘Don’t quite follow,’ Downing murmured, his mind evidently still absorbed in culinary nirvana.

‘According to this he expired in the early hours of this morning,’ she said, tapping the paper.

‘Pacelli!’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘Do you mean that bookseller near the Rialto? Goodness gracious!’

Dr Burgess gave a brisk laugh. ‘Presumably a heart attack from all that racy reading. I must say some of his books did look a bit close to the knuckle!’

The Daphne woman shrugged. ‘Oh no, not a heart attack. He was bashed on the head by the proverbial blunt instrument – that tasteless metal paperweight he kept on the counter; you know the one, the rampant satyr. Death virtually instant one gathers but brains all over the place.’ She turned to Downing. ‘Do you really think we might be having fish stew? Now that would be a treat …’

As they trooped into the dining room Rosy picked up the discarded newspaper, deftly tore out the page and stuffed it into her handbag. Something to peruse after the bouillabaisse.

Back in her room she tried to make sense of the newspaper article and, as on a number of occasions since her arrival, wished she had opted to do Italian at school. But at least she had no difficulty in spotting the item itself – ‘Giuseppe
Pacelli, libraio famoso, trovato assassinato,’ was the stark headline. Reading slowly and with frequent recourse to a dictionary she was able to establish the essential facts.

These seemed to be that the bookseller had been discovered by a neighbour at eight o’clock that morning. The body, fully clothed, had been glimpsed through the glass door, sprawled on the floor in front of the counter. Seeing a bottle and a couple of glasses upturned beside him, the neighbour assumed the victim to be in a drunken stupor. However, after hammering on the door for some time and seeing no movement, she tried the handle and found the door unlocked. On entering she was horrified to see that the man was dead with his head battered in. The police were called and in the course of their examination of the premises removed a large paperweight which had clearly been the weapon. Some sort of scuffle was assumed to have occurred as a chair was knocked over and a number of books and papers lay strewn on the floor … The report ended by saying that the police were anxious to interview anyone who had seen or spoken to the victim on the previous night or in the days leading up to the murder.

Naturally Rosy was shocked by the account, but it was the request for witnesses that she found perturbing. She read it again carefully.
The previous night or days prior to the discovery
. Yes, in theory that would certainly include herself. But in practice? Well she was merely a visitor, an ephemeral tourist whose grasp of Italian was shaky to say the least. Surely she didn’t count; what could she possibly offer of interest? After all it wasn’t as if she knew the man – she had only spoken with him for ten minutes, less than that probably, and the topic had been exclusively professional.

She frowned, recalling the second encounter in the
Campo Agnese when she had seen him with the other man – quarrelling; or so it had seemed. Oh hell, was that material? No of course not. They hadn’t really been quarrelling … raised voices merely, a minor spat quickly dispelled when she had appeared. True she hadn’t liked their attitude towards her – damn rude it had been! Still, a trivial incident surely and one hardly relevant to the present matter; it would be officious to mention it. No, the last thing she wanted was to spend her precious time in Venice traipsing to police stations and making statements of little worth in fractured Italian or pidgin English. Doubtless there was a host of far more useful witnesses available – local people more knowledgeable than she and keen to do their civic duty. Thus persuaded Rosy retired to bed satisfied that she had no role to play in the inquiry into Giuseppe Pacelli’s unfortunate fate.

It was only much later in the night that she awoke and began to think about the death itself. She hadn’t liked the man, that was for sure; but a violent bludgeoning was a dreadful way for anyone to go, however impolite they had been. She visualised the scene: a caller (Known to him? The two glasses might suggest so), an argument and accusations, perhaps threats of blackmail (probably running a brisk trade in illicit erotica!); a sudden flare-up and tussle, the seizing of the paperweight and the violent attack followed by a swift exit. Clearly the killing hadn’t been premeditated – a spur of the moment thing, the product of blind rage. Was the attacker glad that his victim was conveniently silenced or appalled that a moment’s passion could result in such a nightmare?

She rolled over, adjusted the pillows, and shutting her eyes dismissed both scene and speculations. None of it was
to do with her and she was hardly the investigating officer. Why burden the mind with pointless questions? Her task in Venice was to hunt for the wretched Bodger, not play detective in a case of squalid murder.

