I found it difficult to imagine a Fascist march through the rich, rolling Italian countryside. Black shirts against the new corn; raised fists before the silvery leaves of olives. That blunt jaw of Il Duce against the soft…
I blinked as my thoughts stuttered to a halt. Blunt: soft. Crisp: velvets. Shapes appearing through the mist. Patterns began to rearrange themselves in my mind: a sketch-book in a time of retreat. Treasures pinned to a wall. A mask, a name…
A name?
I struggled out of my chair and hurried back to Mycroft’s library, flipping rapidly through his enormous world atlas. When I found the page I wanted, I ran my finger west from the blue ink of the water…then stopped. Yes!
I looked up at the man in the doorway. Holmes in his crisp shirt and sleek dressing-gown.
“Trevisan isn’t Cornish,” I said.
“Very well.”
“I know where she’s gone.”
“Lady Vivian?”
“Where she thought would be safe. There’s only one place it could be.”
He looked at the map, reading the name upside-down. “Treviso?”
“Not quite.”
A place so soft, its buildings floated in the mist. A place where roads were water and pavements were bridges. An upside-down world with foundations of wood holding walls of stone, where power was soft and beauty hard, where superstitions were truth and truth was invisible. A place whose citizens were masked even when they wore their own faces.
Oh, Holmes was going to hate this.
“I think she’s gone to Venice.”
Chapter Seventeen
YOUNG MASTER BEACONSFIELD WAS SCREAMING again. The nurse had given notice and decamped for Brighton. Ronnie plopped him into the perambulator he’d long outgrown and we took to the streets.
It did quieten him. He sat upright, gripping the vehicle’s sides and imperiously surveying the passing scenery like a maharaja in his sedan chair, around the Paddington Basin and down Sussex Gardens towards the park.
It calmed Ronnie as well—either the walking or the fact that her son was not voicing complaint. Or, I realised as we strolled along talking about inconsequentials, simply the chance at conversation with another adult. To judge by the state of her living quarters, she was doing without a housemaid or cook—and, by the look of her hastily-bound hair, unplucked eyebrows, and blunt-cut finger-nails, without her regular visits to the salon. All of which suggested she had put friends on the back burner as well.
She was probably sorely tempted to go home to Selwick—either that or beg for shelter in the unwelcoming Fitzwarren household. Both, clearly, were unpalatable—but pride did not pay the bills.
I nearly asked her outright: Ronnie, aren’t you lonely? I had enough sense not to say it aloud, because of course she was: her husband dead, her mother far away, her friends put off by her own embarrassment. And now the lack of a nanny would keep her from looking for some kind of employment. She was, as were many women of her class, using no skills beyond the maternal.
It was an uncomfortable realisation, because I should have seen it long before. However, at least this was one problem I could solve. More troublesome was the question that had brought us back in touch in the first place. We crossed over to Hyde Park and were within sight of the Serpentine before I spoke again.
“I always forget that you and your aunt are so close in age.”
“Yes, she’s almost like an elder sister.”
“It must have been so difficult when she started having problems.”
“Vivian was always a bit odd. It was what I loved about her—that she wasn’t like anyone else I knew. But seeing her in pain like that was hard. I was seventeen the first time she was taken away. And when she tried to kill herself…oh, Mary, it was so awful! I kept thinking, There’s got to be something I can do to keep her safe. But there wasn’t.”
Simon had twisted around at the tension in her voice, a dubious expression on his face. But before the storm clouds could gather, I scooped up a branch with some ancient cypress cones on it and distracted him with it, then asked Ronnie the next sensitive question.
“Do you know anything about your aunt’s will? Who is the beneficiary, and whether she’s re-written it recently?”
“Her will? Why on earth would you ask about that? Do you think—?”
“Ronnie, I’m sure you’ve considered the possibility of her suicide. But if she hasn’t recently reviewed her will, I’d say the chances are good she’s just gone away.”
Absurd, of course—and if Ronnie were thinking correctly, she’d never have given it serious consideration. Fortunately, mothers of young children rarely have sufficient energy to think correctly, so she took my reassurance at face value.
“She and I have the same solicitor. I’ll ring him when we get back to the flat, and ask if she’s made any changes.”
“Good idea.”
“It sounds as if you’re no closer to finding her.”
“Actually, I think I may be. Could she have gone to Venice, do you think?”
Forward progress stopped. “Good heavens, Mary—is that where she’s gone? Oh, what a lovely thought! Auntie Vee adored Venice. When we were young, she used to tell me stories about it. That’s why Miles and I went there on our honeymoon—she gave us the money for it.”
I touched her elbow to keep us moving forward, lest His Majesty grow fractious.
“If she did go there, Ronnie, have you any idea where she’d stay?”
“I think she hired rooms in a palazzo—you do know this was a long time ago, before the War?”
“I saw the dates in her sketch-books, yes.”
