The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  Julia knew her limited language skills would make it difficult to decipher any relevant documents.

  However, from her acquaintance with the boxes of papers that came from John Carmichael, she had learnt that many things could be guessed at from their layout, without a need to read handwriting. Bills of sale were generally easy to identify.

  She had a brief discussion with Alessandro about how the Seckfield name might appear. Phonetically as “Seque” was a possibility. If heard as “Sick” it could become “Malato”. Field could become “Campo” or possibly revert to “Villa”, in the way that Seckfield was thought to be anglicised from Sackville.

  She discovered that the Venetian merchants of the 1780s maintained carefully written records and it seemed English visitors liked to spend a lot of money.

  There was a lot of paper to work through. At the end of a fruitless day, Julia felt more tired than she had after a day on her feet touring the museums.

  Tuesday morning yielded nothing but a nagging worry that she might be missing something relevant. Sofia had arranged to drop by in the afternoon, to escort Julia back to the gallery with the picture of the urchin.

  Julia watched, amused, as Sofia charmed and bulldozed her way past the gallery staff, waving the spurious note on State Archive letterhead.

  When Sofia saw the painting, she held up the print of the Assassin alongside and Julia saw her dark eyes widen as she looked from one to the other.

  ‘If they are not the same person, they must have been related, or it is an amazing coincidence. The likeness is not from a similarity in technique. There is nothing stylised in the depiction of the features.’

  ‘And if the subject is the same person, then the dates are all wrong for one or the other.’

  ‘I am sure there is the most interesting story in this. It is a frustration to know so little.’

  Julia tried to be philosophical. ‘People spend years researching artworks. I can’t really expect to solve a mystery in two weeks.’

  ‘And you have found nothing in the archive?’

  ‘No, but Alessandro has suggested I look at something different tomorrow.’

  ~

  What the archivist had proposed, as a change from the commercial papers, was a box of documents from the Accademia di Belle Arti de Venezia, of which Castelli was a member.

  Most of the papers seemed to be committee meeting minutes and Julia had to scrutinise each page, searching for a mention of Castelli, beyond the record of his attendance. Late in the afternoon, when she was on the point of turning a page, she spotted the artist’s name.

  She could make no sense of the paragraph in which he was named, but her hopes soared for a moment when she thought she saw the word “DiMorto” - the punning name scrawled on the back of the Assassin portrait.

  Looking more closely, she could read it as “Morton”. She marked the place in the file and set the sheet to one side, to ask Alessandro to translate for her, when he looked in to collect her at the end of the day.

  ‘Hmm. It records that Castelli is asking for a loan from the Accademia to pay a debt. He owed money to “Il Conte Inglese, Morton.” An English aristocrat, it seems. How odd for an artist to be in debt to a patron. It is forever the opposite. The Accademia refused to pay.’

  ‘Thank you. Curious, but I can’t imagine it’s relevant. I didn’t see Castelli’s name on the next few meeting minutes. Perhaps he was lying low to hide from Morton.’

  ‘An aristocrat would be unlikely to lend money and then demand its return. Perhaps Castelli was too busy working, to attend meetings, in order to repay the debt.’

  ‘Another story lost in history, I suppose. At least it is further confirmation that Castelli was in Venice in 1785. The date of this committee meeting is very shortly before Edmond’s Seckfield’s letter to his brother.’

  ‘A small success, then,’ Alessandro said, smiling, ‘Julia, if you would care to on Friday night, Sofia and I would love to show you something what your Edmond could experience on his Grand Tour. It is a little sanitised for tourists, but still good.’

  ‘That sounds fun.’

  ‘It is not the season for the real carnival, but we dress up in masquerade dominoes. There is dancing and food and drink in the period style.’

  ‘I would love to.’

  ‘For tourists, as I say, but the organisers are clever: they emphasise authentic detail to claim it is educational and they get tax allowance from the State.’

  ~

  Julia was unable to find anything else in the archive papers. There were a few further mentions of Castelli, but the records were incomplete and there was nothing that would connect him to Edmond Seckfield. And her flight home on Saturday was fast approaching.

  If she had been at home, she would have felt anxious and frustrated, but she had been lulled into proper relaxation. She was looking forward to their outing on Friday night. She wasn’t even dreading how soon her break would come to an end.

  The holiday had been exactly what she needed to restore her calm. In the 18th century they would have said it had rebalanced her humours. She could anticipate her return to work and to Fathon House with equanimity.

  The sense of peace was shaken into curiosity when she received a text from Sam.

  Just in case you were thinking of staying in Venice for ever, I have found something that you would kill for.

  Chapter 28

  Julia was intrigued by Sam’s text, but her return message demanding details was met with a coy “You’ll have to wait and see.” It was Friday morning so there wasn’t too long to wait.

  Julia had one last session at the archive, before Sofia collected her for lunch and a visit to the costume warehouse to select outfits for the evening. She had found no indication that Bernadino Castelli’s studio had produced the Assassin and nothing to connect him to Edmond Seckfield.

  All she knew for certain was that the painter had been active in Venice at the time Edmond visited. It was little to show for a week’s work, but she was not surprised or even disappointed - she had thoroughly enjoyed her holiday and that was satisfaction enough.

