“You like her?” the Hon Terry asked proudly.
“It’s beautiful. Is it yours?”
“Indeed she is. It’s a Runabout. American. I had her shipped out a couple years ago, costs a small fortune keeping her up over the winter but it’s nice to have her when I’m here.” I permitted him to hand me on board, then watched him go back and forth turning on the running lights, which he managed without fumbling or falling into the water. He did seem to stumble as he came on board, his trailing foot lingering a moment on the docks, so I kept an eye as he stepped down behind the wheel and bent to adjust the mixture, quite like a motorcar. He did so without hesitation—and when he pushed the starter and set his hands on the wheel, I looked up to see that the little push his hesitation had given now brought our prow into precisely the angle of a clear path out. I grinned in appreciation, and listened to the throb of a well-maintained engine.
“That’s a big motor,” I said.
“Six-cylinder Packard, two hundred horses. Get you to Ravenna in a couple hours. Pretty mosaics there, you know?”
“So I understand.” I watched him edge the controls up, threading a path through the hotel’s small harbour into open lagoon.
To my relief, once out, he was content to putter his way towards the city itself, standing at the wheel so as to keep an eye for stray gondolas and packing crates, going just fast enough to ruffle his curls in a manner that would have tempted the fingers of most young women—but not enough to make speech difficult.
I did not run my fingers through his Byronic locks. I didn’t even look at him, only rested my forearms on the wind screen (my wayward bandeau securely looped around a wrist) and used the remnants of my strained voice to interrogate him. The dear boy imagined I was being friendly.
“You seem to know Venice well.”
“Been coming here since I was in short pants. I was a sickly thing. Weak lungs, you know? The Mater took me here and there, Switzerland and Spain and all over. Ended up on the Lido, and the old bronchials seemed to be happy at last. So we’d come here most summers, to set me up for another English winter.” There was no sign of congestion there now—certainly his broad chest gave no indication of chronic infirmity.
“You must have spent your childhood longing for June. When did you meet Elsa Maxwell?”
“Interesting creature, what? Few years back, three maybe, she and Dickie showed up, just when things were getting a bit monotonous. Walked in, looked us over, and came up with a party. She likes parties with what you might call themes. Pretend murder, find the culprit—or alphabetical treasure hunt—alpaca scarf, bottle of gin, champagne glass, dog collar. Another time she sent us on a scavenger hunt, nuttiest list of things you ever saw. ’Course, things do tend to get a bit out of hand, so she likes to keep a few friends with cheque-books to cover bail and repairs.”
“She doesn’t regard that as her responsibility?”
“Oh, Elsa hasn’t a sou. Well, maybe one or two, but not any real cash. All she has is energy and ideas. And you’ve met her—she’s contagious, wouldn’t you agree? There’s a rumour the hotel tears up her bill because she’s so good at bringing in the customers. I hope you’re coming to the party she’s getting up on Saturday? Ah, I say!” He reached down and switched off the big engine, which coughed in protest. “ ‘We are even now at the point I meant, said Maddalo.’ ”
He was looking at me expectantly. After a moment’s thought, I came up with a phrase. “ ‘And bade the gondolieri cease to row’ ”?
He beamed in approval, and swept his arm at the night. “ ‘A windowless, deform’d and dreary pile, and on the top an open tower, where hung a bell.’ ”
I peered out at a darker presence in the darkness. “ ‘What we behold shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower.’ So is this the lunatic island that Byron showed Shelley?”
“The very same. Creepy, ain’t it?”
San Servolo was nothing but a faint presence—and far from iron-tongued bells or the prayers of maniacs, the only sound was the patter of tiny waves against wood.
“Hmm. Does it make a difference to know that a lot of the madness they dealt with—still do, for that matter—is because of pellagra? That as soon as the patients began to eat something other than maize, they got better?”
He thought for a moment. “That should help, but I don’t know that it does, much. Poor blighters.”
We rocked and listened to the night for a minute.
“There can’t be any city in the world quieter than Venice,” he said in a soft voice.
“Once one gets away from the Lido.”
