He indicated his spying apparatus. ‘I had thought I might catch a glimpse of you across the way in that Palace, but you, of course, would never have been aware of me, stuck high up in the attic of this third-rate hostel.’
‘Bad luck. I thought I saw you at Victoria Station yesterday. In that greasy spoon of a café? But I wasn’t sure.’
‘Yes, that was me. You gave me the shock of my life peering at me like that.’
Posie laughed. ‘You made it here before me?’
He nodded. ‘Only just. I travelled third-class, of course, but on the same train. I made sure to stick to my cabin so we didn’t run into each other on either the boat or the train. I have no luggage except what you see here, so I got off the train well ahead of your first-class lot. I skipped across Venice as quickly as I could and got here a full hour before you. Enough time to see which way the smoky wind was blowing, and that I’d have to be very careful with you nosing around.’
‘I thought it was you again downstairs in that salon of mirrors, earlier, but you wouldn’t turn around and face me, would you? Or take your wretched hat off?’
‘I was trapped in there; that young Count wouldn’t stop talking to me. I swear I felt your eyes on my back. I managed to escape but I thought you might be suspicious of me. So I listened at the doorway when you were having dinner and I was immediately put on my guard when I heard you asking Mrs Persimmon about me. I didn’t know whether to hope you’d drop the subject or whether to speak to you directly.’
‘So you followed me?’
‘Yes. I hoped to get a quiet moment with you, which didn’t happen. And then I waited in the hallway here for you, but I didn’t count on you chatting to that paid companion, or on both of you intercepting the telephone exchange. It was then that I knew the game was up and we had to talk before you blew my cover. Before you revealed who I was.’
Posie laughed. Everything was simply too strange.
‘But that’s the funny thing! I don’t know who you are, do I?’
She looked at the man quizzically. ‘Are you Father Moriarty, with a parish near Dover, in Kent, like you told that doomed house-party two years ago? Or are you Doctor Matthias Brenner, as admitted to me over a poisoned corpse lying out in a snowstorm?’
Posie splayed her hands. ‘You see, I can’t reveal the name of someone I don’t know. It turns out I never did know you, did I? And neither did Inspector Lovelace. You pulled the wool nicely over his eyes, too, didn’t you? The Inspector even told me you had a little son in Dover, that you had a convincing photograph; the icing on the cake to prove you were really real. Or was that all a lot of nonsense too? Was any of it real?’
The man sighed. ‘I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t me doing the wool-pulling, as you say. I had orders, and orchestration, and evidence, including fake photographs of sons, all supplied from above. But you’re right, I wasn’t either of those people I told you about: I was there like you were, for work. For a higher authority, for those higher than the police.’
Posie swallowed, remembering the Whitehall telephone number which couldn’t be given out by the Operator. She didn’t know why she was surprised, or even why she cared.
‘Very nice. So you’re a spy? All that guff about being a doctor seeking a change after the war was a lot of old flimflam?’
The man frowned. ‘I’ve never told anyone this before. But, you know, you’re somehow the sort of woman I feel I can trust with my life.’ He dropped his voice even lower. ‘I may have to.’
Posie waited. She was used to the spilling of confidences, and for sudden revelations. But it needed time, and no sudden, hurrying movements or impatient promptings to halt proceedings. Go on, she thought, but did not say it aloud. She sat very still, waiting.
‘My name is Max. I can’t tell you my surname. It’s almost forgotten, even to me.’ The man swallowed, dredging up memories with an effort.
‘I was a doctor, I couldn’t have faked that. I trained and worked in Berlin, and then in the war I was put to work, with others in my department, developing poison gas. It was dreadful, like becoming a murderer. I almost had a breakdown, but I requested a transfer and got sent as a punishment to be an Army Medical Doctor on the front-line. I was expected to be killed. It was horrendous work also, but I kept going. You know all about that, though, don’t you? You were an ambulance driver out there, among all that carnage.’
