Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie turned, confused: ‘Who was right? What the blazes are you talking about?’

  But the man in his fascist high-ranking uniform had vanished into the smoky night.

  ****

  Three

  Having secured a small, dark room at the very back of the guesthouse from Mrs Persimmon, a bright cockney sparrow of a woman, Posie stood downstairs in the main part of the house, the piano nobile. The Butler was bobbing about.

  ‘Is there any news of Mr Boynton-Dale yet, Jones?’

  Her hands were visibly shaking, so she stuffed them into the big pockets of the crushed blue velvet dress she had thrown on in a tearing hurry – the same gown she had been wearing yesterday – and she felt a rustle of cheap paper.

  ‘Afraid not, modom. But the rest of your party are in the main salon. Shall I announce you?’

  ‘No, no. Please don’t bother. That’s absolutely the last thing I’m sure anyone wants right now, after the shock of a fire. I’ll just slip in and see to things myself. Thanks awfully, though.’

  ‘Very good, modom.’

  There was a small bench in the dim corridor, and it was all Posie could do to stop herself from sinking down upon it in tiredness, and never getting up again. A heavy door creaked on its hinges somewhere far off, needing oil.

  The guesthouse was fine, as far as these things went, but it had obviously done more of a trade twenty years ago. The whole place was coloured green inside, like an underwater lair, and a strange white mould crept up the papered walls. There were china bowls of rose-scented potpourri simply everywhere, which didn’t quite mask the lagoon’s ancient dampness, permeating the place with its sickly scent. Posie told herself to stop being such a snob and to be grateful for small mercies, or at least a roof over her head for the time being.

  She pushed open the door of the salon, and blinked in total surprise.

  ‘Gracious!’

  While the corridors and bedrooms of Mrs Persimmon’s guesthouse were all uniformly dark and gloomy, lit with dusty glass oil-lamps, this room was a match for the Mirror Hall at the Strand Corner House, and lit up accordingly.

  Huge, black-spotted, floor-length mirrors plated the walls, one after another, like a ballroom. A painted ceiling and two gigantic chandeliers lent the place an old-world grandeur. Rattan chairs and side-tables were dotted about, but the room appeared to be empty.

  At first Posie felt wildly disorientated, and saw only herself repeated many times over: her anxious face, pale beneath the dark cap of her shingled brown hair; her large blue eyes staring out in total astonishment.

  She gulped.

  But then she saw on the left, along three long, elegant windows, six people were ranged. Totally absorbed in the view from the windows, they all had their backs to her. It was here that the guesthouse overlooked the Grand Canal and the burning palace opposite. Someone had thrown back the old shutters, and flickers of red fiery light danced in the diamond-leaded glass.

  They hadn’t heard Posie enter the room. All except one.

  A tall, dark, kitten-ish girl, almost exactly Posie’s age and height, had turned and was looking directly at her. She wore an old-fashioned purple silk dress which was of a cut and design from years ago, from before the war, rather like the suffragettes had got themselves up in, although it had obviously been quite the best of its kind at the time.

  The girl was lovely, with an exquisite figure. Quite the most beautiful woman Posie had seen in a long time, and that was saying something: she had been mingling with movie stars and models for longer than she cared to remember. No longer in the first bloom of youth, the girl bloomed nonetheless. And looking into those dark, doe-eyes under thick, expressive brows, there was an aching sense of familiarity. Posie had met this girl before. But where? For now she couldn’t place the memory.

  The girl crossed the expansive floor, smiling, extending her hand. This couldn’t, surely, be the Countess?

  ‘You must be Miss Parker. We’ve been expecting you. Please follow me over. I’m Lucy Christie, by the way, the Countess’s companion.’

  So that was it: a paid companion.

  ‘A real-life detective! How exciting. Just like a character from those books by Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers!’

  ‘Oh, hardly! Those books blow things out of all proportion. People expect too much…’

  ‘Well, your real-life cases sound very exciting. We’ve heard so much about you from your fiancé.’

  ‘Ah, well, I hope it wasn’t all bad, then.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Lucy with an easy grace.

