Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘Oh, Italian, for sure, dark and good-looking. They’re both young-ish, too, in their twenties, wearing caps and black shirts.’

  Posie frowned. ‘Real blackshirts? Fascists, you mean?’

  The Countess waved the suggestion away airily: ‘Who isn’t, these days? If a man isn’t a fascist, he’s dressed up as a fascist in case he gets picked up by the real deal. A terrible state of affairs. A dreadful time to live here, actually.’

  ‘I quite agree. But who do you think these men are? Are you being followed on land when you walk about?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve occasionally had the sense that a man is on my tail, when I’m in a shop or a restaurant, or with Lucy, or out meeting friends.’ Bella Alladice’s many chins quivered, and her voice rose, the northern accent becoming more pronounced with every fearful word.

  ‘But the worst thing is that several times I’ve happened to look out of my bedroom window and I’ve been met with a flash of binoculars trained on my very room. The watcher has been sitting on the opposite jetty; from somewhere over here, on the Campo San Vio. It’s as if I’m under constant surveillance. But I don’t know why. What do you make of that?’

  Posie realised the girl was approaching some sort of hysteria. She said, gently, reassuringly: ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just some passing tourist you saw, keen to appreciate the beauty of the Palace? Or a photographer hoping to get a postcard-shot? You are – or were – in the very centre of the tourist trail of Venice.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Besides, there’s been something else.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I got this a couple of weeks back. It was left lying around, with no envelope, on my dressing-table, among my make-up and perfume…’

  Posie was handed a much-scrunched piece of thick, Italian notepaper, a red-and-gold marbled edge running grandly around its scalloped sides. There were four short lines of spidery writing, in Italian.

  ‘I’m sorry, but my Italian is very basic, and I can’t read this at all.’

  ‘Turn it over. Lucy translated it for me. The English is on the back.’

  Posie flipped the note around and read:

  YOU’VE HEARD THOSE RUMOURS ABOUT THIS HOUSE?

  ABOUT THE SECRET ROOM WHERE THE ROMAGNOLI GIRL HID LONG AGO AND NEVER CAME OUT?

  YOU’LL BE JOINING HER THERE SOON. JUST YOU AND AN OLD CORPSE FOR COMPANY.

  WHAT A WAY TO GO! IT SERVES YOU RIGHT. YOU AND YOUR INSENSITIVE WAYS…

  Posie felt a shiver go down her spine. The note was ghastly, filled with hate. Quite one of the worst things she had read in her professional career. She thought about Lucy Christie and her recounting of the same Venetian Mistletoe Bride tale earlier. But, as usual, a random detail grabbed her.

  ‘How does Lucy speak such good Italian, anyhow? She’s only been here the same length of time as you, surely?’

  ‘Indeed. But her parents were Italian. She’s fluent, despite having grown up in England. She’s dreadfully annoying but she makes herself useful. I’ll give her that.’

  ‘I see.’ Posie looked at the note again before handing it back. ‘This certainly casts a new light on things. Did you tell the police?’

  Bella shook her head. ‘I wanted to, but Dickie and Giancarlo thought it best to deal with it ourselves. I gathered they didn’t want Salvarocca’s fascist mob crawling all over poor Giancarlo’s crumbling old Palace.’

  ‘So who has seen this note?’

  ‘Well, everyone living at the Palace. I showed it around. I asked people if they’d seen anyone creeping about, entering my apartment and delivering it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No-one knew anything. They were all horrified. Dickie went berserk: insisted we all search the house for this secret room, but of course we didn’t find anything. He kept screaming at Giancarlo, saying he must know about it as it was his family’s Palace, but poor Giancarlo hadn’t got a clue. Actually, I think Dickie was suspicious about my husband’s involvement in the note; it was written in Italian after all. And there was something about the note which completely freaked Giancarlo out. His reaction to it was strange.’

  ‘How so?’

  The Countess shook her head. ‘He seemed more than just frightened. Shocked, more like. Completely flabbergasted. I’d even go as far as saying he was disappointed by it. Or saddened…’

  ‘How peculiar. Was it Giancarlo’s writing?’