“Does rather bang at the ears, doesn’t it?”
“Hard to think of Byron and Shelley riding horses along the beach.”
“Vaulting the chaises and dodging the balloon-men? One can still ride, though further down, past all the hotels. I’ll take you one morning, if you like.”
“I’m not much of a horsewoman.”
“They’re not much of horses.”
“We’d be well matched, then.”
“What about breakfast? You hungry?”
“What, now? I’m not sure that there’s anything open in the city.”
“Sure to be, down at the port—but no, I was thinking of Chioggia.”
“Isn’t that at the far end of the lagoon?”
“Be down there just as the cafés open. What do you say?”
“Terry, sorry dear boy, but my husband…”
“Yes, of course,” he said instantly, and reached down for the starter. The engine sputtered, nearly caught, then to my relief, started cleanly. The Hon Terry spun the wheel in the direction of San Marco and raised the speed—but I touched his arm lightly. “No need to rush. This has been a lovely night—and we wouldn’t want to come across any modern-day Byrons swimming towards the Grand Canal.”
He looked aghast at the thought and immediately backed down, eyeing the water ahead as I resumed my gentle grilling. He talked happily, on all manner of topics from the Bridge of Sighs to the making of masks to his fears that the Fascisti would sooner or later clamp down on the freedoms of visitors, and that would be the end of the Lido set. He’d met Cole Porter, went to a few of the Porters’ affairs the summer before, but hadn’t seen him yet this season.
“Swell chap, you’d never know he’s from someplace like Iowa or Missouri. And his wife’s a sweetheart—a little older than him, but what a beauty she is. She gave her first husband the bum’s rush ’cause he used to beat her. Can you believe that? Even if you’re stinking blotto, you don’t hit a girl. Should have bumped the snake off, not divorced him. Still, the old gal hit on a prize with Porter. Clever devil, and tinkles a sweet keyboard. Pity about the socks, though.”
“Socks?” It was a challenge to follow his American-flavoured slang.
“White cotton things. Ugly as sin. Makes him look like some kind of health nut—Naturist or vegetarian or something. Still, at least he doesn’t wear ’em at night, or I’d have to write him off as a bounder.”
I laughed, causing him to protest that Venice was filling up with nuts, Americans in sackcloth and sandals, greasy hair and all.
“Terry, I haven’t seen a single greasy-haired, sackcloth-wearing American since I got here.”
“They’re about. Or they were. Come to think of it, they’re fewer on the ground than they were. You suppose that’s Mussolini’s doing? Points to him. Which reminds me, I wonder if that Mosley chap will be here this year? Bet he’ll be happy about things.”
“I don’t believe I know Mr Mosley.”
“Oh, you must know Tom—Harrow’s MP? Well, he was, I hear he’s gone over to Labour now.”
“You mean Oswald? Oswald Mosley?”
“That’s right, but they call him Tom. He and his wife, Cimmie—Lady Cynthia Curzon that was?—come here sometimes. Not a b
ad sort, but Lord, don’t get him started on economics! He and Duff Cooper don’t exactly see eye to eye, which makes it smashing fun to watch Cimmie and Diana—Cooper’s wife?—be polite at each other.”
As a long and involved story unspooled, it was driven home to me that August would not have made a good time to come here. I can’t say I moved in those circles (I can’t say I moved in any circle, really) but in a country as snug as England, I’d had dinner, drinks, a dance, or a class at Oxford with half the names he mentioned. In August, I would not get ten feet before someone recognised me.
He finished his story—“And the topper is, the scampi was bad, and the next day he was sick as a dog!”—just as we entered the San Marco Basin. The city’s lights gathered us in, the Riva degli Schiavoni looking oddly naked without its crowds. I pointed at a pier just along from the Beau Rivage. When he had brought our side up against it, I stepped ashore before he could switch off the motor or toss a mooring line.
“You don’t need to come,” I said firmly. “My hotel is just there.” I gave a vague flap of the hand in the direction of half a dozen doors.
