Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  The owner of the guesthouse gestured around the table, as if amidst the Royal Family themselves:

  ‘Mr Löhri, you mean? I couldn’t ask such a man to eat dinner with the likes of yourselves, could I?’ She tugged at very large and glittery paste earrings, all of a fluster at negotiating this strange situation in the right way. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, Mr Löhri is an impeccable guest, from what I’ve seen so far. A Swiss watch-seller, in the middling price-range, so he told me, supplying the department stores, and his papers bear him out. And he’s mighty busy, too: he’s been on that hall telephone most of the early evening, to Zürich, apparently.’

  The mention of Zürich was uttered in low, conspiratorial tones. Posie nodded her head dutifully.

  ‘And fair’s fair: he’s got his supper all laid out good and proper in the kitchen downstairs. It don’t do to encourage people to get above themselves, does it? They need to know their station in life, otherwise where will we all be? No; I couldn’t have the likes of a man like that mingling here. At dinner.’

  Was it Posie’s imagination or had the guesthouse owner run a disapproving glance down the other side of the dinner table, to the very end of it, where Lucy Christie and Roger Valentine were sitting? It seemed they were only just qualified in Mrs Persimmon’s book to eat in such exalted company. Mrs Persimmon obviously held dear to the idea of those who ‘sat below the salt’.

  And afterwards in the dark vestibule of an entrance hall, while Alaric was chatting with Jones about the weather and flicking at an unreliable barometer, Posie spent a while over by the coat-stand, shaking her red coat about her shoulders but surreptitiously scanning the large cream ledger which sat alongside the telephone apparatus.

  A handwritten cream card read:

  ‘TELEPHONE FOR GUESTS ONLY. INTERNATIONAL CALLS MUST BE RECORDED AND PAID FOR IN FULL.’

  There were only three entries for that day. In a scrawling, cramped hand, barely legible, was written:

  MR STEFAN LÖHRI

  1. Call to the International Operator in Rome, then an Exchange call from Rome to Zürich. (3 minutes’ duration, Six o’clock)

  2. Same as above (4 minutes’ duration, Seven o’clock)

  3. Same as above (2 minutes’ duration, Eight o’clock)

  It seemed that Mr Löhri was calling someone – the boss of his company, perhaps? – in Zürich, every hour. It seemed dashed odd, but the man no doubt had his reasons. And he was, to go by this telephone ledger, obviously connected to Switzerland. Nothing to do with the man she had first thought he was.

  But she had been sure, almost certain.

  The grandfather clock by the door was striking out nine. Posie looked automatically towards the stairs, to see if the Swiss man would be tripping down them, about to place his next hourly call. But all was eerily quiet.

  ‘Darling.’ Alaric’s voice was strained. ‘Shall we walk out?’

  She turned to see Jones nodding triumphantly at the barometer. ‘Now she’s working and the glass is going back, sir. There’ll be more rain tonight. And quite possibly a storm. Are you sure you want to go out, sir? It’s mighty cruel here, when the rain lashes off the lagoon.’

  Posie saw that Alaric was standing impatiently with his hand on the door knob, staring at her strangely. ‘We’ll be fine, Jones,’ he insisted. ‘But thanks. Nothing like a nice bit of air to blow away those cobwebs. Posie, Jones here has got us an umbrella…’

  Alaric was wearing a singed leather-and-sheepskin flying jacket over a borrowed flannel suit and as soon as he opened the door he hunkered down into the large collar of the jacket, pulling the buckles and fur up around half his face. It was bitterly cold and the light rain from earlier had indeed turned into the stinging slaps of a torrential downpour.

  Alaric got the umbrella up and they huddled beside each other, without linking arms or properly touching. The wind was high and they turned away from the Grand Canal, parallel to it, walking down a tiny rain-drenched cobbled street which offered a bit more protection.

  ‘Thank goodness we’re out of that awful place,’ muttered Alaric into his coat collar. ‘It’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘Mrs Persimmon is only doing her best,’ retorted Posie obstinately, ‘in quite difficult and obviously reduced circumstances. I think she’s nervous. She’s only got Jones, and one cook, and one maid-of-all-work and suddenly she’s got a great aristocratic house-party foisted on her.’

