Thus Was Adonis Murdered (26 page)

Dear Hilary,

Since my telephone call this morning was made in rather difficult conditions and apparently coincided with the outbreak in Chambers of some sort of riot, I was unable to give you as full an account of the morning’s events as you would no doubt have liked. Well, I suppose you are entitled to one, and I have ample time for the task: the Vice-Quaestor declines to let any of us leave Venice until the whole affair is clarified to his satisfaction; and he does not expect this before Monday.

I called at the Consulate, as usual, a little after ten o’clock, to see if there were any messages for me and to discuss with Signor Vespari, in view of the unfavourable forensic report, what arrangements should be made for Julia to be represented by an Italian lawyer experienced in criminal matters. I found him waiting for me with great impatience, being curious to know the contents of your telegram, which he handed to me as soon as I arrived. I read it, I must confess, with considerable irritation. Though not noticeably brief, it gave me, of course, no indication of what you were hoping to prove; I thought it highly probable that you were introducing unnecessary complications to gratify your taste for amateur theatricals. On the other hand, not knowing what other arrangements you might have made, I could not be sure what the consequences might be if I failed to comply.

My first impulse was to telephone and demand an explanation. I was not sure, however, where to find you at that time, and you had left me with less than an hour and a half in which to secure the cooperation of the Vice-Quaestor. I resigned myself with the utmost reluctance to acting blindly on your instructions. I decided, moreover, since you had gone into such detail, that I had better follow them to the letter—though the only thing that really seemed to matter was that Marylou and I should be outside the Basilica San Marco at twelve o’clock and that we should then be under discreet observation by the police.

You do not seem to realize, Hilary, that it is unusual for a senior police officer to be peremptorily summoned by a foreign lawyer to attend with two of his men at a particular time and place at an hour’s notice and without explanation. I am still not sure how we managed it—or rather, how Signor Vespari managed it, since he did all the talking. He told the Vice-Quaestor that my “investigations in London” had been conducted by three members of the English Bar, under the personal supervision of a scholar of international repute—meaning, God help us, yourself—and added, rather grandly, that if your instructions were not carried out he could not be answerable for the consequences. Whether because he was really impressed by all this nonsense, or out of mere curiosity, the Vice-Quaestor eventually agreed to do as we asked.

Leaving the Consulate at twenty past eleven and walking towards the Accademia Bridge, I saw that Marylou was already sitting at one of the tables outside the café. It seemed absurd to delay approaching her; but since you had insisted that I should not do so until exactly half past, I spent the next ten minutes pretending to choose postcards from the newspaper stall outside the Accademia Gallery. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Vice-Quaestor and two other policemen standing near the door of the Gallery, making rather a success of looking as if they had nothing to do.

At exactly half past, I went up to Marylou and asked if she was Mrs. Bredon. Although I had recognized her easily from seeing her at Heathrow, I assumed that you would not have mentioned that occasion to her. She acknowledged that she was, but invited me to call her Marylou. After I had briefly explained to her what you wanted us to do, we set forth across the Accademia Bridge. She suggested that it would be more convenient to go by
vaporetto
across the Canal straight to St. Mark’s. I told her, however, that you had specifically directed me to go on foot, and that I did not think it prudent to depart from your instructions.

Your insistence that once we had met I should on no account leave her side until speaking to you on the telephone made me extremely nervous. It was not clear to me whether I was there to prevent her escape or to guard her against attack. But having come to Venice of her own free will, I could not imagine why she should suddenly run away. I concluded that my function was protective. All the way to the Piazza, I kept looking over my shoulder for some lurking assailant: the narrowness of the crowded streets seemed dangerously restrictive of movement in any emergency. I was a little, but not much, comforted by our retinue of policemen.

We reached the Piazza at about ten to twelve. I found it at first a relief to be in an open space; but half way across I began to think that the centre of the Piazza was a singularly exposed and vulnerable place, and to wish that I had kept Marylou in the shelter, however illusory, of one of the colonnades at the side. Still, we arrived without misadventure at the entrance to the Basilica. We stood there, among the tourists and the pigeons, wondering what was going to happen, Marylou looking round for a face she might recognize, I still apprehensive of some attack on her.

The mechanically operated bronze figures at the top of the Orologio, which mark the hour by striking on the bell, began to emerge from their places, raising their hammers. The other tourists in the Piazza looked up to watch the little spectacle; the street photographers and sellers of souvenirs continued about their business; Marylou and I went on searching for a familiar face or a threatening gesture, but counted, as we did so, the alternate strokes of the hammers against the bell. The last stroke sounded and was lost in the blue sky above the Piazza; and nothing happened.

“What do we do now?” asked Marylou.

