The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  When the day arrived, her journey was uneventful, save for the usual delays of luggage retrieval. She eventually reached the arrivals hall and was unsurprised that Sofia was not there.

  Despite a promise to be at the airport an hour before the flight touched down, Julia recalled that Sofia’s sense of time-keeping didn’t match her own.

  She heard a clatter of heels interspersed with abrupt bursts of raised voices. Sofia was approaching at speed - bouncing off obstacles, human and inanimate, which impeded her direct route. Each ricochet was rewarded with a curse or an apology, apparently at random.

  Julia just had time to put her bags down before she was engulfed in a perfumed hug. When Sofia remembered to switch from Italian to English, she was a long way past her apologies for tardiness and was exclaiming at Julia’s ability to make time stand still while she, Sofia, had become old and decrepit in her desolation at leaving London.

  When Sofia eventually paused to draw breath, Julia hastened to contradict her.

  ‘Sofia, you look fabulous. How do you do it?’ If Julia had just run through an airport concourse, she would be lobster-red, sticky and dishevelled. Sofia’s make-up was flawless and her olive complexion only slightly flushed.

  Her thick, dark hair was groomed into a more sophisticated chignon than the tumbling style she had worn as an art student. However, Julia observed a little smugly, that Sofia had put on a few pounds in the intervening years.

  Sofia mimed dismay. ‘What has happened to your integrity? I am a fat old witch and you mustn’t lie to me.’

  They tussled for a little longer over who had accumulated the most wrinkles, until Sofia grabbed the handle of Julia’s wheelie bag. ‘No more arguments, I am being a poor hostess. You are tired after travelling and I have food and wine at home.’

  On the way to Sofia’s apartment, she outlined the arrangements she had made, to see Alessandro at the State Archives office. ‘The archives are not open to the public, but he knows you are the curator of an English art museum, so you will be granted a temporary pass.’ She waved away the technicality that Julia’s tenure - as Acting Curator only - had concluded.

  ~

  Julia woke late to bright sunlight. Her determination to track the Assassin back to his origin was receding further. It would be an interesting quest, but there were many other things to enjoy in Venice.

  As their water bus crossed from the mainland - leaving terrafirma, as the island natives called their hinterland - Julia was struck afresh by the magical uniqueness of the tiny city.

  She felt a fleeting qualm that she would be shutting herself up in the archives, when there was so much to experience simply strolling through the piazzas and riding along the canals.

  After more than two hundred years, the prospect of finding any trace of a minor English gentleman’s visit, or even of a member of the local nobility - with nothing but an uncertain likeness for guidance - seemed like madness.

  She knew she was being ridiculous. She had no obligation to research the Assassin’s origins and could enjoy her holiday any way she chose. Sofia had secured her access to the archives, which she wouldn’t waste, but it needn’t take all her time.

  And then she stepped off the boat back into the city. Venice obviously smelt different from anywhere else, with the salt tang from the lagoon mixing with stagnant water, unswept by the tides, and roasting coffee carried on the breeze.

  But the sound of Venice was unique too - the motorised transport didn’t generate the same constant background buzz as road traffic. Along with the coffee, the breeze carried church bells and the voices of market traders.

  They transferred to a local vaporetto and Sofia said they wanted the San Zaccaria stop; San Marco was as close to their destination, but even more crowded.

  The short journey provided a panorama of architectural splendour. Julia dismissed a momentary concern that its familiarity belonged to the Assassin’s memories rather than her own experience.

  Sofia set off towards the Doge’s Palace. As they approached, Julia expected Sofia to lead her into a neighbouring alleyway, but she continued into the complex.

  ‘The archives are here?’

  ‘Oh yes. Inside it isn’t all as grand as it looks. There is a ghetto of tiny offices above and beneath the state rooms.’

  Sofia found a reception desk and loftily proclaimed Julia the Diretoressa of a major British art museum, visiting for a meeting with Dr Alessandro Crisanti, who should be summoned immediately.