“She did arrange for an hotel for Miles and me—the Danieli—but I didn’t get the impression she’d stayed there herself.” The Danieli was the most expensive hotel along the open waterfront, a place foreigners picked when they had the money and wanted no risk of encountering a concierge who did not understand English—or, when they wanted perfection for a beloved niece’s honeymoon. “I understand the Lido has become quite the hot place for night-life, although when we were there it was pretty quiet.
“So: how do you suggest I find her? It’s summer, I can take Simon along, no trouble at all, but I’m not sure where to look.”
Why is guilt such a powerful force? Guilt over an aunt’s suicide attempt, guilt over a friend’s unrecognised need. How could I compound it by letting Ronnie know how badly she’d failed to protect her aunt from the Marquess’ greed?
The moment I’d looked down at Mycroft’s book of maps, I knew what it would take to assuage my own regrets. I put on the very perkiest of grins and lifted my head.
“Good heavens, no. I’ve been dying for an excuse to go to Venice again. I have nothing going at present, so I’ll just pop down on the train. I’m sure to come across her in a day or two—though it’s probably best not to tell anyone about it, until we’re sure. So, shall I bring you back a scarf, from that little place on the Piazza? Or a leather bag?”
Ronnie knew me well enough to see through the cheerfulness. But she also knew that she was in no position to turn me down. The look she gave me, of gratitude and camaraderie and hope, was sufficient reward.
“What about a toy lion, for the young man?”
Chapter Eighteen
“SHERLOCK, YOU ARE GOING TO Venice with Mary, I trust?”
“Why on earth would I do that? Russell is quite capable of travelling across Europe without an escort. And I have that case involving the Americans that Lestrade asked me to look into.”
“I need you to go.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Rome would be better, but Venice will have to do.”
“I’m not one of your flunkies, Mycroft. You have agents to do your bidding.”
“I know you dislike Venice—”
“With good reason, may I point out?”
“That was years ago, Sherlock. And the principals of that case are long dead.”
“Am I not permitted my own preferences?”
“Not when I need you. Not when your country needs you.”
“Mycroft, you cannot think that particular exhortation will work with me.”
“Nonetheless, it is true—none of my people has your eyes. Or your experience.”
“I am not one of your agents.”
“No, you’re my brother. And I am asking for your help with this. Look, Sherlock, you know how it goes. In the early stages of any case, be it one of your crimes or one of my political situations, there is no evidence upon which one can lay one’s finger. What did you tell Watson—that it is like the trembling of a spider’s web?”
“You know very well I was talking about Moriarty, not myself.”
“You might as well have been referring to your own methods—or to mine. Sherlock, I cannot go, and I cannot yet tell one of my agents what to look for. I need you to go and get a feel for the place. I swear to you, these Fascists will be trouble—and it won’t be confined to Italy.”
“I admit I’m a bit surprised that you aren’t more sympathetic to the Fascist message.”
“If there were an actual message, you might be right, since one can talk to a man with firm principles even if one doesn’t agree with him. But the Fascisti are less concerned with theory than they are with raw power. If one plays on fear, takes away any remotely complicated ideas, and offers people a sense of confidence and right, one’s followers will beat to death any enemy they are pointed at.”
“So where is their weak place?”
“I don’t know. Which means I can’t set plans in motion to counter them. You and I are both fully aware there will be another war before the century is out. I’d like to ensure that we survive that one, too. Preferably by a somewhat wider margin than the last.”
“You think the threat will come out of Italy?”
“I think Italy signals the start of an epidemic. The Broad Street pump of politics, as it were. And I believe that the Fascists will be looking for those in power that they might infect.”
“And you are the doctor who closed off the source of cholera-laden water. Does that make me the curate who assisted him?”
“No one believed Dr Snow, either, until he forced matters by removing the pump’s handle.”
“So now we’re plumbers.”
“Sherlock, I need you to go to Venice.”
“Yes, Mycroft, I know. I know you do.”
“You will find the city much changed.”
“Venice hasn’t changed in four hundred years, much less forty. The hemlines are further from the ground, that is all.”
“But you’ll go?”
“I will.”
“Thank you. I’ll have the files sent to Sussex.”
“Don’t do that. Have them here tomorrow. I’d rather Russell not know that I’m doing this for you.”
“When is your wife going to get past this childish aversion to the realities of Empire?”
“Mycroft, has no one ever pointed out to you that name-calling can be extremely revealing?”
“Revealing of irritation, perhaps.”
“Or, of a sensitivity over the truth. Brother mine, the power you wield is dangerous. The use you have made of it has not always been noble. Russell’s objection to that troubles you more deeply than you admit, even to yourself.”
“So you fling insults at me by way of revenge for the uncomfortable memories of Venice?”
“You may be right. I must be gone, I have an appointment with a burglar. Leave the file for me tomorrow.”
“I’ll put it on the dining table in the morning. And, Sherlock? Keep your head down, you and Mary both. There’s violence brewing in Italy. I wouldn’t want you—either of you—to become a target for Fascist boots.”
Chapter Nineteen
“YOU TRULY DON’T NEED TO go with me, Holmes.” I eyed the laden valise, wondering if I ought to fill its last corner with another pair of shoes or a bathing costume.