Yet it was the issue of the book that returned her mind to the dead man.
Why
had he been so churlish and dismissive? Indeed not just dismissive but positively hostile. Rosy winced, recalling the mocking face and voice at their last encounter. All most unpleasant! She stared into the dark reliving the details and becoming increasingly certain she had been right in her earlier suspicion – that both Pacelli and his companion had been deliberately warning her off. Quite possibly they were after the book themselves, knew where it was and were protective of their interests.

Perhaps Pacelli had been commissioned to acquire it by some other avid book collector … after all, Dr Stanley and Sir Fenton might not be the only ones keen to lay hands on this particular bit of Victorian scholarship. There were supposed to be a couple of unsigned Bodger editions in America. Perhaps an obsessed academic over there also wanted the embellishment of signature and dedication and was willing to pay rather more for it than the British Museum’s measly twenty pounds – or was it guineas? Besides, according to Miss Witherington and her Farinelli Berenstein story, if both book and glass goblet could be produced simultaneously mammoth money was at stake. But in either case why let some officious foreigner muscle in on the act? Send her off with a flea in her ear, that’s what!

A foghorn sounded far out in the lagoon, and not much the wiser the officious foreigner sighed, kicked back the blankets and fell into muddled sleep.

Caruso had been such a tiresome pain. First he had demanded to be let out at four in the morning if you please, then at breakfast he had been most disagreeable with a neighbouring cat. And following that, in an access of maudlin sentimentality he had slobbered all over Felix’s newly pressed shirts. It really was too bad! The custodian glared at the hound who retorted with a slowly wagged tail and mighty belch.

Thus when Cedric looked up from his newspaper and announced that someone had been murdered close to the Rialto Felix felt so much better. ‘Really?’ he exclaimed. ‘Was it a cardinal?’

Cedric lowered the paper and regarded him over the rims of his glasses. ‘Now what on earth has put that idea into your head?’

‘Well according to literature and history that sort of thing goes on all the time in Venice doesn’t it? Or it certainly used to. Prelates and other eminent rascals were always being knifed or seduced. Par for the course.’ Good temper resumed, Felix winked at the dog.

‘I don’t think this chap was seduced,’ Cedric observed mildly, ‘and from what I understand neither was he knifed: the weapon was his own paperweight, a statue of a priapic satyr. Curious tastes some people have. Still, as it happens quite a coincidence: the victim was that bookseller Rosy Gilchrist was so annoyed about – Pacelli his name was.’

‘There you are then,’ Felix declared triumphantly, ‘I told you it was to do with the church.’

Cedric smiled. ‘But quite intriguing you must admit. Perhaps the Italians get more het up about matters literary than we do in England. I don’t imagine such hostilities are enacted in the boardroom of Foyles … although who
knows, maybe they are. The public is always the last to hear of such things.’

‘Hmm,’ replied Felix thoughtfully, ‘I daresay when Rosy gets to hear of it she’ll be bursting with curiosity and
Schadenfreude
and eager to share her excitement with us. She does have our phone number. I wouldn’t object except that after Caruso’s boorish behaviour and my broken sleep I am feeling a trifle jaded. Might it be politic if we were to forfeit the drama and leave Venice for a day and visit Vicenza? I’ve always had a hankering to see that splendid Villa Rotunda and I gather there is quite a good train.’

‘I think you exaggerate Rosy Gilchrist’s yen for drama. But since it says here that the police want to interview anyone having had contact with the victim recently she may be considering her position and want our advice on the matter. So perhaps—’

‘Exactly! I haven’t recovered from our last engagement with Rosy Gilchrist in a police matter. So don’t let us take the risk. A quiet day and a low profile is the answer. I’ll look up the train times.’ Felix bustled to the door and then stopped and tittered. ‘You never know, since she was so furious with the bookseller perhaps this is her revenge. All the more reason to keep out of harm’s way!’

‘Hold on,’ Cedric exclaimed, ‘I’ve just remembered: it’s today that Hope-Landers is holding the little gathering at Harry’s Bar. I told you – he invited us a couple of days ago. We can’t duck out now; Vicenza will have to wait.’

Felix pulled a face. ‘Honestly, the sacrifices one makes!’

‘Now, I’m in the chair,’ declared Hope-Landers expansively. ‘What will it be – Bellinis? This
is
the place you know.’

He turned to Cedric who said he did know and would prefer a negroni.