  ‘No. I told Dickie to stop being a fool. He gets carried away sometimes.’

  ‘Do you think the secret room exists, Bella?’

  Bella laughed bitterly. ‘I’ve looked for it before. When I got here last year I’d spend hours searching, but the romance and interest soon wore off as I found more lively things to do about town, and the Palace was huge – it could have been anywhere. It’s a horrid little story, anyhow. Unhealthy to dwell on it.’

  Posie was frantically scribbling. ‘What a can of worms! So now you’re scared because you think the fire today was meant for you?’

  ‘It looks that way, doesn’t it? Either to kill me or give me a bally good warning.’

  ‘A warning about what?’

  The Countess shrugged. ‘The note mentions “insensitivity”, doesn’t it? I rub people up the wrong way, I always have. That was one of the reasons I was happy enough to come to Venice when my father suggested the idea, and I thought I could begin over again. I’d rubbed people up the wrong way in Leeds, and then again in London. I thought this would be a fresh start.’

  ‘But?’ Posie demanded.

  ‘I’ve got on the wrong side of several people here already. The English Ladies Club of Venice is a particularly sensitive issue; several women detest me there. They hate having to address me as “Countess”, which I insist upon. They feel I have no right…’

  Bella prattled on about the back-stabbing nature of genteel English ladies who lived abroad in Venice. How her Aunt Minnie loved all that, how Minnie would happily spend each and every day at the clubhouse. How it was completely ridiculous…

  But Posie was miles away, thinking about earlier, about the briefing from the policeman. About the man being held right now as a suspect for arson. Corsetti.

  Pietro Corsetti. The feuding family.

  ‘Hang the English Ladies Club, Bella. We’re wasting time on that. This is all about love, or if not, it’s about money. It always is. Not social jealousy, or noses put out of joint.’

  She bit the pencil-end. ‘Have you got on the wrong side of the Corsettis? This Pietro character? Is the Commissario right about that? Are they at the bottom of this? Following you about, and the note, and the fire? Or is there anyone else who would wish you dead?’

  The Countess’s face took on a look of weary acceptance. ‘I don’t know who else would wish me dead, although I’d be here a long time if I was to list everyone who hates me, my nearest and dearest included. And no, I don’t think the Commissario is right about the Corsetti family. Between you and me, for all the old animosity, Pietro Corsetti is a great friend of my husband. Perhaps even more than that…’

  She shrugged. ‘In fact, I’m certain there is a real love between them, and the feud is a convenient smokescreen. But don’t breathe a word of this to anyone: their relationship is illegal in the eyes of the state and the church, and I must trust in your discretion. Such knowledge would bring my husband down: land him in jail certainly, perhaps result in his death.’

  Posie didn’t like Bella Alladice one bit, but she found herself feeling a twinge of sympathy for the girl.

  ‘Don’t you mind?’

  Bella Alladice had found a bowl of Jordan almonds, mauve, this time. She started to crunch away on them. ‘I don’t mind. We live separate lives. It’s the best I can hope for.’

  ‘But you must have been a wonderful prospect?’

  ‘Financially, you mean?’ Bella’s face hardened, and she laughed mirthlessly. ‘Yes, look at me! Can you believe it, I was thin once, and quite beautiful. I was in love with a man who was going to marry me. But
he looked elsewhere. And my heart froze and I swore I could never love another man. I never wanted to. They’re dangerous.’

  Bella Alladice looked directly at Posie and her steely gaze was unstinting. ‘Men always want something else. You have to be careful. So this arrangement suits me fine. It’s safe.’

  Posie swallowed. Bella Alladice’s statement had contained a show of bravado, but was it a personal warning for Posie, too? What did she know about Alaric which Posie didn’t? She remembered Bella’s contemptuous gaze at Alaric when he had burst through the door of the salon earlier. A sort of disgust on her face…

  Posie pursued another tack:

  ‘Forgive me, but bearing in mind what you’ve just told me, you don’t think it possible your husband might be in league with Pietro Corsetti? Would Giancarlo gain financially from your death?’

  Bella’s eyes opened very wide in that great ham of a face.