His only reply was to flip closed the top of his own case and tug down its buckle. It seemed a remarkably small space for what would, I knew all too well, turn out to contain absolutely everything he needed, and in pristine condition.
I grabbed up the shoes—because honestly, why did I imagine I would have either time or inclination to lounge about in a bathing costume?—and wrestled the valise shut. Beneath it on the bed lay my pencil, now stabbed through a crumpled list of tasks:
Maps (Why didn’t all countries have Ordnance Survey maps?)
Beekeeper (Fortunately, one was available.)
Tell Patrick we’re away (My farm manager would watch the place.)
Tell Exchange to route calls to Patrick (Lest calls go unanswered)
Get Lira (Enough to start us off in Venice)
Money for Ronnie
V’s will (I’d finally got the answer out of Ronnie’s solicitor, although it took me a truly irritating amount of time and game-playing, but no, he had not received any notification of changes. The Marquess remained Vivian’s designated guardian, but the actual beneficiary—this being the part the legal gentleman was loath to reveal, and only did so without saying it directly—would be Ronnie. If changes had been made, either they’d been done through another solicitor who had yet to register them, or Lady Vivian had made a holograph will.)
I looked up at Holmes, to ask about the item yet to be crossed off, and found myself distracted by his moustache. Not that I minded it, really. It was so thin, it practically blended into the line of his lip. Just that with the dye in his hair and the darkening around his eyes, he looked a bit…
Racy. As a disguise, it was oddly effective.
“Holmes, did your legal gentleman take care of the money for Ronnie?” Ronnie was familiar with my own firm, so I’d needed to keep their name off of the correspondence.
“Tomorrow and on the fifteenth of each month, until such a time as your friend sorts out her financial situation, one hundred pounds shall be sent her from an anonymous ‘Friend of Miles Fitzwarren.’ ”
I drew a line through that item on the list, and dropped it into the waste-bin. Between consultations with Ronnie and buying detailed maps of the lagoon and showing our photographs (doctored and otherwise) to half the railway personnel in England—to say nothing of searching out a neighbour willing to care for bees—we’d managed to delay a solid week, with little to show for it. Although we could now be relatively certain that Vivian had more or less emptied her bank account; that Rose Trevisan was a London-born nurse with a spotless history of service; and that the two women had left London disguised as brother and sister. Holmes had spent several of the days in London, about some unspecified business. I began to suspect his delay was deliberate.
“Holmes, I know how you feel about Venice, but honestly, I’m quite looking forward to this.”
“Italy is not a comfortable place to travel these days,” he said darkly.
“I know, but Venice isn’t exactly Italy, is it?”
“I believe you’ll find it has moved somewhat closer to the mainland. Well, perhaps Mr Mussolini has managed to get the trains running on time.”
I turned to frown at him, and at the moustache. “Holmes, if that was meant to be a joke, I ask you to remember that his Blackshirts are dragging their enemies off the streets.”
“Precisely. So kindly make an effort not to criticise the man in public, lest you be added to their targets.” He picked up his bag and set off downstairs with it.
I followed more slowly.
Personally, I found Venice a delight. Venice was a place between—a fascinating blend of solid and liquid, of the West but Eastern in flavour, a place of tradesme
n who dealt in magic. That one of its most prized industries was glass, a substance that went from liquid to solid through the use of fire and air, was no accident.
My first memories of the city built on water were as a child at my mother’s side, when her laughter and incredulity proved contagious. I had been back five or six times since then—including a very brief stopover there during the spring, on our way home from Istanbul—but had never shed my amazement and affection for this city of stone laid upon the waters.
Of course Holmes would grumble at the idea of Venice: this was a man who clothed himself with sharp edges and clear colours, who valued cold facts and logical reasoning, whose entire career was based on tracing matters down to their base. One might as well introduce a British bulldog to a Siamese cat.
What I had not considered was that he might hate going there because of the danger it put us—put me—into.
Sixteen months earlier, in April 1924, Italy had held an election that put two-thirds of the Parliament into the hands of the Fascist Party.
At the end of May, a member of Parliament named Giacomo Matteotti—a vocal Socialist and long-time thorn in the side of the Fascisti—made a vehement speech protesting the growth of violence and criminal behaviour, accusing the Fascists of fraud in their victory, and demanding that the results be annulled. A book denouncing the Fascists was hurried to press. But shortly after his speech, Matteotti disappeared from his home.
He was neither the first, nor by any means the last, to disappear, but he was one of the most prominent and beloved. A country-wide search led to nothing but the blood-drenched car in which he had been taken, which proved to be owned and driven by the Fascist secret police—close colleagues and friends of the Prime Minister himself. When Matteotti’s body was finally discovered in August, crowds lined the funeral route. Anti-Fascist posters went up on walls. All fingers pointed at Mussolini. The world waited gleefully for Italian Fascism to crumble under charges of conspiracy and murder, and another would-be tyrant to fade away behind bars.
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