Valour and Vanity (15 page)

Something in the distance crashed, with the sound of wood splintering. Startled at the noise, Jane stopped her pursuit. Vincent stepped away from her, frowning. “Was that in the palazzo?”

“I am uncertain.” Jane tilted her head, listening for further disturbances.

A man shouted, clearly inside the palazzo. Heavy footfalls, of more than one person, echoed off the marble below. Vincent held out his hand to Jane. “Will you wait here, Muse?”

“No, of course not.”

“There are days when I wish you were not as stubborn as I am.”

“Then your wish is granted every day, because no one could be as stubborn as you.”

He snorted as she followed him to the door of their apartments. Still, Jane stayed back when he cracked the door to peer out. The shouting continued, but now some words were clear. “Search,” and “escape,” and—most chilling—“Sanuto.”

Vincent’s breath hissed out of him. “Whatever business he was caught up with has found him.”

“Or not. It sounds as though they are searching.”

Nodding, Vincent put his eye to the door again. His face had the same worried frown that she felt on her own. “At least one man is in a policeman’s uniform.”

Jane waited until he pulled back from the door and eased it closed. “What should we do?”

“I do not know. We know things, told to us in confidence, that we should not, and yet…” Vincent knotted his hand in his hair before continuing. “If they are here, it seems to me that he is probably not at the bank. Perhaps he got word of the search and has fled?”

“Or is unaware, and about to walk into … whatever this is.”

Outside, the noises of the search continued. At least four men called to each other as they went through the palazzo. It would only be a matter of minutes before they reached Jane and Vincent’s apartments. Jane turned to look at the cabinet where they had stored the
Verres Obscurcis,
wrapped in velvet.

Vincent gazed at the same cabinet, as if he had a similar thought. They could use them to hide upon the balcony. The day was sunny enough that the glamour caught in glass would make them invisible.

Jane took a step away from the door. The events reminded her so much of being in Binché that the urge to hide became very strong. She crossed the room and pulled open the drawer in which they kept the
Sphères
.

It was empty.

“Vincent!”

He crossed far enough to see the empty drawer. Whites showed all the way around his eyes. He cursed softly, turning away.

The footsteps in the hall approached their door. Vincent set his shoulders, walked to the door, and pulled it open. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

The man in the hall wore a policeman’s uniform. His long black coat flared around white trousers as he spun. He took a step back in surprise at Vincent’s appearance. With a rattle, he drew his sabre and pointed it at Vincent. The
polizia
called over his shoulder in Italian. “I have them.”

Jane pressed her hands to her chest and willed her heart to slow down. For his part, Vincent stood very still with his hands out from his side. Matching him, Jane used her gentlest voice to ask, “What is happening?”

The
polizia
said nothing, merely kept his guard up. Moments later, the other three policemen they had heard arrived at the door. One of them stepped forward and rudely felt at Vincent’s waist for a knife or sword. Finding nothing, he turned out Vincent’s pockets and removed all the coins, loose ends, and bits of paper that a gentleman might carry. He seemed disappointed to find nothing more dangerous.

A fifth man walked slowly up the stairs, dressed in the severe uniform of a Venetian chief of police. The
capo di polizia’
s feet made almost no sound in their thin kidskin boots.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and raised an eyebrow. “David Vincent?”

“The same.”

“You are charged with trespass, fraud, intent to commit fraud, forgery, and impersonation of a nobleman.”

Jane gasped. “You are mistaken, sir. We were invited here by Signor Sanuto.”

The man’s gaze turned toward her, but his face remained coolly smooth. “There has not been a Signor Sanuto in over fifty years. The line ended when the last male heir died of syphilis. If you are going to choose an alias, I might suggest one that is not so easy to discover.”

“An alias? But … but, no. Signor Sanuto is the man who lives here. He is a senior partner at Banco de Giro. We went to the bank with him and took out a line of credit. You may ask them.”

“The same bank you are accused of defrauding. Really, madam, I must thank you for incriminating yourself in this manner.” He took out a small pocketbook and a pencil. Wetting the lead on his tongue, he began to write.

“
Capo,
sir.” The
polizia
who had searched Vincent held out a folded piece of paper.

The
capo
took the promissory note that Signor Sanuto had returned to them and raised his eyebrows again as he opened it. “Another forgery? Really. You have been industrious.”

Jane took a step toward him. “But we—”

Vincent turned his head. “Jane.”

The weight in his voice stopped her. His face was still and composed. In his youth, before Vincent had cast off his family name, his father had made him study law. Jane could see her husband pulling that part of his past forward and wrapping it around himself like the strands of a
tableau vivant
. With this character assumed, Vincent turned to face the
capo
with his hands still held out from his body. She could not see his face, but she could hear the grave courtesy in his voice.

“Sir. I believe that my wife and I have been the victims of a swindler. Might we have the privilege of showing what evidence we may in our favour?”

The
capo
stared at Vincent, his pencil held above the page. “This is an interesting manoeuvre. I admit to curiosity.” He folded the note book and tucked it back into his pocket. “Very well. What do you have to offer me?”

“We met a man calling himself Giacomo Sanuto while we were taking a ship to Venice. The ship was set upon by pirates—”

The
capo
barked a laugh. “There are no pirates on the Gulf of Venice.”

“I have been made aware of this.” Vincent inclined his head in the smallest of bows. His voice grew tighter and more formal. “Be that as it may, we were taken through the customs office at the port, as were the other passengers on the boat. Even if Sanuto has arranged for there to be no record of him, then one of the passengers will be able to confirm that he was aboard.”

The
capo
gestured to the officers. “Bring them, please. Gently.” He gave Jane a mocking bow. “I have no wish to have you escape, but neither will I be needlessly cruel.”

