Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  It was beginning to sound fairly concrete. Posie smiled gingerly for perhaps the first time that evening.

  ‘Come here, you gorgeous girl! You always look utterly magnificent when you get angry.’ Alaric laughed. ‘I wanted you all through dinner, you know. I was longing for you. I say, how I’ve missed you! And hang that bally magazine cover!’

  And then she succumbed to his embrace, yielding up her lips to a kiss more spine-tingling than any she remembered, her body and soul his for the taking. They broke apart at last, reluctantly. Alaric’s green gaze sought her out.

  ‘I’m glad we cleared that up.’

  ‘Mnnn. Me too.’

  ‘Look, darling, this wretched thing about Silvia…’

  ‘Yes?’

  Was there more?

  ‘There’s something else I’ve got to tell you.’

  Posie nodded, keeping hold of calm, trying not to snap. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well…’

  But just as his hesitation set off another warning bell in her head, a sharp step on the wet stones of the path behind them could be heard, as someone hiding nearby had decided they had seen and heard quite enough.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Alaric reeled around, shouting into the darkness, uselessly.

  But Posie thought she knew.

  ****

  Seven

  ‘About Silvia. You were saying?’

  ‘Nothing. It really doesn’t matter.’

  On the way back they took a moment to stand in silence on the small jetty off the Campo San Vio and watch the smouldering Romagnoli Palace across the canal, breathing its last fiery melodrama into the wet night.

  The fire crews had given up and the Palace had surrendered to its fate. The fire was out now, but a smoky heat could still be felt through the rain. The black windows and doors gaped open, a house of ghosts.

  Posie squeezed Alaric’s hand, which seemed to be trembling. His face was unusually grim.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, sweetheart. At least no-one was hurt, and you did manage to get Dickie’s safe back for him, didn’t you?’

  He seemed to come to his senses at last. ‘Of course. How foolish of me. It’s only a bally building. And I’m sure old Salvarocca has got the thing worked out. He seems a sensible sort of chap. You know he knows Lovelace, don’t you? Quite well, apparently. Some police case they worked on once involving Rome. Small world, isn’t it?’

  Posie raised an eyebrow in the silence.

  ‘Indeed? I’d have thought Richard Lovelace would have been more discerning when it comes to those he stays in touch with.’

  They started to walk back to the guesthouse, arm-in-arm, both soaking. Up ahead someone was going into Mrs Persimmon’s. Posie saw a long, hooded black silhouette crossing the threshold, illuminated briefly against the amber house light.

  Alaric suddenly pulled up short: ‘Look, darling, something rotten I’m afraid. Tomorrow you’re going to have to play the tourist without me.’

  It was a tense moment, breaking the fragile harmony. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve got to search out something. It’s very important. Precious.’

  Posie thought of Alaric’s things which had gone missing in the fire. It seemed entirely logical, if you weren’t emotional about it, that those things would need to be replaced or re-ordered and it would take a little time.

  ‘I suppose it can’t be helped,’ she replied levelly. ‘I’m sure I can buy a Baedeker’s guide and play the tourist well enough alone.’

  Taking the key from her coat pocket she opened the front door. She noticed Alaric hung back in the rain.

  ‘Are you coming up with me?’

  Alaric shook his head uncomfortably. ‘No can do, darling. I’ve got to get on right now.’

  There was a pause. Posie’s mind was racing. What on earth was there for him to do out on a cold, stormy night in Venice? What arrangements or replacements could Alaric possibly be organising now? All the shops would have closed hours ago.

  Posie had given him the benefit of the doubt regarding his absence tomorrow, but this was entirely different. ‘I see.’

  But she didn’t see at all. Any hopes of a romantic reunion were disappearing fast, despite that kiss just a few minutes before.

  I won’t beg, she thought, almost shivering uncontrollably.

  ‘Darling Posie, you’re cold. It’s unforgivable of me to have kept you out here so long. Why don’t you cut along to bed now and I’ll join you later. You’re up on the crummy side of the house, aren’t you? What number room are you?’