‘For a while.’ Posie chewed at her lip, impressed at his homework.
‘Then there was a terrible offensive, with mines and everything. At the Messines Ridge. A terrible waste of life. It was June 1917.’
‘Messines?’
Max frowned. ‘That’s right. Have I touched a raw nerve?’
‘Not at all.’ Posie waved the question away. But this was the second time this very evening she had been told about Messines. Johnny Alladice had died out there, changing the family hierarchy and fortunes forever.
‘An Englishman was brought into my tent at the Clearing Station. He was obviously an officer, very senior. He was terribly injured, and I thought he would only last a couple of hours. It was late at night. Most of the staff were kept busy with our boys. I did what I could for the English fellow, nursing him almost single-handedly through the night, speaking to him in English, telling him I would get him home. I prayed for him. I realised he was a Catholic as he had a crucifix and a St Christopher on his person. I must have told him about myself too, in snippets, without realising it: how unhappy I had been in Berlin developing poison gas, how desperate I was to escape from the front-line. How I would get us both out of that hell-hole at Messines.’
Max rubbed at his eyes. He was lost in his memories of a dreadful war which had taken place six years before, but which would stay with him forever. As it would with Posie. She sat in the bleak silence, waiting for the link.
She prompted gently. ‘The Englishman survived?’
‘Yes, he recovered.’ The German smiled, still proud of his efforts.
‘And then, a week or so later, he just disappeared. Normally he would have been consigned as a prisoner-of-war, but he went missing. We couldn’t search him out though, as our Clearing Station was being moved in a frantic hurry; we were retreating back over the Ridge. We had hundreds of other things to do. Two weeks later, when we had our new hospital up and running, I got a summons from the Quartermaster General, the real big chief, Erich von Ludendorff. It was the full works: ribbons and seals on the message and all the trimmings. All of my medical team were wondering what I had done wrong, what it was all about. Two men in military regalia were waiting for me on big black horses, right outside my tent. They had one spare horse for me, and they pretty much frogmarched me off. The other doctors and nurses watched me leave, open-mouthed. I didn’t even have time to grab my medical bag or my identity papers.’
‘How remarkably well-timed. Let me guess, that was the last day you were Max the doctor?’
The German gave a wry smile. ‘That’s right. The three of us rode in silence for a good couple of hours, up the coast. We were somewhere near Nieuport. They had a boat waiting there. Then they got me off my horse, and held a gun to my head. They spoke in British accents, said they were special agents and that I had been recommended to them. They asked if it was true that I wanted to get out of the German Army and would I be able to cut all ties in my former life?’
‘You had no ties?’
‘None to speak of. They asked me if I would join them as a special agent in Britain. In London at first, and then to be sent all over the place. And all the while they were holding a gun to my head. They were very firm that they would shoot me if I didn’t agree to go with them; I might have blabbed, you see.’
‘That gun must have been a real deal-clincher. Die or join MI5 or MI6 as a spy…’
Max scoffed. ‘It’s not MI5. Or MI6. But it’s a similar set-up, and we are all aware of each other, but what I joined is in a league all of its own. We operate from the same buildings in London
, with a cross-over of some staff, but it’s largely stand-alone. We mainly deal with smuggling, and international arms-dealing.’
‘Goodness. So all that guff about being a priest down on the south coast was a piece of elaborate staging because you were watching the smuggling around Maypole Manor?’
Max nodded. ‘There were several routes and gangs I was watching, yes. It was a position I had occupied for almost a year. Normally the jobs are much shorter.’
‘Isn’t it awfully dangerous work?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes. You must realise that your government is madly suspicious of foreign spies right now, and of German spies in particular.’
‘Inspector Lovelace told me so, so he must be right. He’s very nice, you know.’
A smile, and the crinkling of the deep worry-lines. ‘He is nice. But he’s easy to fool. You would have made a better Chief Inspector.’
Posie flushed under the cold cream.