He raised an invisible hat to me. “ ‘And soon the Runabout convey’d her to her lodgings by the way.’ ”
“Thank you for the ride. I enjoyed it, very much.”
“Any old time. Will we see you tomorrow?”
“If not tomorrow, then soon.”
“I look forward to it. Sleep well, Mrs Russell. My salutations to your husband.”
I let myself into a room that purred with the sound of gentle snores, and fell asleep with the dawn, surprisingly happy with my lot in life.
Chapter Twenty-nine
HOLMES AND I TOOK OUR breakfast at an hour closer to lunch-time, even here in Italy. My voice was hoarse from the previous night, despite some litres of scalding tea. Holmes, too, had been out late and was not yet dressed, his pyjama-ed legs propped on an empty chair, his cup and saucer balanced on his chest.
“What did you accomplish yesterday, Holmes?”
“I went shopping.”
“Really?”
“I bought three books, two very old musical scores, and a violin.”
“A violin.”
“Yes.”
“A nice one?”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Not particularly.”
Instead of playing his game, I decided to tell him about my own day. It took quite some time, even though I omitted a few things for later consideration, or in case I needed to tease out of him why he’d bought a violin.
We’d moved on to buttering rolls and ordering more coffee before I finished.
“Interesting collection of influential people at that table,” he commented at last.
“Yes, it’s a good thing you didn’t go—better to stick to the Americans, who might not recognise you. And I gather that Duff and Diana Cooper and your friend Churchill and his wife, and Diaghilev and Nijinsky and Coco Chanel and, well, half the names of the social pages come over in August. It is a sort of modern-day, round-the-clock Carnevale, with makeup instead of masks, and—with apologies to the Christian calendar—Miss Elsa Maxwell as the Lord of Misrule. Her forte is the organising of parties. Her art form, you might say—to bring together an unlikely group of people and give them something even more unlikely to do. Childish parlour games with a touch of sin. Tremendously popular with the rich and bored. Why a violin?”
“To attract Mr Cole Porter.”
“And did you do so?”
“I did. In fact, I am to audition today for a party he is holding on Saturday night in Ca’ Rezzonico.”
“That’s their palazzo?”
“This year it is. A Baroque pile even larger than it looks from the water.”
“Wait, isn’t that…”
“The one in which Robert Browning died? And John Singer Sargent worked? Indeed.”
“Good Lord. What must that cost?”
“Eighty or ninety thousand lira a month, give or take. Plus hiring a few dozen gondoliers on retainer, and the servants, and the parties. One year they created a floating dance-hall with a jazz band—although, lacking a lavatory, it was short-lived. I imagine the Porters’ summers here contribute a million or more lira to the local economy. To say nothing of what his guests leave behind.”
“I can see why the authorities put up with a little noise at night. Is it his money, or his wife’s?” Terry hadn’t said, not directly, but one suspected that a woman who dumped her abusive husband did so with a cushion.
“He had money, she had more. She may not support him financially, but she does so in every other way, from social to professional.”
“Well, our Saturday looks to be a busy one, Holmes.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Elsa Maxwell, too, is having a ‘bash’ that night. In full costume.”
He returned his attention to the bread roll, concentrating on an even layer of apricot preserves. “I refuse to attend in deerstalker and calabash.”
“I believe it’s to be Carnevale themed. Somewhat more glittery than a houndstooth Inverness. Not that you’d find one of those in Venice.”
“One clear point in the favour of this city,” he grumbled.
“Holmes, why is it you so dislike Venice?”
“It is a place of masks over masks. Only in the subcontinent does one find a people so cavalier about facts, where a Yes is so apt to hide a No. It is…inefficient.”
“You prefer to keep the vaporetti running on time.” To my surprise, his face closed up. “Damn it, Holmes, what is it—what does Mycroft have you doing? It’s something I’m going to hate, I can tell.”
For a moment, I thought he would not answer, and I felt my anger stir. Perhaps he felt it, too, because he put down the untasted roll and took up his linen napkin, methodically rubbing nonexistent crumbs from his fingers. “My brother wishes me to break into the town’s Fascist headquarters.”