Jane wished to say something clever, but knew not how.

*   *   *

Jane and Vincent were
loaded into a small boat with the
capo
facing them for the ride across the lagoon to Venice. Jane kept her hands folded on her lap and tried to maintain a tranquil countenance, though her mind was anything but composed. As soon as Lord Byron pointed out the disparity with the ransom, they should have left Signor Sanuto—she did not even know what name to curse, since that was clearly an assumed one. Whose clothes had Jane been wearing? It was a trivial question, but Jane found herself fixing on it rather than the larger concern. If she let her mind approach too near the question of what would happen to them, she felt close to panic.

Vincent sat by her side, with a space between them so that the officers did not think them about to try anything untoward. His hands, likewise, were clasped in front of him, but his head was bent in thought. A muscle clenched repeatedly at the corner of his jaw.

The boat drew up in front of a tall brick building with a grassy plot in front of it and steps leading down to the water. Porters ran to and fro pushing carts piled with goods. Clerks walked the steps, noting the ships tied up there in their tally books. Jane did not recognise any of it.

“Where are we?”

“The port offices.” The
capo
raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That is where you said you wished to go, is it not?”

“But this is not … this is not where we were taken.”

Vincent raised his head. He studied the building and then half-turned towards her. “I was not fully conscious, so it is up to you, Muse.”

She felt the sound of her pet name as though it were a steadying hand upon her back. Jane drew herself up and attempted to rally her senses. “We were taken to a warehouse. The exterior was red, and it stank of fish.” Jane closed her eyes, trying to recall their arrival. “When we came in, Piazza San Marco was to our left, and the building faced the lagoon on the far side of the Grand Canal.”

The
capo
stared at her, a slight frown creasing his otherwise unyielding mask. Nodding slowly, he directed the crew to attempt to find the building that Jane described. They rowed along the canal and she sagged in her seat when the building appeared. A part of her had feared that Sanuto would have somehow spirited it away.

They tied up to the dock in short order. Vincent followed the
capo
out of the boat and reached back to help Jane up to the dock. His hand was on hers, warm and comforting. Never had she been so glad that her husband eschewed gloves. She took comfort from the pressure of his hand against hers.

Then the officers forced them apart. Her skin tingled where he had held her, as if they were still connected. Jane’s breathing slowed and steadied. As shocking as this was, they would be all right. They had faced greater hardship than this.

The
capo
opened the door to the red warehouse and ducked inside. Vincent and Jane followed him, with the officers close behind. It took a moment for Jane’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

It still stank of fish, but the crates and boxes were gone. In fact, the space was empty of everything save a broken cart in one corner piled with a torn fishing net.

There was no evidence that it had ever been anything except a warehouse.

Ten

Want and Abundance

The
capo
took them next to Banco de Giro. It was in the building Signor Sanuto had taken them to, but the bank had no knowledge of him. They did recall the incident when an older gentleman had slipped on the stairs, but he had said that he was an agent of Vincent’s. That was when the forgeries began.

Without comment, the
capo
had loaded them back into the boat and returned with them to Murano, where the bulk of their creditors remained. The station house he took them to sat off Murano’s Grand Canal and had a full complement of
polizia
standing outside. The badge of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia was emblazoned on the wall over the hearth. Light from an enclosed courtyard shone merrily through the windows on to a large desk, as though to mock them.

The
capo
slid a paper across the desk. “Is this from your banker?”

Vincent picked it up and looked more ill than he had since they had been at sea. His skin turned grey, and all the vitality seemed to suck out of his skin. “It is.” The paper in his hand trembled slightly as he handed it to Jane.

It took her a moment to understand the substance of the letter.

My dear Sir David,

I have received your letter of 9 September with some dismay. While it is fully within your rights to withdraw the funds that you have placed with us at any time, I had hoped that we could continue …

“All of it?” Jane stared again at the letter, trying to will the words “placed the whole of your account” to mean anything other than what it did. She looked again at the date of the letter that their banker said he had received. “This is the day we arrived here.”

Vincent’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “The clerk in the—in what we thought was the customs house had me sign and date several papers. I have no doubt that one of them was used to forge a letter to our banker.”

“That letter”—the
capo
beckoned for Jane to return it to him—“is the thing that makes me believe you might be victims of this as well.”

Jane sat up, feeling the first rush of hope since the police arrived that morning. With each new discovery, Jane had become more stupefied. She felt only shame that she had been so duped by events that were, upon reflection, perfectly evident. “Sir, we are—”

“I said,
might
be victims.” He gestured to the other papers on his desk. “The line of credit you established with the tailor was a forgery and has your signature. Likewise, you owe money to the dressmaker for Lady Vincent’s wardrobe—again, with another forged line of credit. Signor Querini is owed payment for his work for you. The owner of the house in which you have been staying is also demanding a fee for rent, plus damages for your time there and the clothing you wore—which, I might add, we have witnesses for. You might simply be a swindler who was caught, and this letter is your cover story. I have no proof, after all, that you really are Sir David Vincent.”

How many ways had they been fools? Vincent could be excused because he had been sorely injured, but she? She had been too trusting. Some part of her wondered if this were even a real
capo
, or real police station
,
but the material evidence they provided was too strong to be denied, much as she might wish it.

Vincent addressed the floor. “As we have explained, our papers were taken from us aboard the ship.”

“Yes. The ‘pirate’ attack.”

“What of the British consul?” Jane asked. “He can vouch that we are who we say.”

“If he were here. Mr. Hoppner is, in fact, the first person I attempted to contact when these trespasses came to light. He is, alas, out of town.”

“With Lord Byron.” Vincent scrubbed his face with both hands and gave a wretched chuckle. “Of course. May I ask how you were made aware of the crimes?”