“According to our instructions,” I said, “we go straight home—that is to say, to the Palazzo Artemisio, where I am staying—and telephone Professor Tamar to report progress. We control as best we can our irritation at being involved in this fiasco.”

I had been, as you very well know, reluctant to make any telephone calls from the Palazzo, not wishing Richard Tiverton to be aware that I had been concerned, while in Venice, with other affairs than his own. 1 felt, however, a residual unwillingness to depart from your instructions; besides, it was easier to telephone from there than to trail back to the Consulate. I hoped, in any case, that I would be able to make the telephone call without attracting Richard’s attention, since he was still not feeling well enough to leave his room much. I would, I thought, express as succinctly as possible my opinion of the little pantomime you had organized; I would then tell the policemen, with grovelling apologies, that I no longer required their attendance; I would then take Marylou to lunch at Montin’s.

I was a little embarrassed, therefore, on entering the Palazzo, to find my client already in the entrance hall, himself engaged in a telephone conversation. The more so since it seemed to be acrimonious—he was saying, irritably, “But you must have done—who else would have sent it?” As we came in, however, he looked up and broke off the conversation.

“I’m so sorry, Richard,” I said, “please don’t let us disturb you.”

He did not, however, resume his conversation. I saw, as my eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness of the interior, that he was paying no attention to me, but was staring at the girl beside me.

Looking again at her, I saw that she was staring back at him, with an expression of great amazement.

“Why, Ned,” said Marylou, “I thought you were—” for reasons of euphony or otherwise, she did not complete the sentence, but began to scream.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man, speaking calmly into the telephone receiver. “It’s the American girl. She’s recognized me. And there are some policemen.” The Vice-Quaestor’s subordinates, drawn by the scream, had come to the door, still open, of the Palazzo. “I’m afraid that’s the end of it. Goodbye.”

He left the receiver hanging and ran for the marble staircase. The two policemen ran in and after him. I followed, with some notion, I think, that he was still my client and I should be on hand to protect him.

In spite of his delicate appearance, he must have been quite athletic. With only a few yards’ start he reached the fourth floor, the top floor of the Palazzo, a flight and a half ahead of the policemen.

There is a window on the landing: he leapt for the sill and pushed the shutters open. He stood there, suddenly golden in the sunlight: I saw for a moment what Julia meant about Praxiteles and Michelangelo; and the two policemen—sensible, solid men, no doubt, with wives and families—the two policemen were checked in their pursuit.

“Oh no,” he said, smiling down at us, “no, I don’t think so, thank you.” And turned and jumped.

“The canal,” said one of the policemen, turning to run back. “He’s escaping by the canal.”

“No,” said his colleague, “not the canal.” Getting his bearings more quickly than the other, he had realized that that window did not face on to a canal, but on to a stone-flagged campiello: it is thus a surer escape than by water from the hands of any police force.

When I eventually managed to give the Vice-Quaestor some kind of explanation, he got in touch, of course, with the police in London, to ask them to go and talk to Kenneth Dunfermline. By the time they got there, though, it was too late—he had stabbed himself through the heart.

I remain, in spite of all this,

Your affectionate pupil, Timothy.

PS. The Vice-Quaestor has received by telex from London copies of three letters found beside Dunfermline’s body, the last in his own handwriting, and never posted. These he has kindly made available to me, and I enclose them. Also a copy of a telegram found here at the Palazzo, lying on the table beside the telephone.

Dear Kenneth,

I can’t tell you how pleased I am you can come to Venice. Not just because of having you to cast an expert eye over Aunt Prissie’s antiques, you know—though it’s marvellous of you to do that for me and I feel a bit guilty about taking you away from more important things—but far more just because I’m looking forward so much to you being there. I don’t know anyone at all in Venice—and even if I did, there couldn’t be anyone like you to go and look at things with.

You’ll be getting there a week before me, so you’ll have all that time to rummage round the Palazzo Artemisio—if it really is something you’ll enjoy doing—and see if there’s a lost Titian in the broom cupboard or anything like that. You’d rather stay in a hotel, I expect, until I arrive—you’d be a bit miserable staying on your own in the Palazzo with no one but the housekeeper—you must let me pay the bill, of course, and all your other expenses. I hope you’re not going to be difficult about it—I want to set up as a patron of the arts, you know, and earn myself a footnote in your biography, so please don’t go all Scots and uppity on me.

My boat docks in Venice on the morning of the 9th—that’s a Friday—and that’ll be the end of your peaceful rummaging. You must come and stay with me at the Palazzo, and I’ll drag you all round Venice, making you tell me about painting and architecture.