  As they reached the windows Posie noticed a slim man in a worn grey flannel suit and a battered soft felt hat who remained glued to the window, his back to the room, following the action outside. He was sitting in a window-seat with a small, dark, frail-looking man wearing bright blue. There was something about the first man’s grey-suited back which seemed familiar, but there was no time to ponder this further, for someone else pressed in quickly:

  ‘Miss Parker? Richard Alladice, at your service.’

  Dickie Alladice was in his early forties: tall, broad, attractive, with lovely dark grey eyes and abundant red hair. He breathed success and comfort, and his easy smile promised hospitality: the sort of man for whom finding a woman – as a wife or for something more casual – had never posed a problem. Odd then, thought Posie, almost frowning, that Alaric had never mentioned Dickie with a wife or girlfriend in tow.

  ‘Delighted, Mr Alladice.’

  ‘Oh, do call me Dickie. Everyone else does.’

  Dickie spoke carefully, his rich, friendly northern English accent brushed beneath a smart, newly-acquired London voice which owed nothing to class and everything to money. He wore spats over his highly-polished black shoes, and full black tie. He smelt of smoke and there was something strong – whisky perhaps? – on his breath.

  ‘By Gad, I must apologise. What a frankly dreadful muddle you’ve found us in tonight.’

  He was jittery as hell, his grey eyes glittering with the promise of full-on drunkenness. But Posie remembered that Dickie had apparently lost something important in the fire and she presumed his thoughts were straying in that direction. She didn’t blame him for his nerves, but she did blame him for Alaric’s absence.

  ‘I gather Alaric is looking for something of yours?’ Posie nodded in the direction of the fire, her crispness containing her anger. ‘It must be very important if he went back in there for it. It seems quite some inferno…’

  Was it Posie’s imagination or was the man unable to meet her gaze? Dickie gave a thick, nervous chuckle.

  ‘The object is important, but I thought it would be easy to locate and to extract. In fact, I was on the verge of going in there myself to search it out, when Alaric volunteered. He practically wrestled me to the ground in his haste to get inside.’

  Posie frowned. It fitted that Alaric liked danger but it seemed odd he would put himself in any sort of danger unless a life were at stake. Just what was this precious, unnamed object?

  Dickie Alladice was checking a very expensive-looking gold fob watch. He seemed nervous as a cat.

  ‘Dash it all, it’s almost six o’clock! I can’t think what’s kept him so long. It’s been more than an hour and a half now.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Posie to herself, feeling another twist of fear in her stomach. But there was no use holding a grudge. She remembered her manners, almost too late. ‘Thank you for our invitation to stay here in Venice, Dickie.’

  Dickie smiled. ‘Don’t thank me, Miss Parker. The invitation was merely mine to extend. It’s Bella, my sister, the Countess, who does all the inviting around here. Don’t you, darling?’

  A woman turned from the window where she had been half-hidden by an olive-coloured velvet curtain and Posie tried not to gasp aloud in shock.

  Bella Alladice was simply huge, a blubbering sea-lion of a woman. She wallowed in her fat, her every move causing her multiple chins and forearms to quiver
violently, like a mottled pink blancmange. She was far, far bigger than her brother, their only shared genetics being the red hair and unusual grey eyes. The Countess wore her hair cut brutally short and greased back into a wet red bob, topped by a glittering tiara. But what really caught the eye, above all else, was a huge red ruby; big as a quail’s egg and fiendishly ugly, worn in a ring.

  The stone seemed to capture all the light in the room and throw it out again in dangerous, dark rays. Posie had never liked rubies, and now she felt a ridiculous sense of conviction in her irrationality. The thing was truly dreadful.

  ‘So you’re the lady detective?’ Bella Alladice chewed at her scarlet-lip-sticked mouth doubtfully.

  ‘I am, Your Grace.’

  But Posie didn’t curtsey. She remembered that Bella Alladice was the daughter of a northern confectionery tycoon, a millionaire, and that Bella had, according to gossip, been courted by a Venetian Duke for her money alone. Courtesy and diplomacy were demanded here, of course, but not too much.