‘Wise choice,’ said the host. ‘Outside New York this is the best place for them.’ He lowered his voice leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘And I can assure you they have the edge on the Gritti’s – less Campari more gin.’

Felix opted for the same and glanced round appreciatively at the understated surroundings: the bare floorboards, high windows and plain wooden tables. In fact the only item of any note was the bar itself – an Aladdin’s cave of gleaming spirits and vivid concoctions. Amid the room’s austerity it led the eye like a magnet. The bartender, shaker in hand and svelte in a cream jacket, smiled discreetly as Caruso detached himself from Felix and waddled to the far end and settled himself beneath a bench in the corner. Evidently his customary place.

‘You see,’ chuckled Hope-Landers, ‘the dog selects the
spot. So that’s where we had better sit, the others won’t be long.’ He ushered them to a table where their drinks were delivered and a saucer and biscuits brought for Caruso.

‘So who else is coming?’ Cedric asked. ‘I think you mentioned Mrs Borgino … Is there a—uhm—a Signor Borgino?’

‘Not any longer, she sent him packing years ago. But she keeps the name – Lucia Borgino sounds rather better in Venice than Lucia Jones.’ He laughed, and turning to Felix said, ‘Don’t you think?’

As one who had substituted a
y
for an
i
in his own name, Felix was inclined to agree but he had no intention of siding with the likes of Lucia Jones, whoever her grandfather might be. Old snubs died hard with Felix.

‘As a matter of fact though,’ Hope-Landers continued, ‘she won’t be coming unescorted. Her brother is staying with her. He visits periodically from London. I
quite
like the chap but he’s not to everyone’s taste.’

‘Really? What does he do?’ Felix asked.

‘Well … it seems to vary. A versatile cove you might say, though I get the impression without much staying power. He went into his grandfather’s art gallery when he left school but that didn’t last long. Annoyed the customers, too cocksure. Apparently Montgomery went in one day looking for a Cecil Aldin dog picture; and young Edward, thinking he was being clever, had the gall to ask the Field Marshal if he had seen any war service.’ Hope-Landers chuckled. ‘That didn’t go down very well, I can tell you. Not well at all! Still he’s always perfectly civil to me. But frankly just
entre nous
, I rather think there are some hefty debts in the background, but it’s a topic I studiously avoid. After all hard enough keeping one’s own purse in
the black without having to be concerned for others’!’

‘Most wise,’ Felix agreed. ‘And anyone else?’

‘Yes a rather nice American. He paints. Obsessed with the Grand Canal and indeed with Venice generally. You’ll like him. A couple of others may look in. And of course Dilly and Duffy are coming but they are always late, bred in the bone you might say.’

‘Dilly and Duffy? Who are they – friends of Caruso?’ Cedric enquired.

Hope-Landers laughed. ‘Oh no, perfectly human I can assure you. They are twins of the inseparable kind, though I must say at sixty-plus just a trifle old to dress in the same frocks but I gather it’s something you can’t avoid, psychological I suppose. Anyway they are very civil and jolly – that is, until they’ve had a few and then they’re fiendish.’

‘I see. And are they likely to become so today?’

‘Shouldn’t think so; the cabaret is most spectacular on Sunday evenings. At other times they are largely docile. Although they’re not too keen on Lucia’s brother – take rather a dim view, so you may detect an element of
froideur
.’

‘Really? What don’t they like in particular?’

Hope-Landers paused. ‘Well …’ he began.

‘Not in particular just general,’ an American voice said close to his elbow. Cedric looked up and was confronted by a big man with a beard, forage cap and smiling blue eyes. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Ernest Hemingway in his better days, and the context certainly seemed apt. (Yet another twin perhaps?) He was introduced as Bill Hewson, a painter from Boston. ‘Yes I came here some time back to do a watercolour of the lagoon. Sargent had done it so why shouldn’t I? As it is, I stayed six years and I’m still here.’ He grinned.

‘And is the watercolour finished?’

‘Nope. Never begun. Too much other stuff to catch the eye. Can’t get enough of it; you should come to my studio some time, the place is full of the garbage.’

‘Oh no garbage there I assure you,’ Hope-Landers said, ‘all damn good stuff.’

Cedric smiled politely and said they would be delighted to pay a visit.