The only boring thing I have to do is to talk to all these lawyers—well, two of them. I knew I’d have to talk to the Italian one, who looked after things for Aunt Prissie—but my trustee in London is insisting on sending an English one as well. My trustee thinks that I “don’t appreciate the adverse fiscal consequences of the present situation.” So he wants to instruct Counsel—that’s another sort of lawyer, it seems, who uses even longer words than a solicitor—to come and explain them to me. He’s making such a fuss, I’m going to have to let him—and I’ll have to invite the poor man to stay at the Palazzo—it would be a bit mean not to, wouldn’t it? So I’m afraid he’ll be popping up all over the place, talking about fiscal consequences. It’s all a complete waste of time, because what they want me to do is leave Cyprus, if you please—seriously, just sell the Villa and the farm and clear out. Leave Cyprus indeed—as if I would! Aren’t lawyers ridiculous?

Anyway, I shall tell them that my friend Kenneth Dunfermline, the distinguished sculptor, is personally designing a most beautiful fountain especially for the Villa Niobe, so I can’t possibly leave. And they’ll be so impressed, they’ll go away and leave us in peace.

You don’t seem to understand, Ken, that it really is quite something for me to have made friends with someone like you—you’re so completely different from anyone else I know. And I could so easily not have met you at all—if you hadn’t decided to come to Cyprus last year, or even if you’d decided to stop for lunch in some different village. The really extraordinary thing, though, is that you put up with me at all, considering how hopelessly ignorant I am about painting and sculpture and everything, and can’t talk about anything except Cyprus politics and how the olives are doing—it’s simply astonishing that I don’t bore you to tears.

Well, I shan’t talk about anything like that in Venice—just look at paintings and read a lot of Byron and ask you silly questions about art. Will you find me a nuisance? Yes, I expect so, and be too soft-hearted to tell me.

Till the 9th, then—

Yours

Richard

It’s appallingly dangerous writing to you, but I’ve got to—I must know what’s happening, Ken. Except from you, I’ve no way at all of finding out anything that’s happened since I went into the canal last night from the balcony of the Cytherea. I’m like a prisoner in this place—I daren’t go out in case I meet someone who knows me. I’ve told the housekeeper I’m ill—I really am ill, too, no pretence about it.

For pity’s sake, Ken, can’t you understand that I never thought you were serious? I thought it was all a sort of joke—well, not a joke, exactly, but make-believe, a sort of game. Yes, all right, it was a pretty morbid game and I joined in and played it too, practising his signature, and so on—but I never thought you meant it, I never thought you really meant to kill him.

Most of the things you did that you said were part of it, like going to Cyprus and finding him and making friends with him—I thought you were really doing them for quite ordinary, sensible reasons, because it did make sense, after all, to find someone with plenty of money who liked your work and could commission you to do things.

So that morning when he was due to arrive in Venice—yesterday, I suppose, it doesn’t seem possible—I just expected, when I went back to our room—I swear, Ken, I just expected to find you talking to him and showing him the drawings of the fountain and him saying how good they were. And I thought you’d introduce me to him and we’d probably like each other and all be friends. It’s so much what I expected and I can imagine it so clearly, there are moments I can make myself believe it’s what really happened, and that the other thing’s just a nightmare.

Only not for long, because I know the nightmare is what really happened—going back and finding you’d killed him. I feel sick when I think about it. You say you did it for me, because you love me—but I don’t understand that; if you really cared about me you couldn’t want me to go through such a horrible experience.

When we came downstairs again, I was in such a panic I hardly knew what I was doing. All through lunch I kept wondering what would happen if someone went into our room and found him. You hadn’t really hidden him, you know, Ken, not properly—think of all those chambermaids—just suppose one of them had wanted to clean the room—she’d have moved the beds, wouldn’t she?

So I knew, when you’d gone, that I’d have to do it the way you said—go back to that room and stay there until it was dark. On my own for six hours with a dead man, thinking about what had happened. And I couldn’t do it—I just couldn’t, Ken, I don’t know how you could expect me to.

So I took Julia back with me. You’ll be angry with me, I suppose—and God knows it sounds a grotesque thing to have done, making love to someone on one bed with a man lying dead under the other—but I couldn’t help it. I went on making love to her all afternoon, because it was the only way of not thinking about anything, and if I started thinking I couldn’t bear it.

I kept telling myself that I mustn’t fall asleep, but the terrifying thing is that I actually did; I can hardly believe it. I woke up and Julia wasn’t there and the shadows were longer and for about half a minute I felt happy, really terribly happy, because I thought I’d dreamed it all and now I’d woken up and everything was all right. Well, that passed pretty quickly.