  ‘Oh, I know. But it’s claustrophobic as hell, and it seems everyone is listening in at every corner. I haven’t even had the chance to speak with you alone.’

  ‘I didn’t think that bothered you too much.’

  Alaric turned and stared at her, his green-copper eyes narrowing in the reflected light from a street-lamp, their beautiful intensity almost unbearable.

  ‘I didn’t think you were bothered much, either,’ he replied, coolly, balancing the umbrella in the wind. ‘What the devil was all that nonsense about the Swiss fella, anyhow? I heard you drilling into old Ma Persimmon tonight, and you were obviously ferreting about in that telephone ledger for a reason.’ He laughed but there was nothing joyful about it. ‘Got a penchant for blonde chaps all of a sudden, have you? Or is this another of your little fact-finding missions?’

  Posie gave him one of her looks, although it was somewhat lost in all the rain and wind and general darkness. Her boots were slipping about on the wet cobbles, and she wondered how sensible it had been to accept Alaric’s proposal of an after-dinner walk. But Alaric had spoken the truth: the guesthouse was claustrophobic, and it was good to get out. She breathed in great gulps of salty air.

  ‘Almost there now. Where we’re heading is the best place in all of Venice, the very tip of the island. See this great dome? It’s the Church of the Salute. It’s the first thing you see, or the last thing you see, when you arrive or leave Venice by water on this side.’

  They had come out into a square, open on one side with steps leading down to the canal, and bordered on the other by steps leading up to the Salute. They walked across the square in silence, still not touching, past the Salute with its magnificent statues. Men in thick waterproofs were assembling metal poles and timbers into temporary gates outside the church, their breath hanging mistily in the night air. Posie remembered that a temporary bridge would be made ready for the pilgrims for the following day, and she supposed the men would be hard at work all night. Barges and small boats, lit up by torches, were ranged across the canal to aid the construction of the bridge, and the sounds of hammering and shouting from the carpenters out on the water rose through the wind and wet air like snatches of a song.

  They walked along a passageway right next to the canal, in the shelter of what seemed to be a long, grey stone warehouse, and Posie concentrated all the way on not slipping on the stones. With a sigh of relief she saw they had reached a large, raised, triangular stone platform at the very end, bordered by a small jetty and open to the most magnificent wide views across the water. It was indeed the tip of the island, and the place was very exposed. Posie could just make out the dark, low shapes of boats and barges as they passed to and fro. An emerald-green beacon in the distance flickered on and off, throwing a ghostly light over the water and on the tall, dark buildings it sat among. The sound of the wind and roaring waves was colossal.

  There was shelter provided by the very end of the warehouse, and above them were three huge porticos, the middle one of which boasted a flickering pink lantern, swinging in a frenzy, groaning on its chain. An enormous wave crashed up over the stone platform, and Posie hastily stepped backwards into the shelter of the pink-lit warehouse. Some fishermen were over on the right, drenched through and packing up. Other than that they were completely alone.

  ‘Let’s sit, shall we?’

  Alaric gestured at a bench. It was mercifully dry and nicely protected, as Posie appreciated when she sat down: she could almost hear herself think again. Alaric threw down the umbrella and then played with a packet of cigarettes and his ma
tches, putting them away again with a resigned sigh.

  ‘I’m not even going to bother lighting up on such a wretchedly filthy night. By the way, this is the Customs House, the Dogana da Mar. And that over there is the Doge’s Palace and the Campanile, lit up with the green beacon, and the back of St Mark’s Square which you’ll see tomorrow in the light. This is quite the best view in Venice.’

  ‘Mnnn.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you earlier, and I’m sorry about the fire and us having to stay at this odd guesthouse and for the horrible weather and for everything not being quite perfect. But I’m not having a pleasant time, either: I’m sitting here in a rented suit a size too small because everything else got burned, including my wedding clothes, which I’m going to have to replace in a hurry. Luckily I was carrying my trusty rucksack with me when I left the Palace, so my documents are still all in order, but I’m missing most of my things. But that’s life, isn’t it? It’s not perfect: so much of it is difficult and you simply have to make do. I’ll try my best to make this trip nice for you.’