  The receptionist appeared inured to such demands, but eventually consented to make a call. She waved them towards a shabby chaise longue - that might possibly have been a valuable antique, to await Sofia’s friend.

  They had scarcely sat down before a compact man bounded across the vestibule to greet Sofia. From his stylish loafers to his casually draped scarf, Julia’s first thought was that he could never be mistaken for an Englishman.

  After a lot of cheek kissing and a flow of Italian that Julia couldn’t begin to follow, Alessandro turned to her. ‘And you are Ms Julia Bailey. Benvenuto a Venezia.’ He hesitated for a moment, then extended a hand formally, but with a grin. ‘But you are so young to be the Director of a museum. How does Sofia know someone so illustrious?’

  ‘Dr Crisanti - I’m delighted to meet you. But Sofia has misled you. I have been merely Acting Curator. Sofia and I studied together for our Masters’ degrees.’

  ‘If you are Sofia’s friend, then you are my friend also, and must be welcomed so.’ He hadn’t released Julia’s hand and used it to pull her into a clinch scented - not unpleasantly - with cologne and espresso.

  He released her, with another flash of the grin and led them both through a warren of narrow dark passageways.

  They reached an untidy but cosy space, surprisingly well-lit by skylights. Julia had become a little disorientated, but estimated they were on the edge or possible directly under the courtyard they had walked through on their way in.

  Alessandro requested the passport-style photo that Julia had been instructed to bring along, to create the temporary pass.

  He said something in Italian which triggered an eruption from Sofia. It looked as if a disaster had struck, but Julia almost giggled at the stereotypically gesticulating pair.

  Sofia gave Alessandro a glare and turned to Julia. ‘This … man …’ she invested the word with so much scorn, she might as well have said imbecile. ‘He says it will take a week to issue the pass. You will not be able to look at anything until then.’

  ‘I quite understand. I can entertain myself perfectly well exploring the city this week.’

  ‘Ms Bailey… Julia. It is not so bad as what Sofia is saying. If you can tell me exactly what it is you look for, I can order the boxes of records and documents from storage. They will take some days to bring the materials. But by the time I have your pass, then they will be here for you.’

  He showed her a little cubby hole to one side of the room with an empty table and a well-upholstered office chair.

  It took a mere half hour for Julia to outline her hopes that there might be records of Bernadino Castelli’s sales, which could link the Assassin portrait to Edmond Seckfield’s Grand Tour in 1785.

  Alessandro interrogated the professional portal to the SiASVe. He warned Julia not to raise her hopes too high, but said he would definitely have some papers for her to work her way through.

  ‘I hope it is not a hunt for a wild goose.’

  ‘I suspect it may be, but I am incredibly grateful to you, for giving me the opportunity to undertake the hunt.’

  ‘It is exciting to be a detective of history. But what will you do, before I see you here next week?’

  ‘Like a detective after a missing person, I’m going to show the picture of my Venetian Nobleman around some art galleries. If it is a good likeness, I’m hoping someone may recognise him from another portrait, which will identify who he is. It is almost certainly another wild goose chase.’

  ‘You have a copy of the pic
ture with you? I would love to see who we are looking for,’ Alessandro said.

  Julia handed over one of Sam’s prints.

  ‘Hmm, I’m not sure he is a character I would like to find. But my business is paper, not paint. Buono fortuna. You must tell me next week if you have success.

  Julia thanked him again as he guided them back through the maze of corridors. After another round of hugs, for their departure, Sofia also left Julia, in order to travel to her own office.

  She handed over a tourist map with the locations of the principal galleries and museums marked. Julia set off for the nearest, absurdly optimistic, but determined that her search for the Assassin should not overwhelm her opportunity to enjoy all the other art.

  She initially wandered at random, soaking up the atmosphere and stopping to admire works that caught her eye. She had always thought of Venice as a Renaissance treasure house, but it didn’t lack for art from later centuries.