The worst thing was putting him back on the bed. He was nearly too heavy for me—you hadn’t thought about that at all, had you, Ken? And you’d said he wouldn’t bleed much, because of the wound being straight to his heart—but he did, he’d bled quite a lot, and I had to clean the place on the floor where he’d been lying. And in spite of all the planning, you didn’t manage to give me much time, did you? I was still waiting for it to get properly dark when I heard you in the corridor—so I had to risk it and go straight into the canal.

After that, I suppose you’d say it all went quite well—I was horribly frightened and I’ll stink of the canal forever—but I didn’t drown and I didn’t run into any sharp obstacles and I didn’t lose my little bundle of clothes. I came out of the canal at the place you showed me—though God knows I never thought then that I’d really be doing it—and dried myself and dressed. I got to the Palazzo without anyone seeing me and presented myself to the housekeeper as Richard Tiverton. She didn’t suspect anything, but she was very worried by me looking so ill—I was feeling very sick and couldn’t stop shivering. And you say you did it because you loved me.

Now there are going to be all these lawyers—I’m terrified about it, especially the English one—suppose it’s someone who knows me? Even if he does, I suppose he might not recognize me—I’m looking so frightful, I can’t bear to see myself in the glass. Well, I’ve got to see them anyway, there’s no way out of it.

After that I’ll be able to leave Venice. I’ll go at night by water-taxi to somewhere on the Lagoon and have a car ready to drive South somewhere. I expect I can get the Italian lawyer to arrange all that for me—now that I’m so rich, I suppose he’ll be happy to indulge my eccentricities. I’ll say I’ve accepted their advice about leaving Cyprus—that’ll explain my not going back there. And they know about Richard hating England, so they won’t expect me to go there, either. That means I can avoid the two really dangerous places without anyone thinking there’s anything odd about it.

But there isn’t anywhere that’s really safe, is there? The world’s a small place nowadays. I shan’t be able to walk down a street in Paris or go to a party in San Francisco or eat in a restaurant in Melbourne and be absolutely sure of not meeting someone who says, “Why, it’s Ned Watson, isn’t it?” Or “But you’re not Richard Tiverton.” So I’ll have to be one of those reclusive millionaires, won’t I? Staying indoors by myself all the time and not seeing anyone. The only person I can safely have anything to do with will be you, won’t it, Ken? You’ll have me all to yourself for ever and ever just as you’ve always wanted—how terribly clever of you. My clever friend Kenneth, who turns stone into people and people into stone.

I can’t leave Venice until I’ve heard from you, of course. Don’t ring me, not unless it’s urgent—the telephone’s terribly public and someone might overhear something. But write as soon as you can, for God’s sake.

I know we agreed that if I wrote to you I’d write as Richard. But after a letter like this, there doesn’t seem much point in saying I’m anyone but

Yours, whether I like it or not,

Ned

The studio. Night. I don’t know what day it is. I haven’t been out since I got home. Your letter came today. I’m sorry you’re ill. It’s true, I didn’t think properly how bad it would be for you. I’m sorry. I thought I’d worked everything out right, but I’ve got it wrong somehow and it’s too late to change it.

But I don’t understand about it not being serious. It was always serious, Ned. Ever since you said you wished you were him, I knew I had to do it for you. I saw it was the only way of you having the kind of life you ought to have and I knew I ought to give it to you. Because if there was something I wouldn’t do to give it to you it would mean I didn’t love you enough. And I did, Ned, because you were so beautiful.

It all seemed to be going right to begin with. I found Richard and he looked enough like you. Not really like you, not beautiful like you, but enough. And it was easy making friends with him, he liked me. I liked him, too, but I saw he had all the things you ought to have and I ought to give them to you. So I only had to wait for the right time and place.

And even afterwards, I still felt I’d done everything right and it was all working out properly. I felt sort of dizzy, but very clear at the same time, as if I were watching myself from outside doing all the things I had to do. I went on feeling like that all the time I was in Verona. I talked to the American girl, the one with nice clothes, all about Byzantine art. The way I used to talk to Richard—he liked me telling him about things like that.

But when I went back it all began to go wrong, because you were lying there and I remembered you were dead and I didn’t know what to do anymore. I’m sorry, I’m getting confused, I mean that’s how it seemed, I haven’t slept much, I’ve been working on the fountain.

I remembered I mustn’t let them see your face, I couldn’t remember why, but I knew it was important. So I held you and people came and wanted to take you away but I wouldn’t let them, not all alone without me.

You sound as if you don’t want me anymore. I don’t mind really, it doesn’t seem to matter now.

But you mustn’t say I don’t really love you, because I do, I really do love you, Richard.

RICHARD TIVERTON PALAZZO ARTEMISIO VENICE. PLEASE RING ME NOON EXACTLY ITALIAN TIME TOMORROW FRIDAY. IMPORTANT.

KENNETH