  ‘I hope you didn’t expect more in the way of a visual treat, Your Grace? These new detective books have a lot to answer for. I was just saying to Miss Christie here…’

  But Posie was cut off with a wave of a fat bejewelled hand, dazzling with its outrageous ruby.

  ‘Blow Miss Christie and her drab conversation: I should know, I have to listen to it every day. I don’t pay her for her wise words, otherwise I’d be getting a pretty poor return on my money.’

  Posie stared, not liking to meet Lucy Christie’s gaze. The Countess was absolutely ghastly.

  But the woman was rolling on: ‘And you don’t need to thank me for your stay. Anyone who is a friend of Alaric Boynton-Dale’s has to be invited along, it seems. Tell me, Miss Parker. Aren’t you worried sick about Alaric right now?’

  At Posie’s confused silence the Countess beamed like a search-light, showing small, even, white teeth, like a child’s. ‘It’s one thing to lose a man to another woman, isn’t it? Careless of you, some would say. But it’s quite another to lose a man in a fire. Tragic, more like.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Somebody gasped over by the window and there was a horrible silence.

  ‘I say, Bella!’ Dickie Alladice was touching Posie’s arm gently, and clutching at an empty bottle of whisky. ‘That’s not quite the ticket. Play fair, Bella, old thing!’

  It occurred to Posie that the Countess might be quite drunk herself. But everyone knows that truth is often spoken when drink is involved. What did she mean?

  What other woman?

  ****

  Four

  Posie was aware that the whole group were looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. What other woman?

  Was it common knowledge that Alaric had accompanied Silvia Hanro around Constantinople? Was everyone else in the know? Or was it only this nasty fat frump done up as a pretend royal who had happened to see the same magazine cover she had?

  Or was something else going on entirely?

  Dolly Cardigeon, Posie’s best friend, had forewarned her that Bella was famously rude, and prone to making things difficult for people. For creating ‘situations’ out of nothing. Dolly should know: she had met Bella Alladice back in London a couple of years previously, when their respective wealth and social standing had led to their sitting on a charitable board of governors together, an experience which Bella had apparently made atrocious for everyone. Posie had taken Dolly’s character assassination of the girl with a pinch of salt, assuming a simple personality clash, but now she was tempted to give Dolly the benefit of the doubt.

  Posie smiled into the hostile atmosphere.

  ‘I really couldn’t comment on Alaric’s actions, Your Grace. Other than to say we trust each other absolutely. And I haven’t lost him to the fire. I’m sure, when he’s finished being an errand-boy, that he’ll get back here just fine.’

  The two women stared at each other, and then the Countess seemed to make up her mind. She nodded, as if in some strange approval.

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss Parker. I’m sure you’re right. Or what you think is right…’

  And then she stalked back to the window furthest along, quite alone, and peered out, sulking, having gathered up a huge silver bowl of pink Jordan almonds from a console table. Posie watched, revolted, as the Countess took a fistful of sweets and rolled them around in her palm, like a dice player sure of his game, before scoffing the lot.

  Lucy Christie was at Posie’s side, pressing a large glass of what looked like gin and tonic into her hands, whispering softly, ‘Please don’t take any notice of her, Miss Parker. She’s just scared about the fire. And the future. Ignore it.’

  And then Miss Christie was introducing the other members of the party.

  A small, wiry, dark man in his very late twenties who was holding several notebooks under his arm was introduced as Roger Valentine, Personal Secretary to the Countess and to Dickie Alladice.

  ‘Roger was an Oxford blue, you know. He’s very clever: keeps us all on our toes.’

  Roger Valentine laughed as if Lucy Christie had just told a good joke.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Parker. And welcome. It’s not often one arrives to find one’s promised abode burnt to a crisp, is it? I do hope you’ll find that things improve. And things may not be as bad as they seem. Venice is all about mirages, after all; it’s like skating on a dark fathomless mirror. It just got a bit more dangerous today, that’s all.’

  ‘Mnnn.’