  Julia and Sofia had decided to dress in style and spent time browsing through garments, which had been produced for film and television productions.

  The supplier described - via a running translation by Sofia - how originals would have been hugely expensive: imported silks and fine linens, decorated with embroidery and lace, all hand stitched.

  The replica dresses included authentically bulky petticoats and Julia decided that spending the evening en travesti - in a gentleman’s coat and knee breeches - would be preferable. Sofia chose a sack-back dress in a rose colour suiting her complexion and said she was delighted that she would be escorted by an additional cavaliere servente.

  They returned to the Doge’s Palace at dusk to change into their finery and meet up with Alessandro. Taking a gondola from the Palazzo Ducale as night was falling, Julia felt she really had stepped back in time - there were few signs of the twenty first century to dispel the illusion.

  The illusion held as they disembarked at the watergate of the palazzo hosting the evening’s entertainment. There were flaming torches illuminating the landing stage and the costumed footmen at the entrance.

  After a fortnight of transfers from boat to dock, Julia was able to step confidently onto the paving. Without a thought, she offered her arm to Sofia, who was struggling with her unaccustomed full skirts.

  Julia had been looking forward to watching the dancing and games of chance at the evening’s historical re-creation, but, as she became aware of the incense sweetening - or at least scenting - the smoke from the torches, she felt an unexpected urge to gamble herself.

  As they passed through the doorway and strolled through the first salon Alessandro noticed her lingering at the gaming tables.

  ‘You could lose a lot of money at cards. Do you know the game?’

  Julia glanced around the baize-covered tables. ‘They are playing faro, ar
en’t they?’

  She couldn’t remember ever having learned the game, but found she could follow, even anticipate the flow of the cards between dealer and players.

  Perhaps this was another intrusion of the Assassin’s memories. But she knew too much about the 18th century to judge whether such thoughts were anything other than her own mind making connections.

  The hankering to bet receded into a peculiar sense of déjà vu. She left the tables with something like relief.

  They moved on to a ballroom where a small group was playing music for dancing. Despite the room’s size and the french windows open to a courtyard, it was stuffy from the body heat of couples whirling through an energetic polka.

  The next dance was a Viennese waltz and Sofia was keen to join in but Alessandro looked horrified.

  ‘I will go to get drinks. Julia is being a gentleman for the evening, so she can dance with you.’

  ‘I hardly know how to waltz with someone who knows what they’re doing, let alone take the lead, but I’ll give it a go, if you want to risk being trodden on.’

  She was uncertain how she would manage the man’s role, but as she settled to the tempo and rhythm, she found she was leading a surprisingly compliant Sofia around the floor without mishap.

  When the music concluded, they found the fan accompanying Sofia’s costume proved to be a practical tool as much as a decorative accoutrement.

  Sofia giggled. ‘You make an imperioso - a masterful - gentleman.’

  Julia was distracted, again experiencing a vague sense of déjà vu, but before she could pin down the cause, Alessandro returned with glasses of prosecco.

  ‘But you unmarried ladies should only be drinking sweet Ratafia.’ He teased them.

  ‘In my guise as an English gentleman, I think the wine is appropriate.’

  ‘But perhaps not in the quantity that an 18th century gentleman would have taken,’ Sofia added.

  They walked out through the french windows to watch a display of juggling and fire-eating in the central courtyard. The performers were dressed in picturesque rags, reminding Julia of the urchin painting which looked so like a younger version of the Assassin.

  Alessandro had said these events were sanitised for tourists, but Julia noticed something that hinted otherwise: several women alone or in pairs, in low-cut gowns, were lounging against walls and pillars, paying more attention to the crowd than to the entertainment.

  Their gowns approximated to the time period, but if the “trollops” were being paid by the organisers to play their roles, Julia suspected others might be paying for a more authentic re-enactment.

  The evening concluded with supper served by liveried and be-wigged waiters. It was definitely faithful to the period, with dishes in rich sauces, creamy sugared confections and much wine to wash it down.

  As Julia sipped yet more prosecco, she imagined Edmond Seckfield in her place. His every sense must have been overwhelmed by his experience of the city. After his upbringing in rural Kent, Venice would have been vivid, sophisticated, challenging. The ragged performers and prostitutes in the courtyard reminded Julia that La Serenissima also had darker aspects.

  The painting of the Assassin captured all those facets - would that have made it the souvenir that Edmond chose to take home?

  She was sure there was a closer connection. As she had explored Venice in the last two weeks, she had felt echoes of the unknown Venetian nobleman.

  And that night she felt she had walked, almost literally, in his steps. But even if his spirit still lurked in her mind, at no time during her stay had the Assassin assisted or - as far as she could determine - hindered her search for his identity.

  ~

  Julia sat on the plane with her eyes closed. Their farewells that morning had been somewhat subdued as they were extremely hungover.

  But by the time the plane was coming in to land, her headache was receding. She was impatient to know what Sam had discovered while she was away. And she was mentally composing her thank you message to Sofia.