‘Weren’t you saying something about Mrs Borgino’s brother,’ Felix asked inquisitively, ‘what’s the difficulty?’

But he had to wait to find out, for at that moment the door at the far end was pushed open and in came Lucia accompanied by a tall young man with sleeked hair and sunglasses – an addition which, given the greyness of the day, seemed a trifle redundant. Clad in dazzling white Lucia too seemed indifferent to the weather. For a few moments the siblings stood poised on the threshold surveying the room. They were a handsome pair and made a striking tableau. And then with a light laugh and a wave to the barman, Lucia advanced towards their host whom she kissed lavishly.

‘Ah, I think you’ve already met Cedric and Felix,’ he began, ‘though we were all in such a rush the other day, didn’t have time to …’

‘Have I?’ Lucia threw them a smile of little interest; and then added vaguely, ‘Oh yes, I think I remember, on the bridge wasn’t it?’ She turned to Hewson and exclaimed, ‘Lovely to see you Bill. I took Edward to your spring exhibition last time he was here. He adored it, didn’t you Eddie!’

‘Of course,’ her brother said, ‘as I always do. Bill’s pictures are charming – and
so
reassuring. The familiar
never palls; it induces such feelings of confidence.’ He whipped off his sunglasses and gave the older man a challenging grin.

‘Confidence in what,’ enquired Cedric who had overheard the comment, ‘your judgement?’

‘Sorry? Oh … well in life I imagine.’ The young man shrugged, and turning away called, ‘I say Guy, Lucia said something about some fizz. Any hope? I thought we had come to toast your windfall. Don’t be slow in coming forward!’

‘Any minute now old chap, Marco’s just bringing it over,’ replied his host. ‘But we might just hang on for Dilly and Duffy, they’ll be here soon.’

As indeed they were; for just as the young waiter had put the bottles on the table two grey ghosts came gliding through the door: ghosts in identical mackintoshes and smiling benignly. They greeted Hope-Landers and Hewson warmly, were less warm towards the brother and sister, and appraised Cedric and Felix with mild eyes.

‘You’re new here aren’t you?’ said one of the ghosts.

‘Where are you staying,’ fired the other, ‘the Sandwirth? Or slumming it at the Metropole?’

Cedric coughed and said that actually they were in a private residence.

‘Which one?’ demanded the first.

‘The, uhm, Palazzo Reiss,’ Cedric replied politely.

‘Oh,
Vio’s
place!’ they chimed in unison; and approving looks were exchanged.

‘Isn’t there a cousin of some sorts?’ Dilly or Duffy enquired.

‘Yes,’ said Felix, ‘I am it.’

‘
Really?
’ was the collective response. One of them
clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Felix the Florist – we’ve heard all about you!’

Her sister nodded vigorously. ‘We have indeed.’

Cedric was amused, Felix taken aback. What on earth had Cousin Violet known to impart to these two? He barely knew her. But he was flattered all the same and experienced a flush of pleasure.

‘Oh yes, you were a
very
naughty little boy,’ said one, ‘always stealing jam and destroying your mother’s flowers.’

‘But,’ cut in the other, ‘redeemed yourself recently we hear. Secured the Queen Mother’s approval – one of those By Royal Appointment warrants no less; most commendable.’

‘Yes it’s amazing how well some turn out isn’t it,’ observed Dilly or Duffy, ‘but by no means
all
.’ She cast a pointed look at Edward. The latter was on to his second glass of champagne and affected not to notice. She waved her own glass at Hope-Landers. ‘Good news about the lolly, Guy; always nice to have a little spare. Here’s to plenty more where that came from. You never know your luck! Happy days everybody!’

Glasses were raised, clinked, and an air of merriment ensued; in the course of which Edward, seated next to Felix, whispered, ‘Such tiresome old bats, but one has to indulge them I suppose.’

Felix pursed his lips. ‘One has to indulge a lot of people in this life, it’s something one learns.’

He had the impression that the response was not appreciated – which was exactly as he had intended. Yet slightly to his surprise Edward continued: ‘Oh by the way, I gather from my sister that you have a friend who’s after that set of Horace translations. I can tell you she’s backing the wrong horse. Waste of time; she won’t find it. I know
for a fact the thing’s no longer in Venice.’ He spoke with an air of careless confidence. But then pausing fractionally he laughed and added, ‘Or at least I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Maybe I am hopelessly out of date and she’s managed to find it after all. Living in London one is never entirely abreast of Venetian affairs. Sniffing it out is she?’ He gave an enquiring smile.