Max laughed mirthlessly. ‘I’m a gift for the British Government, and for my team. I’m a sort of double-bluff, you see: a tame German who works for the British to do their dirty work, who can suss out other potential German spies. I can never leave. I’ll do this job until I die. If I went home I would be shot as a traitor.’
‘And you can never tell anyone what happened, can you? It’s too unbelievable.’
‘You are the first, in fact the only person who knows this story.’
‘And I believe you. You have my word that I won’t tell a soul. Tell me, did you ever meet the man you saved at Messines? The Catholic with the St Christopher? The man who changed your destiny?’
Max shook his head. ‘Never actively. But once, one hot summer evening, walking down a dim wood-panelled corridor at Whitehall, I thought I recognised him, walking past me. A tall, loping figure, fantastically well turned-out in an expensive suit. Of course, by the time I’d thought it might be him, and turned around, he was halfway down the corridor into the shadows. He had turned though, too, and had been staring at me in a similar fashion. I startled him and he hurried off, but not before I’d got a glimpse of a familiar face, cross-hatched with scars and shrapnel damage. I never saw him again. And I never asked after him, either.’
‘Extraordinary.’
They stared at each other. At last Posie cut the silence with a whisper. ‘So what are you doing here?’
‘I can’t tell you that. It’s a short mission, though. It needs attention this week. Absolutely nothing to do with you, I can assure you.’
‘Is it something to do with the fire, or the Corsetti gang?’
At his silence she continued. ‘Is it anything to do with the threats being made against the Countess? I’m guessing you know about that?’
‘Of course. I think it would be surprising if anyone didn’t know. That little party are all running scared: the chatty little Count told me everything. And then I heard it all again when you and Alaric were talking on the jetty.’
He rose. ‘I really can’t tell you why I’m here. But what I can tell you is that I’m nobody’s avenging angel. Or guardian angel, for that matter. You will have to step into that role for the Countess yourself, if you so wish. I am a mere mercenary, sent where I’m told. I’m a good man, but I’m not the good guy here, I’m sorry to say. I don’t save people anymore. I obey orders, that’s all.’
Posie felt she was being dismissed. She stood up. Max was now standing quite motionless on the top step of his ladder.
‘Goodnight then.’
But Max, binoculars trained on his quarry, motioned to her with a crooked finger. ‘Come here. There’s room for two. Just.’
Posie frowned. But she did as she was told. She stood right next to Max, and she could smell his sweaty, woody scent beneath the dry overpowering soap-powder of the small space.
‘Look.’
When she looked out through the glass she saw black night, and nothing else. Then came a faint glimmer of the red smouldering light of the Romagnoli Palace opposite. But that was it.
‘Sorry, I forgot. Take these.’ Max handed her the binoculars and Posie adjusted them slightly. From here there was a clear view of almost the entire Palace, all of its fire-beaten floors. She roved up and down, once and then twice. She waited. Nothing.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Keep looking. There it is again.’
Hurriedly Posie trained the view-finder back, just in time to see what looked like a flashlight waver in and out, somewhere on about the third floor of the Palace. It disappeared. She kept watching and suddenly another flashlight, this time smaller, came from up near the top floors.
She looked at the German quizzically: ‘So? That’s probably just the Commissario’s men doing a late-night check. He’s probably got watchmen stationed over there.’
‘The Palace is not fit to go inside. He told you all earlier. I listened in. And there are no instructions for his own men to risk life and limb in such a dangerous place.’
‘So who is it?’
There was a dreadful pause. Turning, and looking down at Posie for an instant before gently taking the binoculars back, Max said in a low, hollow voice: ‘What did Alaric say he was doing tonight? I heard him. He told you to go to bed alone because he had to get on with something. That, over there, is the “something”.’
Posie found her mouth opening and shutting. ‘But there are two lights.’
‘Clever girl. He may have asked someone along to help him out. I just thought I would mention where Alaric was, and what he was doing.’
Rather than being with me.
‘What is Alaric looking for?’