  ‘Giancarlo would never do such a thing,’ she insisted. ‘And he’d be a fool to want me dead. He might not love me, but he’d be cutting off the hand which feeds. He gets a yearly “stipend” set up by my father as a condition of our marriage. It ends on my death, and Giancarlo then has no further claim on my money, or the Alladice money. He has precious little cash of his own, only the great Romagnoli name, for what it’s worth. But it was worth something to my father: made the old man content on his death bed last year. He was happy to have a Countess for a daughter, after our humble roots.’

  Posie was thinking rapidly. ‘And where does your money go on your death?’ She was writing very fast. ‘You have a Will?’

  Bella nodded. ‘Yes. I made it a couple of months back. My Personal Secretary, Roger, dealt with it all. He told me I ought to make it with a proper English solicitor – not the little notary we use for company matters out here, who Roger said he didn’t like too much – and he arranged it. The solicitor Roger got to come out here was from a firm called Pring and Proudfoot. Do you know them?’

  ‘Of course.’ The firm was an old-fashioned but highly reputable firm on Bedford Row in London, quite near her own office. Very expensive, very competent. Roger Valentine had chosen well, and he was obviously a man not to do things by halves. Posie found him rising somewhat in her estimation.

  ‘He was very thorough, this Mr Proudfoot. He did a good job. He took my Will with him for safety back to England and he stressed I shouldn’t divulge the contents of it to anyone, and that in the event of my death he would make the necessary arrangements to come back to Venice, bringing the Will with him. He said he would make sure it was read aloud exactly a week after my death: no sooner, no later. My money, of which there is plenty, is safely in Hoare’s bank in London. It all goes to the British League for Neglected Cats.’

  Posie just about stopped herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation, especially as she had caught sight of the Persian cat staring at her again, with a look of something like triumph in its amber eyes. But her gaze was caught again by that blood-red stone.

  ‘And your jewels? That ruby for example?’

  ‘They are to be sold and added to my money in the bank. To go to the cats’ home, too.’

  ‘Nothing for your companion, Lucy? Or for your family?’

  The Countess pursed her lips unattractively. ‘Absolutely not! Lucy has received more than enough… But you should know that I do have other money, family money. Serious amounts of it. It’s in Alladice Holdings, a big company centred around our confectionary factories, all set up by my grandfather. Since the sale of our factories, the company is rather inactive; it only owns cash and property. But I own half of it. You wouldn’t know this, but Dickie and I had another brother, our eldest brother, John – everyone called him Johnny – he died in 1917, in the war. On the Messines Ridge.’

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. Did Dickie fight, too?’

  ‘No. He stayed at home to look after the business. It was very active then: the factories were still going full-pelt, supplying the soldiers with sweet foodstuffs, and supplying the shops, of course. But Johnny’s death changed the course of our lives. He died without marrying, and as I was his adored little sister, he left me all of his shares in Alladice Holdings.’

  ‘Was that allowed?’

  ‘Yes. The articles are drawn up so that you can leave your share to anyone as long as they are related by blood, or by marriage. They must bear the surname “Alladice”. If you don’t nominate anyone, they go to the current shareholders of the company, automatically. I think Johnny felt Dickie needed his wings clipped a bit, and that I would do the clipping by receiving more shares. For a while, until our father died last year, I was the majority shareholder.’

  ‘What was Johnny’s problem with Dickie?’

  ‘Oh, nothing more than a brotherly spat, I think. Johnny always felt Dickie was getting in above his neck in things, that Dickie was too wild. Dickie has good ideas though; he’s taken the company from strength to strength since our father died, the turnover has almost doubled! Johnny was very conservative, he always wanted to maintain the good name of the company; it meant a lot to him. He was wonderful.’

  Posie looked up from her paper. ‘And where does your share in Alladice Holdings go on your death?’

  ‘It should go to my children. But there will be none. So I have nominated it to go to my Aunt Minnie Alladice; she’s the sister of my late father. Dickie got my father’s shares when he died, so Dickie and I have been equal owners since last year. I can’t stand Aunt Minnie, she’s a dreadfully annoying bore, but my father did her a great wrong and I’d like to think I’m evening things up for her at last. Doing the right thing by her.’