  No, Posie thought stubbornly. I have my own honour to consider here. Rage exploded inside her, pent up and with nowhere to go.

  ‘Unless you have a dashed good explanation for where you are going right now, don’t even try and come into my room, crummy or not.’

  Alaric looked at her askance.

  ‘No? Nothing to say?’ she retorted. She grabbed at the wet umbrella almost savagely. ‘Then I definitely don’t want to see you later. Maybe not even tomorrow, or thereafter. Got it?’

  And stumbling over the threshold, Posie pulled the heavy door behind her, leaving her fiancé out in the dreadful night. She stood on the doormat, almost panting, bent-double and breathless, as if she had run a huge race.

  ‘Confound the man,’ she muttered under her breath, shaking off the umbrella and twisting it into the communal stand.

  In the shadows of the hall, lamps turned down for the night, Posie realised without much surprise that she wasn’t the only one amidst the wet-weather gear. She looked up to see Lucy Christie peering at her hesitantly, almost hidden behind some bulky item of clothing which was glistening with rain. Lucy was extracting something from one of its voluminous pockets – what looked like a small dark-coloured bottle with a stopper.

  ‘I was out, too.’ The Countess’s companion pointed at a black rubber cape. ‘You would have fared better if you’d taken one of these big storm capes, Posie. They’re for the guests’ use, as well as all this carnival paraphernalia up here. I’m bone dry and I was out for a good hour, running to a late-night apothecary as Bella has one of her “heads” again. She needed something stronger than a Beechams Powder. Oh, my! Look at your lovely red coat! It looks like it’s ruined. And you, you’re blue with cold. Venice can be treacherous in winter: the wind is blowing as if it’s the end of the world. Can I help you?’

  Posie shook her head and peeled off her wet layers. ‘It really is a dreadful night,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll get a hot bath and then I’ll feel better, I’m sure.’

  ‘Fat chance! It’s almost eleven now and there’s only hot water in this place until seven. Talk about shabby gentility! I could go down and wake Jones for you, if you like? Say it’s an emergency and get him to put a kettle on?’

  ‘Please don’t bother him. I’ll manage.’

  ‘Take this.’ Lucy fished under her cardigan and brought out a small silver hip-flask. ‘It’s not particularly good stuff, but it’s all I can get hold of. It might help you warm up. Or help you sleep?’

  Posie took the bottle with thanks and watched as Lucy stood by the telephone table, fingers dancing over the cream paper ledger. From over by the hatstand in the very far corner there was a slight movement, something fluid in the darkness, and for a second Posie thought someone else, a third party, might be hiding there. That pin-prickly sensation came over her again. But the wind seemed to penetrate even here and she told herself it must have been a sudden draft.

  Despite all the awful nonsense with Alaric just now, hurtful though it was, Posie focused on something entirely different which had nagged and nagged at her. It was nagging her again now.

  ‘I say, Lucy. You speak Italian. Can you place a call for me? This needs good Italian, not just asking for a simple connection.’

  The girl nodded. Posie went over to the telephone ledger and scanned it. It was exactly as she had left it: no further entries had been made. She gave Lucy her instructions and waited, arms crossed, as the girl place
d a call straight to the Operator in Rome and fired off a volley of questions in a quick Italian which Posie couldn’t follow.

  A few minutes later Lucy replaced the receiver of the apparatus. She looked puzzled. ‘There have been three calls made this evening from here,’ she explained. ‘All to the International Operator. But they definitely weren’t connected on to Switzerland.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘London. Whitehall. I asked several times but the Operator wouldn’t give me the exact line.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Posie nodded thoughtfully and wrote her name in the ledger, for payment on the morrow. ‘That’s incredibly helpful. Thank you.’

  Back in her room, on the crummy corridor where Lucy and Roger Valentine had also been billeted, Posie shed her wet garments and climbed into her flannel pyjamas. Having kicked her wedding outfit with some force under the bed, she towelled her hair dry as best she could and slavered on Pond’s cold cream. She kept on all of her jewellery, just in case, and sat on the slightly damp counterpane of her bed, wishing there was a view to dawdle in front of, rather than this back alleyway filled with the sound of overflowing drainpipes and rain and mewling cats and occasional shouting. She wasn’t ready for sleep. How could she possibly sleep? She took a swig from Lucy’s silver hip-flask.