Frankly, I hadn’t thought he would reply, or I wouldn’t have taken an irritated bite of food. As it was, I nearly choked before I convinced it to go down. “What? Dear God, Holmes, has your brother gone insane? They’re a trained militia! Is he picturing the Blackshirts as some geriatric Volunteer Corps, marching along the cliffs with—”
“Russell.”
“—wooden rifles or something? What does he think, they’re going to let you waltz through their files-room?”
“Russell! I did not agree to do so.”
“But you didn’t outright refuse, either. Did you?”
“I merely promised to keep my ears open. And—and,” he repeated firmly to interrupt my protest, “I did tell him that if breaking in were required, I would send for the assistance of some younger, and no doubt fitter, agents.”
“Really?”
“I should not wish to be the cause of my brother’s murder at the hands of my wife. Or, widow.”
“Holmes, that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said for days. But honestly, is that why you came? Because Mycroft wants a report on Fascism?”
“Kindly do not permit your voice to carry down to the pavements, Russell. Yes, my brother anticipates trouble in coming years from the followers of Il Duce. But since the rest of His Majesty’s government find nothing wrong with an Italian dictatorship—and indeed, are following the movement with considerable interest—Mycroft requires a reason to start up an open enquiry.”
“A reason such as, some fact his brother happened to come across during a completely unrelated trip to Venice?”
“More or less. In any event, breaking into the Venice headquarters would be absurd, since any important memoranda would surely be immediately sent to Rome.” He resumed eating his roll. “Tell me about your admirer, the young man with the speed-boat.”
“Speed-boat, yes; admirer—well, Platonic, perhaps. It’s fairly clear
the Honourable Terry’s preferences run firmly in the other direction. He has a nice boat and pleasant manners, and more to the point, he let spout with a few rather predictable passages from Shelley that reminded me: the Venice lagoon has its own island madhouse.”
He grumbled something too low to hear, no doubt along the lines of all Venice being a madhouse. I ignored him, pointing off at the water where an island stood between us and the Lido. “San Servolo is a lunatic asylum. I wonder if it’s worth asking if a former Bedlam nurse has shown up there looking for employment.”
“Not at San Servolo.”
“Why not?” I responded, trying not to give way to irritation.
“Because the patients there are male. For a madwoman, one needs look to San Clemente.”
How on earth did he learn these things? “Very well, I shall look to San Clemente.”
“I shouldn’t bother, they have neither admitted an Englishwoman nor hired a nurse since April.”
I glared at him. “It’s your gondolieri, isn’t it? You got them talking.”
“Gondolieri are the cabdrivers of Venice. They are everywhere, at all hours, crossing the lagoon even when the steamers have ceased operation. And when waiting for fares, they have nothing to do but smoke and gossip, like housewives around the village well.”
“That and ogle passing girls.”
“And not one of them has noticed a small blonde Englishwoman with a tall dark-haired companion.”
“Holmes, Vivian and the nurse can’t have been here for much more than a week.”
“Still, it is suggestive.”
“In the sense of suggesting she’s not here? You may be right, but we’ve only begun to look. In her position, I’d have gone to ground for a time. And besides, your taxi drivers may have missed something. What if the two women have their own boat? What if they walk everywhere?”
His eyebrow twitched, one of his more maddening habits, and he shifted as if about to rise.
“Something else, Holmes.” He subsided. “On the steamer last night, going over to the Lido, we passed an incoming boat with two Blackshirt passengers. One of them looked remarkably like the Marquess of Selwick.” Before he could calculate the timing or ask the question, I gave it. “I’m afraid it’s possible, just. I saw Ronnie on Monday. And I had to ask if she could think of any place in Venice where her aunt might have gone. I did tell her not to mention to anyone that I’d asked, but I didn’t stress it because…well, I couldn’t bring myself to say outright that her uncle might be stealing from Vivian. Might even be a threat to her. So Ronnie knew we were coming here. And I’m afraid that, being Ronnie, she might have mentioned it to her mother.”
Island of the Mad Page 17