  Posie stared at the man she was about to marry, at the man she had been away from for so long, whom she had travelled across several countries to meet. The man she would have crossed the world to meet.

  She pulled her coat tighter to her. ‘You don’t need to make this “nice” for me, Alaric,’ she said, coldly. ‘None of those things you mentioned are your fault. And don’t worry about things not being perfect: you know that most of my life hasn’t been perfect. Distinctly imperfect, actually.’

  ‘Well, even so…’

  His voice trailed off. They watched a flicker of lightning catch the sky ablaze and rip it in half.

  ‘We’ve been apart, Alaric. This was always bound to be difficult. It feels like we’re strangers. I can’t imagine what we were thinking, planning a wedding like this.’

  Sudden and unwelcome thoughts of Silvia Hanro crowded to the forefront of her mind. Better get this over with. The words came out in a rush:

  ‘I don’t care how many scores of women you’ve had in the past, Al.’ She flashed a sideways look at Alaric, who was devilishly handsome, and everyone knew it; it was common knowledge that umpteen women had found heaven in Alaric’s arms, and in his bed. He was looking a tad uncomfortable now, bundling himself up in the collar of his jacket.

  Posie carried on grimly. ‘But what is important to me is now. Now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. You can joke all you like about me liking blonde men, but what on earth has been happening with Silvia Hanro? I saw it, Alaric. I saw the magazine cover. You know I did.’

  Alaric looked directly at Posie and held her stare. But he remained silent.

  Posie ploughed on regardless. ‘It was your bad luck that I saw it in London. Only yesterday! That magazine came out a good month ago now, and it was simple chance that I hadn’t seen it on a news-stall back then. Otherwise I think I would have come straight out to Constantinople.’

  ‘Goodness. Why on earth would you have done that?’

  Posie stood up, aware that tears were streaming down her face, mingling with the rain and sea-spray, and she rubbed at her eyes, black Maybelline mascara and kohl pencil running everywhere.

  ‘Did you invite her out to Constantinople, Alaric? Have you made love to her? What sort of thing am I looking at here? And why couldn’t you tell me that you wanted to be with her? At least told me before I made a complete fool of myself by coming out here to marry a man who has quite obviously gone off me? I don’t even know you anymore…’

  Alaric had sprung to his feet, and at last he took Posie in his arms, but she pulled away. He faced her, the light from the pink beacon falling in strange stripes over both their faces.

  ‘Don’t you realise, Posie? I was damned if I told you and damned if I didn’t,’ Alaric argued. ‘All I could hope for was that if I didn’t say anything you wouldn’t find out.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ she spat sarcastically. ‘This just gets better and better. You didn’t count on being snapped by the press, did you?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted guiltily. ‘I didn’t think that would happen.’

  Alaric continued, insistently: ‘Silvia was virtually on her own in Constantinople: alone and unprotected, and famous. She’s so damned beautiful, too: a target for all sorts of strange admirers.’

  ‘So you volunteered your services as a tour guide?’

  ‘It would have been ungentlemanly not to. I confess I was with her a good deal.’

  ‘Lucky her. That’s more than I’ve had tonight.’

  ‘I’ve said sorry for how everything was when you arrived. You know I love you.’

  Posie stepped away, looking across the dark water towards the unknown landmarks of Venice. Several things were bothering her. The rain soaking her to the skin was the least of her worries. Turning, she saw Alaric leaning against the huge stone pillar of the shelter. He wore a half-smile, crooked across that handsome face. More than anything Posie wished she could simply run into his arms, to fix everything, to tell him she loved him too.

  Instead, she held her nerve.