  The liqueur tasted strange but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Nice, but strange. Christmassy, even. She lay back on the pillows and traced an engraving on the side of the bottle. A fancy, leafy, old-fashioned composition which could be discerned as ‘AA’.

  Thoughts of people she had met today were filling Posie’s sleepy head, playing out like the start of a movie. Vivid characters swum in front of her eyes…

  Bella Alladice, rich and grotesque but probably lying awake now with only her headache and a healthy dose of fear for company. Who would want to be in Bella’s shoes, the recipient of horrible notes which spoke of dreadful things?

  And a blonde man in a soft felt hat who had lied about who he was, and where exactly his orders were coming from. But whose orders in London was he following? And what was he doing here exactly? Surely he wasn’t the simple commercial traveller he claimed to be?

  And then Lucy Christie, and Dickie Alladice, and the maiden aunt and Roger Valentine, the efficient secretary… Something was off with all of them, that was for sure. None of them were quite what they seemed. Nor to be trusted. They formed an uneasy sea of uncertainties.

  And Alaric, and that magazine cover. He was a sea of uncertainty, all by himself. Her eyes were closing. And then, just as a wave of sleep engulfed her like a warm, welcome blanket, a double knock sounded at Posie’s door.

  ‘Go away, Alaric,’ she hissed. ‘I told you I didn’t want to see you again. I hope you got whatever it was done out there. Now goodnight.’

  ‘This isn’t your fiancé,’ came a low, serious voice with a slight accent.

  The voice was known to her.

  She got up immediately and padded to the door and a pair of strong hands dragged her forcibly out.

  ****

  Eight

  The hands were icy cold and the sleeve-edges were damp, but the face was familiar.

  Last time Posie had met the blonde man in front of her he had been dressed as a priest. Almost exactly two years ago. Then, she had been struck by how extraordinarily handsome he was, and now was no different. She felt a curious stab of something like excitement jolt through her whole being.

  ‘You! I knew it was you!’

  ‘Come with me,’ whispered the man, putting a finger to his lips. ‘I’ve been loitering around here until the coast was clear.’

  ‘What, like you were loitering around earlier down by the Customs House, spying on me and Alaric, you mean?’

  The man shrugged unapologetically. ‘We can’t talk here. The walls are paper thin. In fact, I think they are made of paper. Come to my room. You’ll see why in a minute.’

  It was fine, Posie breathed to herself. Bizarrely, she trusted the man, despite the subterfuge. After all, she had trusted his actions and his instincts in the past.

  Posie let herself be led down the corridor, which was dark except for one flickering lamp, and then they turned off right, and right again down a tiny service corridor which was completely dark. They went up a small staircase. There was a strong scent of soap-powder lingering in the air, mingling with the smell of damp.

  ‘In here.’

  They ducked through a tiny, low doorway and the man closed the door gently behind them. He lit a match and then a candle. Posie looked around.

  ‘Is this a cupboard?’ She laughed. ‘Does your Swiss watch company really pay you so little that you have to ferret yourself away up here?’

  They were in a long laundry room, and the flickering light revealed wooden shelves ranged up the walls, filled with neat stacks of fraying towels and bedding. A small truckle bed had been made up on the floor, next to which was a wooden stool holding a black book, some pencils and a pair of glasses. A large battered suitcase, such as commercial travellers use, was the only other evidence that anyone was in occupation.

  ‘Comfortable,’ Posie announced, sarcastically.

  The blonde man smiled for the first time. ‘And sound-proof. No-one can hear us up here. I told Mrs Persimmon I was asthmatic, that I needed a very dry spot and I assumed she had an attic drying-room. She was happy to take a few shillings for it.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘But this is the real reason I wanted the room.’ The man raised the candle and strode forward, casting light on a huge pair of ancient glass-doors, leading onto a balcony or roof garden. A step-ladder near the glass-doors and a pair of binoculars resting on top indicated what the man had been up to.