  Posie found herself deeply intrigued. This man was like a dark fathomless mirror himself: handsome in a vaguely mocking way, with one thick, curved eyebrow constantly raised, he gave the impression of not taking the Alladice family or their current set-up too seriously. And while he was polite enough to Posie, his eager, capable eyes never left Lucy’s face for a second, greedily observing her all the while.

  And Posie wondered what sort of fat salary Roger Valentine was being paid, or what sort of demons he had fled from, back in England, to make such an accomplished, clever man work for a monster like Bella Alladice.

  ‘And this is Aunt Minnie…’

  A delicate-looking woman in her late forties, also a red-head but of a paler, less dazzling variety, stepped forwards eagerly. She flapped and fluttered near to Posie like a trapped butterfly, trailing pastel-coloured chiffon scarves, wafting a strong scent of artificial lavender as she moved.

  ‘Goodness.’ The woman smiled, speaking in a thick northern accent, untamed by elocution. ‘What an honour to meet yet another famous person out here in just a matter of a day! You’ve come along like the proverbial London buses: none for an age, then all at once! Normally I don’t get to meet the really interesting guests, but, well, I suppose we’re all rather thrown into one place tonight with the unfortunate events across the way, aren’t we?’

  Aunt Minnie was chattering away, seemingly unstoppable: ‘Naturally, I follow all of your cases in the English newspapers, Miss Parker, when I can get my hands on one. You know they’re simply frightfully expensive out here, not to mention abysmally late! And when you are more settled in I simply must ask you about that book by Dorothy L. Sayers which everyone is reading. People are saying it is quite the thing, especially at the English Ladies Club of Venice which I belong to…’ And here Minnie turned almost red with the pleasure at being able to count herself a member of such an exalted group. ‘But I can’t get my hands on a copy for love nor money.’

  Minnie Alladice invited sympathy: she was apparently in permanent residence at the Romagnoli Palace not out of choice, and seemed kept woefully short of both cash and interesting company, clinging on to the last remnants of home with her pathetic little ladies clubs.

  Trying to end the conversation, Posie gladly volunteered her unread copy of the novel and promised to fetch it shortly. She was pulled away quickly by Lucy and led over to where the two men were still sitting at the window-seat, looking out. Lucy coughed politely:

  ‘Giancarlo? This is our lad
y detective, Miss Posie Parker.’

  A dark, sick-looking boy in a blue silk lounge-suit, barely out of his mid-twenties, turned from the window. He had artificially waved thick black hair. He was as beautiful as a girl and had obviously never in his life been interested in any girl. When he turned from Lucy to face Posie he gave a sad, defeated smile. He didn’t bother to get up.

  ‘This is the Count,’ Lucy announced. ‘His Grace, Comte Giancarlo Romagnoli.’

  The Count? Could it be? A man who was so obviously not interested in women at all, tied to that fat blob? Posie had been told that the Romagnoli marriage was a marriage for money, but she hadn’t appreciated quite how mismatched the Count and Countess actually were.

  The boy nodded and spoke in a high, reedy voice: ‘Piacere di conoscerla, Miss Parker. It is a great pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Indeed. Likewise. Piacere, Your Grace.’

  ‘Please excuse my lack of humour, Miss Parker. It is a sad night for me.’

  ‘I offer my sincerest condolences.’

  Giancarlo turned and went back to watching his family home burn down before his eyes. He hunkered in closely to the familiar-looking man, who still hadn’t moved or turned about.

  ‘Don’t mind Giancarlo, poor boy,’ hissed Lucy, stepping back and drawing Posie with her. ‘It must be quite something to watch six hundred years of your family’s history disappear in a few hours. The rumour mill has found a suspect for the crime, too.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Corsettis. They’re a sort of gang in Venice. An old noble family, actually, but long disgraced and relegated to obscurity, forced to make their way as petty criminals. They have an old feud running with the Romagnolis.’

  ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’ Posie frowned. She took a sip of her drink and the gin almost burnt her throat. ‘Much too much like Romeo and Juliet. Is it about love?’

  Lucy laughed. ‘No! I expect it all comes down to money. Usually does, doesn’t it? Some debt not paid by Giancarlo, or something.’