  When she found herself in a gallery of the right period, she tried to ask the room steward about the man in her picture.

  Although his English was considerably better than her Italian, it proved impossible to explain that she was looking for another painting of the man in her print, not for that portrait. She realised she would have to ask Sofia to teach her - or write down - an appropriate phrase.

  She made one more attempt, but they were still at cross purposes.

  ‘He is dressed as Venetian, yes. But we breed from the Phoenicians. You understand me? He is a more Northern man.’

  Julia was charmed by his phrase to describe Venetian ethnicity, but startled: she had never considered that the Assassin might not have originated in Venice. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The eyes are grey and cool, not warm.’ (She was uncertain if he had said cool or cruel.) ‘And it is in the bones.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. I am trying to find out who he was.’

  The steward pointed to her print. ‘This is in England? Then maybe he is English, like you.’

  Chapter 27

  Julia tried not to dwell on the idea that she had come all this way to find that the Assassin had never been out of England, that the Venetian styling was merely a fanciful costume. She received a further challenge to her pre-conceptions at the next gallery where she showed the picture of the Assassin.

  ‘Some would say this is a self-portrait, maybe?’ See the blade is held in the left hand. The painter copies himself from a mirror.’

  ‘Someone else suggested to me that the sitter didn’t look like a Venetian nobleman.’ Julia was reluctant even to say it.

  ‘Venetian, who can tell? The cloths - the costume, yes? - It is right. Noble? The features are very fine. Not a working man, as most painters would be.’

  ‘Perhaps he was a left-handed nobleman?’

  The gallery attendant smiled and shrugged his unwillingness to commit to an opinion.

  ~

  Sofia was dismissive of the gallery steward’s view that the Assassin couldn’t be Venetian and pooh-poohed the self-portrait theory, but Julia couldn’t tell if she believed what she said or was just being supportive.

  Julia became more systematic in seeking out 18th century galleries and looking for other works by Bernadino Castelli, as well as portraits of Venetian nobility.

  Castelli’s fame rested largely on having painted the last Doge, but when Sofia had emailed Alessandro to ask if he could locate a Castelli expert amongst the Palace staff, he had been unable to pin down anyone to examine Sam’s enlargements of details from the Assassin for characteristic brushwork.

  After finding a Castelli portrait at a gallery whose entire professional staff claimed a dedication to the seventeenth century, the next Castelli painting Julia saw was a religious subject - one of his “beautiful madonnas”.

  She tried to carefully enunciate the phrase Sofia had given her to ask if anyone at the gallery had a particular interest in Castelli.

  This time she was in luck. The deputy curator, with an intern in tow to help with translation, was summoned to examine the prints.

  ‘These photographies are of a good quality, but without seeing the original, I only guess.’

  ‘I understand, Professor. I wish you could see the original.’

  ‘I also. Your museum is not in London? Is it far away?’

  ‘It is a half hour train journey from central London. Are you visiting the UK soon?’

  ‘I regret. Not until next year, I think.’

  ‘Thank you for looking, anyway.’ Julia was disappointed, but hardly surprised.

  The curator leafed through the prints again and studied the one of the entire portrait. ‘This does have something of his style - a good student perhaps, or even the master, working quickly perhaps. There are elements of detail. They are sketched, but not finely finished.’

  ‘Professor, I assume the canon - the lists - of Castelli’s works are not thought complete?’

  ‘Castelli worked in different cities, so the records are scattered. I would, myself, love to have the time to spend in archives, but there are many tasks to run museum.’

  Julia heard her cue to move on. ‘Yes, I must not take more of your time. Many thanks for your help.’

  ‘Buona fortuna - for your quest, Signora.’

  ~

  Julia was recommended to try other, smaller museums and by the end of the week, could hardly keep track of the number she had visited.