  She decided that as soon as she got home, she would find an online florist that delivered in Italy. She would send something appropriate in the language of flowers and see if Sofia would catch the period reference.

  According to Wikipedia, Gratitude was symbolised by dark pink and peach roses, which were readily obtainable and would complement the decor of Sofia’s flat beautifully.

  Julia was torn between having to wait until Friday to find out what intriguing discovery Sam had made and interrupting the intern’s weekend. She had bought a jokey tee shirt which she hoped was Sam’s sort of thing, and would buy her forgiveness for calling on a Sunday.

  ‘Sam, sorry to call but ....’

  ‘Hi Julia. No worries. How was Venice? Was it totally brilliant?’

  ‘It was just wonderful. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’

  ‘You’re not in until Friday though, are you? Do you have time to meet up before that? You are going to be slain by what I’ve got to show you.’

  ‘Yes, certainly. Can I buy you lunch?’ Julia knew free food was always welcome for someone on an internship stipend.

  ‘Ooh yes, please. Are you free today?’

  ~

  They arranged to meet at a vegetarian café Sam favoured. Julia was surprised to see Sam had already arrived when she walked through the door. It had to be exciting to make Sam punctual.

  Even before they had ordered, Sam said, ‘Me first.’

  ‘Go on, what have you found? I can’t think of much that I’d kill for.’

  ‘The diary. Edmond Seckfield’s diary.’

  ‘How on earth did you find it? Have you read it?’

  ‘Second question first. Don’t get too excited - there isn’t all that much of it and the handwriting is dire. I’ve only deciphered a couple of pages so far.’

  ‘But he was in Venice and writing about his time there?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think he was a bit of a party boy.’

  ‘Venice was a party town - still is actually.’

  Sam mimed shock that Julia might ever stray from her staid professionalism. ‘And I want to hear all about it. But I also want to tell you about my brilliant sleuthing to find the diary.’

  ‘Of course. But let’s sort out some lunch first.’

  As soon as they had ordered, Sam launched into a self-congratulatory account of tracking down the diary, which had been buried in the Fathon House archive all the time.

  ‘Dr Carmichael catalogued everything in the archive chronologically, but when I rummaged through the index a bit more thoroughly, I found there are a lot more records for round-number years. Some documents aren’t dated and it looks like he just guessed the decade.’

  ‘The diary is undated?’

  ‘Only days of the month. No year. It’s just a bundle of pages - looks like it was pulled out of a notebook.’

  ‘I’m sure I looked through everything from 1785 up to 1790. I didn’t think Edmond could be travelling for that long. But of course … if there was no year given in the diary, John wouldn’t necessarily guess the decade accurately.’

  ‘Correct. He was a very clever man, but his guess was 1770.’

  ‘He was clever, poor man, even if he didn’t get this quite right. But you are clearly a genius. I can’t wait to see it.’

  Sam looked shifty. ‘You don’t have to.’ She pulled her bag up from under the table.

  ‘You haven’t got it here, have you? You shouldn’t have taken it out of the House.’

  ‘I know. But Cassie doesn’t even know it exists.’

  Julia knew she ought to return the diary to the museum archive straight away but she so wanted to have it to herself - for a while, at least.

  The prospect of Edmond’s Venetian experiences, which she was still convinced held the answer to the Assassin’s acquisition, if not his identity, was too tempting.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Cassie when you found it? Don’t you think she’d be impressed you’d made t
he connection from the letter in the auction lots and so given a date and author to an anonymous document?’

  ‘Cassie is a bit unpredictable. I didn’t want a bollocking for trailing through the archive when I should have been doing conservation work. Which I wasn’t, by the way. This was all in my own time.’

  Julia sympathised, but knew she ought not to undermine the new curator. ‘I’m sure Cassie knows how hard you work and how valuable you have been to the museum. She is still settling into a complicated job. People can get a bit snappy when they are stressed. I certainly did.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m just keeping my head down and getting on with the job.’

  ‘Don’t you want the credit for finding it?’ Julia said.

  ‘Not really. I’m sure you’d write me a good reference if I ever need one. But once you’ve read the diary, I want to see your transcription, before you hand it over to Cassie.’

  ‘Of course I would. And yes, I can say I found the diary in the archive.’

  ‘Now, before you get your nose stuck into it and I’ve lost you for a week, tell me all about Venice.’

  Julia said that her time in the Venice State archive had been much less productive than Sam’s at Fathon House.

  She took one of Sam’s prints of the Assassin from her bag and told her about the reactions it had produced. Then she placed a photo she had taken of the street urchin painting on the table next to it.

  ‘Oh wow. You did find something - it’s a definite likeness. But you look disappointed?’

  ‘I sort of hoped I was imagining the resemblance. It was painted later. The dates contradict my theory.’

  ‘Only if they are the same person. Didn’t you think the boy could be a kid brother or a son?’

  ‘True, but it still suggests our nobleman isn’t so noble. How likely is it that one would have a relative posing for an artist as a Venetian Oliver Twist.’

  Julia was despondent but Sam was grinning.

  ‘An 18th century nobleman didn’t just have noble relatives. He usually had a few bastards and probably knew nothing about some of them. Especially in a party town like Venice.’