  ‘The deck out there is the altana, where in the good old days fashionable Venetian ladies would sit to lighten their hair in the sunshine of an afternoon. Now it’s just a balcony of rotting planks, and I won’t risk your life by taking you out there with me. But the important thing is that it’s the very front of the building.’ He nodded. ‘With a bird’s-eye view out over the Grand Canal, and the Palace.’

  ‘I see. Well, actually, I don’t see.’

  ‘Do sit.’ The man pulled out the milking-stool for her, tipping its contents carelessly onto the floor. He sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed. Gingerly, Posie sat down. There were just a couple of inches between them and Posie realised the man was shivering. Up close his very short hair was damp, and his skin was still glistening with rain. He gestured to the hip-flask, which Posie realised was still clutched in her hand.

  ‘Ach, can I have some? Mein Gott! What a miserable night!’

  She passed it across meekly, feeling foolish. Too late she realised her bizarre appearance; no make-up, a towel around her shoulders, the thickly slavered-on cold cream, the dressing gown, the jewels, the hip-flask…

  She pulled her dressing gown closed as tightly as she could, while the man took several pulls at the flask. He drew his hand across his mouth in disgust.

  ‘That was dreadful! Almonds? Almond liqueur? Amaretti? It tastes like marzipan. Where did you get this from? That fat Countess who loves almonds so much?’

  So that was it! That was why it had tasted of Christmas. Probably Lucy had filched some from her employer; she had said it was all she could get.

  ‘You didn’t have to drink it. It wasn’t mine, as it happens. It belongs to Lucy Christie, the companion.’

  ‘It was filthy, but at least I’m feeling warm again. It was freezing out on that Customs House jetty, and the hallway downstairs is pretty chilly too.’

  ‘So you were hiding there, too? Listening to Lucy on the telephone?’

  The two stared at each other for a full minute or so without speaking. The yellow light of the candle glimmered off his cream-coloured hair, unnaturally bright even in this dimness. He was still startlingly handsome, but he was older now, of course. And up close he seemed much older: late thirties, but looking ten years more than that. Posie noted how
definite lines were etching themselves into the tanned skin around his deep-set, very blue eyes. The lines hadn’t been there last time she had seen him, but who knew what he had been through since then? And she hadn’t exactly got any younger, or any thinner, herself.

  They had last met in strange and risky circumstances on New Year’s Eve, 1921.

  Posie and Inspector Lovelace had been working together on an undercover assignation, and Posie now found herself hurtling backwards through time, to that very dangerous night. To that unlucky party at Maypole Manor.

  Atop a clifftop in Kent, overlooking the English Channel, an exclusive party had been in glitteringly full roar, when the guests had been joined very late in the evening by an uninvited thirteenth man; this man, this blonde man, who had been dressed as a priest, out on his bicycle late at night, seeking sanctuary during a snowstorm.

  He had called himself Father Moriarty back then. But it had struck an incongruous note, as he had spoken with a marked German accent, as now. Posie hadn’t believed him for a second: not about his identity, nor his real reason for arriving at that New Year’s party. And as the night had worn on, when it had become evident that a murderer was in their midst, the blonde man opposite her had revealed that he was, in fact, a German medical doctor, a Dr Matthias Brenner, trained in the use and development of poisons, who had taken on a new identity and profession in England after the Great War.

  And when Posie had watched him in action that night – his expert diagnosis of the cause of death of the murder victim, and his equal expertise at trying to assist the living – she had been convinced of his medical qualifications. Later, when Inspector Lovelace had had time to check out the man’s identity before the Inquest which followed that case, it had all added up. The Inspector had professed himself happy with Dr Matthias Brenner and his documents, such as they were. Many Germans had sought sanctuary abroad after the war, and Lovelace was of the mind that ‘Father Moriarty’ should be left in peace.

  ‘Posie Parker.’ The blonde man nodded. ‘I knew you were coming out here, of course. I was briefed on it. But I had no idea we would all be staying in the same guesthouse. That fire has changed many things, unfortunately.’