  A few times her hopes were raised when a gallery attendant thought there was a likeness to the Assassin in their collection, but Julia failed to see any resemblance in the pictures she was invited to view.

  She thought of the volume of pictures in storage, even in so small a museum as Fathon House, and imagined another portrait of the Assassin could remain undiscovered for ever.

  The oddest false alarm came near the end of the week. The gallery steward she spoke to had very little English, but after looking at the print of the Assassin for a while, became suddenly excited. She caught Julia’s arm and practically dragged her to the upper floor of a tiny museum, which was mostly an excuse for a tourist gift shop.

  Julia asked the woman to speak more slowly, as they ascended the staircase, but the only words she could make out were “… the boy… a street boy…”

  This became clear when she saw the painting that the woman led her to. It was a Venetian street scene - a characteristic backdrop of symmetrical buildings with a colourful market.

  The central figure was an urchin of about ten years of age, pickpocketing an unsuspecting young man. The man was probably meant to represent a wealthy tourist making his Grand Tour, but the picture focused on the gleeful roguery in the boy’s expression.

  Julia could see how the woman had made the connection: although the child’s features were still a little unformed, they bore a striking resemblance to the Assassin. Could a child pickpocket have graduated to paid murderer - maintaining a sideline as an artist’s model?

  Julia moved in to read the attribution. She was unfamiliar with the painter’s name - Niccolo Marcato.

  Do you know when this was painted? Do you know anything about it?’ Julia had to ask, but feared the answers would lead away from a traceable identity for the Assassin.

  Through a combination of keywords “catalogue”; “list”; “details”; sign language and ultimately a translator function on her phone, Julia was able to discover the dates for Marcato, that he was a minor portrait and cityscape artist who had worked in Venice for his whole life. 1769 - 1826.

  Julia tried to calculate a time-line and quickly realised it wouldn’t fit with her theory of the Assassin being Edmond Seckfield’s souvenir. If the boy was the same person, the Assassin would have to have been painted about twenty years later.

  The steward would not permit Julia to photograph the painting of the urchin and had no print of it for sale.

  Nor did it feature in their guidebook. She reluctantly left the gallery, resolving to read up about Marcato, if she could, and to ask So
fia if she knew how she might get permission for a photograph.

  Even if the likeness was coincidental, Sam and Penny would be interested to see what Julia’s quest had led to.

  Sofia was outraged on Julia’s behalf by the gallery assistant’s behaviour. ‘A photo without flash causes no harm. I heard what is the word for her, when I was in London. But it makes no sense.’

  ‘A Jobsworth?’

  ‘Yes, that is it. It should be a Jobworthless.’

  Julia didn’t try to explain the origin of the expression.

  ‘I will go with you next week,’ Sofia said, ‘I will ask Alessandro to give us a letter, so it will be an official requirement from the State Archive.’

  ‘I really don’t want to cause awkwardness.’

  ‘It will be simple. No problem for anyone.’

  ‘Sofia, you are a wonderful friend. I have had such an interesting week. I do hope you can come back to the UK soon, so I can make some attempt to repay your hospitality.’

  ‘I would love to visit London again, when I can afford it. But what I have done is nothing. I only hope you will find something useful in the archive next week.’

  ‘I don’t have high hopes, but I really don’t mind if I find nothing at all. Do you have some time this weekend for something different? Shopping? A concert?’

  ‘Good idea. You should leave the 18th century alone for two days of your holiday.’

  They made plans for a girlie weekend with a bit of culture thrown in, effortlessly recapturing the rapport they had shared so many years previously.

  ~

  Julia arrived at the Doge’s Palace so promptly on Monday morning that she had to wait on the couch at the reception desk for half an hour before Alessandro arrived. He greeted her as if he’d spent the whole week waiting to be reunited.

  As politely as she could, she declined his suggestion of going out for coffee before she got started, making a counter offer to buy him lunch when his schedule permitted.

  ‘That would be lovely. And you are itchy to see the records we have for you.’