  Posie thought about Minnie and her not-quite-one-of-the-family position.

  ‘Tell me,’ she demanded. ‘What exactly is Aunt Minnie doing out here, anyway? If no-one likes the woman?’

  Bella puffed out her cheeks. ‘The truth is that we need her. She’s a walking signature. She has a tiny shareholding in Alladice Holdings. Only about two per cent, but she needs to sign the company documents, nonetheless. We pay her a small salary to keep her here. So it’s always me, Dickie and Aunt Minnie on the paperwork. Roger is Company Secretary, as well as my Personal Secretary, so he organises all the company paperwork and signs too. He’s quite indispensable. He took a short holiday in London three weeks ago and I didn’t know what to do without him. I was counting the hours until he returned.’

  ‘How long has he been your Personal Secretary?’

  ‘About eighteen months. He joined me just before we came out here in June last year. He seemed happy enough to leave England.’

  Bella looked at her watch, and Posie felt herself dismissed. ‘Is there anything else I need to know, Bella? Anything suspicious? Anything which may seem obvious to you, but which might provide me with crucial information? Useful background about your house-party guests, for example?’

  ‘No. I think you have the essentials.’

  Posie stared at the pages she had written on. There was a good deal of information contained within them, layers and layers. But there was missing information too, things Bella Alladice had left out, either by design or accident. And if Posie was to get to the bottom of this puzzle she would need to fill in the gaps.

  This is an inside job, thought Posie to herself with a feeling of dread.

  Someone who can leave a letter without going noticed. Someone with easy access to Bella’s private quarters. Just like today, when someone planted petrol up in her bedroom.

  A relative…a companion…

  Bella’s words echoed in her head, over and over: “‘I’d be here a long time if I was to list everyone who hates me, my nearest and dearest included.’” But was there a real danger lurking, or was it all just an elaborate show? And could Posie really protect Bella Alladice, a woman she didn’t like, when she was simply here to get married and enjoy herself?

  ‘So, will you help me?’

  And to her surprise, Posie found herself nodding gravely. ‘I’ll put
my thinking cap on. But I really think you should tell the police. I have my own reservations about the Commissario, but I think that as a policeman you should trust him.’

  ‘I think I trust you more.’

  And that, thought Posie, was praise indeed. She avoided the cat, who hissed at her again, and went to the door. Downstairs a gong was ringing for dinner.

  ‘Tell me,’ she asked, looking back at the Countess, unable to let the question which had been plaguing her for the last few minutes pass by unanswered, unafraid to walk on uncomfortable territory. ‘Why is it you hate Lucy Christie so much? You speak of doing the right thing by your aunt, but what is it about Lucy which means you can’t treat her properly? Should I be looking to her as a suspect?’

  Bella Alladice was jamming her tiara back on her head, adding a violent coral-pink lipstick. She stared at herself in the small mirror above the washstand, not meeting Posie’s eye. And she shrugged and spoke very low:

  ‘I hate her because she has a habit of stealing hearts. Hearts which are not hers to take.’

  ****

  Six

  Apart from a frosty force-field gathering ominously between Alaric and Posie, dinner at the guesthouse was notable for two things. The first was the appalling food: Mrs Persimmon obviously employed an English cook who stuck to plain ‘nursery’ food such as mashed potato and colourless milk ‘shapes’ for dessert, and Posie found herself bitterly disappointed to learn that in the wake of the fire, all of the Count’s servants, including his highly-rated Italian Chef, had been given a week’s holiday. The second was the marked absence of the commercial traveller from earlier.

  Conversation revolved naturally around the fire at the Palace, but as soon as she could, Posie managed to get Mrs Persimmon’s attention.

  ‘I say.’ She smiled, crumbling up some very out-of-date Scottish oatcakes and adding a rubbery sort of cheese on top. ‘What’s happened to your commercial traveller? Won’t he mind missing his dinner? I hope to goodness he didn’t feel forced out by our little party.’

  Mrs Persimmon trilled like a budgerigar in her East-End accent: ‘Oh, Miss Parker, you do say some funny things, dearie!’