  ‘What are we doing here, Alaric? Exactly, I mean. Why does Dickie Alladice want you out here? You two seem unlikely friends: he’s some sort of businessman, after all, isn’t he? And not a very exciting one at that, in my opinion. Something about properties? Not quite up to your usual dangerous taste in friends. Or friends who are movie stars, for that matter…’

  Alaric’s face took on an obstinate look. ‘You won’t let that rest, will you, darling? And you haven’t seen Dickie at his best. He’s a first-class fellow. I met him out in Tangiers and he was very amiable, very professional. Today has totally knocked the stuffing out of the poor chap. This business with the fire, and, well, he’s quite worried about his sister too. She’s been receiving odd little notes and the like. It’s unnerved him no end.’

  ‘She told me. That was why she wanted to speak to me earlier. Quite the horror-story.’

  ‘Well, you know the whole beastly thing then. Everyone’s on edge but Dickie seems to have taken it badly.’ Alaric grimaced. ‘I don’t know why Dickie’s so het-up. It sounds like a mare’s nest to me.’

  ‘But it’s coincidental about the fire starting in her rooms, isn’t it? Following on from the note and the spying. And I don’t like coincidences one bit. She’s asked me to look into it.’

  ‘A busman’s holiday, darling? Just leave it well alone.’

  ‘Let me decide that. But why were you invited out here in the first place? What on earth is this all about?’

  ‘If you must know, I owe Dickie. He’s been pouring money into a couple of expeditions I’ve got planned for early next year, including a big trip to the Himalayas. I couldn’t have got much interest from the Royal Geographical Society in Kensington without his financial backing.’ Alaric frowned, looking out to sea.

  ‘But there’s more, isn’t there, Al? There’s no such thing as a free meal ticket, that much I do know. What do you have to do in return? What is it?’

  Alaric chuckled. ‘You can read me like a book, darling girl. There is more; you’re right. Dickie is starting some new venture out here. Exporting goods. Venetian glass: top-notch stuff. He’s got a good deal going with an old family-run glass factory out on Murano, the little glass-production island way over yonder.’ He gestured somewhere into the darkness. ‘Dickie wants to supply all the exclusive department stores in England with the glassware. He wants me in on the thing, a partner in the business.’

  ‘But you’re an explorer! You don’t know anything about glass.’

  Alaric shrugged. ‘You’re right. But I can represent the company at home, drum up business. I can ensure adverts in all the newspapers and magazines, and hopefully make the stuff sell like billy-o! I’m famous, and I can use it to our advantage. I’ll be a sort of ambassador for the glassware. So I’ve just got to sign the paperwork, there’s some pressing need t
o get it wrapped up this week, on Thursday apparently. I’ve just got to check on a couple of matters first.’

  Posie frowned. ‘So he wants to use your name? Your fame?’

  ‘That’s about the gist of it. It seems a fair deal.’

  Posie had never heard anything more unbelievable. She was about to open her mouth to give voice to these sentiments when she felt a pin-prickly sensation she always got when someone was watching her. A creeping sensation stole over her neck, combining horribly with the wetness of her coat collar and the back of her soaked felt hat. She scanned the stone platform and the jetty but the fishermen had long gone. She spun around.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  ‘There’s no-one there, darling. What on earth would they be doing out on a filthy night such as this?’

  Strange.

  Posie looked up at Alaric’s face, and he looked almost like he was enjoying himself. She swallowed down her rage and her fear. ‘If you know what you are doing, and are certain of it, it is not my place to interfere.’

  This is madness. ‘But are you sure?’

  Alaric shrugged. ‘Why not? I agree some parts of it seem rather hazy, but as I say I’ll check the details before signing anything. Besides, I can’t keep wandering the earth forever, can I? The Himalayas may be my last big trip. Maybe I need something more stable to rely on, safer…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, despite the fact that I have no wedding clothes, I had hoped to get married out here. And that comes with commitments. Maybe I’ll want to stay at home more? We might even have some children? I don’t want to miss out on all that by being halfway up a mountainside somewhere. Or worse still, leave them fatherless.’

  Posie swallowed. At this moment she hated Alaric. But she loved him too, and she felt that familiar desperate longing for him. ‘So you do still want to marry me?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘On Thursday?’

  ‘At St George’s Church. There’ll be a couple of nice surprises along the way, but it will be a quiet little affair, as we agreed.’