Max remained glued to his viewer. ‘I have my own suspicions but you’ll have to ask him yourself. Didn’t he say he was after something precious?’
Posie stood down and moved to the door, crazy thoughts flooding her brain. Silhouetted against the window, with his back to her, Max spoke again, and Posie struggled to catch his words.
‘Be careful, Posie. There is evil in this guesthouse. Even I, hardened as I am, can feel it. But it’s not as bad as the evil which is being done against you.’
Posie widened her eyes in fright. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘That man. That man across there. Alaric. Ach, he doesn’t deserve you. You’re a clever girl in everything else. Can’t you just wise up to the fact that he’s a thoroughly bad lot? I don’t think he means to be, but he just can’t make decisions, or good decisions anyway. He’s all over the place, he hardly knows you’re here, does he?’
Anger flooded through Posie. She had been thinking the same thing not half an hour before, but she was damned if she would hear it from someone else. Someone she hardly knew, unasked for. She flushed an angry red.
‘Watch yourself, sir. I’m jolly well marrying that man on Thursday.’
Max turned and stared at Posie full-on this time, and there was an uncomfortable crackle of something like electricity, or anger, or a connection of some sort flowing between them.
‘Oh, but are you? Why don’t you go around to that little English church and check? Go tomorrow. I think you’ll find the wedding isn’t going ahead but Alaric can’t bring himself to tell you. He just pretends everything is okay…’
‘Alaric’s just out of sorts,’ interrupted Posie wildly. ‘That’s all. The fire hasn’t helped.’
Max tutted. ‘That’s what you think. Actually it’s helped him a lot. You can hide things in a fire, or make excuses for things which were never supposed to be there. But I’ve done my duty. I’ve told you now. It’s up to you what you do with this information.’
But Posie had heard quite enough. She stumbled through the door, down the stairs and along the crummy corridor, back to where her room was located.
As she dashed along, she stopped suddenly as she saw a slim figure of a girl shimmy through the door into Roger Valentine’s room. It was Lucy Christie, on some late-night assignation.
Reaching her own room, and closing the door as quickly as she could behind her,
she found cold beads of sweat clinging to her skin beneath the remnants of her face-mask. She locked the door behind her.
It had been a long, long day.
****
PART TWO
VENICE
(Wednesday 21st November, 1923)
Festa della Madonna della Salute
Nine
Posie awoke early, pulled on a dark red tweed suit and presented herself downstairs for breakfast by eight o’clock sharp with an icy efficiency which she recognised as purely an instinct for survival. She put on all of her wedding sapphires again in a spirit of defiance and added a shockingly red lipstick for good measure. She was going to be a tourist for the morning, and she’d make sure she looked fabulous.
She had resolved not to think a jot more about Alaric, or of the strange German spy she had re-encountered last night. It helped that neither of them were breakfasting. The small dining-room was empty but for Jones, loitering at the long buffet table which boasted an impressive array of hastily-bought local pastries and sweets.
As she ate a slice of slightly damp toast and drank her morning Assam, Posie concentrated on Bella Alladice’s plea for help the evening before, and she made mental notes of all the things she needed to investigate with a cool brusqueness which surprised even herself.
She rose when Bella Alladice entered the room, accompanied by her companion. Lucy took a tray and started to load it up and Posie went to tackle the Countess, who had sat down heavily in a far corner, looking puffy and tired in an enormous tweed day suit the colour of fresh candy-floss. A black leather folio stuffed with thick documents sat at the Countess’s side, together with a sleek fountain pen. Posie explained about her touristy morning, and asked if she could borrow Lucy.
‘It’s for the language, really.’ This was a lie, as Posie just fancied some company, but didn’t like to admit as much.
In an undertone she whispered, ‘I’ve had several thoughts, actually, about your, er, your situation. I’m going to investigate a bit while I’m out this morning, make some calls and so on. I’ll try and give you some sort of report by the end of the day.’
Murder in Venice Page 8