‘Well funny you should say that because if it’s the one you mean I rather suspect it is still—’ Felix began, but stopped abruptly having received a sharp kick on the ankle from Cedric opposite. Pain not compliance silenced him, and to alleviate the former he took a large gulp of champagne and hobbled off to the Gents.

‘So what the hell was that about?’ Felix protested as the three weaved their way back to the palazzo.

‘Not sure really,’ mused Cedric, ‘a hunch I suppose … Do you think that dog will need any more food or will the bar biscuits be enough for it?’

‘Dog be damned!’ cried Felix. ‘What about my ankle? Any more hunches like that and I shall be in a wheelchair before long!’

‘Sorry. Foot slipped.’

‘I should think it did. So what were you playing at?’

Cedric frowned. ‘Well … actually I also wonder what that Edward person was playing at. The sister too for that matter.’

Felix snorted. ‘Beyond me I’m afraid. Must have been that second grappa: wits aren’t quite what they should be.’

‘Well I heard what Master Jones was saying to you – that his sister had told him about Rosy searching for the Horace. Yet five minutes earlier when I had been trying to
make polite conversation with the girl she affected supreme indifference to the whole topic and said it was highly unlikely that this Carlo chap would know anything, and that in any case he was currently in New York.’

‘But he’s not. The American mentioned that he had been at his studio only yesterday.’

‘There you are then. It is slightly odd too that when we met her and Hope-Landers on the way to the Accademia she said something to the effect that the one person who might know something would be Carlo and that she would organise a meeting. But in the bar just now she was conspicuously dismissive of the whole subject, and yet—’

‘And yet had obviously discussed it with her brother.’

‘Precisely. It’s as if she is now deliberately trying to sink the matter. And as for the brother: well one moment,
entirely
unsolicited, he emphatically tells you the book is not in Venice and at the next seems eager to know whether Rosy has found it. It all seems a bit contradictory to me and therefore odd.’

‘So that’s why you bashed my foot?’

Cedric sniffed. ‘Personally he struck me as graceless not to say slippery, and I do not think we need divulge any information to types such as that pair. Probably pursuing the Horace to get that prize money –
assuming
Miss Gilchrist’s tale has any substance!’ He gave a sardonic laugh.

‘Well if that’s the case let’s give the wretched thing to Rosy Gilchrist, if it
is
the book, and then she can scuttle back to the British Museum while we get on with more pressing researches – the Lido perhaps or opera at the Fenice. They have rather a delightful programme I gather.’ Felix paused, and then added, ‘But I agree with you, a most unengaging pair; especially the girl, though he was quite handsome I suppose …’

‘But not as handsome as Paolo,’ Cedric said slyly. ‘Ah that reminds me! We can’t possibly take the book to Rosy Gilchrist tomorrow. Don’t you remember? The two Ps are treating us to a
motoscafo
tour of the lagoon and Torcello and then on to Burano for lunch at that splendid restaurant. First things first I fancy!’

‘Rather,’ exclaimed Felix. ‘Shall we take Caruso?’

While the two visitors were thus engaged in contemplating future jollity the ‘unengaging pair’ were drifting home to Lucia’s flat.

‘Considering your disability this morning,’ Lucia laughed, ‘you managed to put up quite a good show, even made one of those ludicrous twins smile – though don’t ask me which one! You were hardly at your brightest earlier on and I thought I should have to go to Harry’s on my own.’

‘Would I be so ungallant?’

‘Easily. Anyway, where did you go last night – or did you just sit by the canal doing nothing?’

‘I did exactly as you told me: went for a walk towards the Arsenale to clear my head and then on to the Giardini Pubblici,’ Edward lied.

The news that morning of Pacelli’s murder had been relayed to him by Lucia who had heard it from the woman in the bakery. Naturally he had been very shocked but had said nothing other than to remark ruefully that that was one line of enquiry now lost. Instinct had stalled additional comment for he immediately saw trouble looming: trouble perhaps merely tiresome, or trouble disastrous. Either way silence was best. One had to be careful with confidences. Luckily Lucia had been too busy fixing her hair in an elaborate coiffure for the lunch to discuss things further.