Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘About ten o’clock the Countess came out of the dining-room, and she went downstairs to use the telephone. I heard it all. Like I said, I wasn’t looking, just listening…’

  Posie was astounded. So at ten o’clock this morning Bella still hadn’t drunk the poison: she had been right as rain and ringing people up. Posie cursed inwardly. Why on earth hadn’t they bothered to check this? Particularly as Bella herself had mentioned to Posie that she needed to make some telephone calls. As if she could read Posie’s thoughts, the Landlady continued, nodding importantly:

  ‘She called London, dearie. She made two calls.’

  Posie tried not to goggle. Mrs Persimmon was turning out to be a mine of information. ‘Do you know who she called?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue about the first call, dearie. It went right over my head.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about it at all?’

  The little woman wrinkled her nose in concentration and her red lipstick blurred unattractively into the lines all around her mouth. ‘Something to do with a “register”, or a “registrar”, could it be?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘The Countess was shouting – it was hard not to hear – “I want to speak to the registrar!” And then: “What do you mean he’s unavailable? Do you know who I am?” And then she listed all her titles. I didn’t hear the next bit very well. And then there was a long pause. And then the Countess started shouting again: “What do you mean the records are unavailable too? That’s impossible! I need to check it out today!” I must say I felt very sorry for the lad on the end of the phone, whoever this registrar fellow was.’

  Posie nodded, uncomprehending, but noting it down anyhow.

  ‘And the second call?’

  ‘Ah! That’s what was more interestin’! That’s why I looked at your Inspector from Scotland Yard mighty funny. I thought to myself: “He got here jolly quickly! That call was only made a couple of hours ago!” Or else the Countess had second sight and wanted to call in about her own death.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, the Countess was calling Scotland Yard, in London, wasn’t she? She said she wanted to report a murder.’

  ****

  Twenty

  Posie let the words and all their import fall around them. Mrs Persimmon had stood up and was at the little window, looking down at the fog. Her expression was sour.

  ‘All this fog, all this water. It’s not right, is it? It’s all right for fish, maybe. Toads, frogs…’

  ‘What did you hear next of the call, Mrs Persimmon? It’s very important.’

  ‘Oh, nothin’, dearie. The Countess asked for an Inspector – any Inspector – and was obviously told no-one was about, even though she listed all her titles yet again. She said she wouldn’t speak to a mere Sergeant, and she’d call back later. She didn’t realise that was the last call she’d ever be makin’, did she now? Poor lass!’

  Posie blew out her cheeks in exasperation. The call to Scotland Yard would be easy to check on, but how fruitful would that be? The police receptionist on the other end of the conversation in London wouldn’t be able to tell them much more than Mrs Persimmon.

  The Landlady trotted to the door, and smiled at Posie. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have told someone. I couldn’t have said all that aloud downstairs in that room with everyone listenin’, could I? What would people have thought of me? Snoopin’ on clients, they’d have thought. What would the young Count have thought? Or that nice Mr Alladice, who I’ve known a good while now in business, of course.’

  She drew herself up sharply. ‘I have to take care over the reputation of my establishment. It’s usually frequented by visiting clergymen, nice folks from the Home Counties. If my husband, Captain Persimmon, God rest his soul, had seen the place today, he’d have turned in his grave. A body! In my dining-room! Police everywhere, locking the cook and the maid, Rita, up like common criminals! This was supposed to be a safe little business for me.’

  ‘Your husband was out here too?’

  ‘Yes. He was a British seaman who ended up here and stayed on in the sugar trade.’ The woman smiled proudly at long-ago memories.

  ‘My old man Bill Persimmon fell in love with Venice, goodness knows why. But I suppose when you’ve been on a ship since you were a nipper it’s a natural thing to find a city propped up in the middle of the sea and want to live in it, don’t you think?’

  Mrs Persimmon shuddered. ‘I always hated the seaside and the salty air. I was brought up in Bow, an East-End lass through and through. I still miss the smoke of town and the bells of the city, the real city, London. This was only supposed to be for a short time. My Bill bought this place on the Campo San Vio as a house for us while he worked out here. He bought a warehouse too, just opposite, for the storage of sugar. But you’d never find my Bill at home: he’d always be down on the quays at the Riva degli Schiavoni, seeing which boats were comin’ in, or else near here, a few alleyways back, where the Alley of Sugar hits the Zattere, checking on the quality of his incomin’ sugar supplies before the boats passed the Customs and sailed up our bit of the Grand Canal to our warehouse.’

  There was a small silence. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs Persimmon. Why didn’t you go back to London?’

  There was a shadow of a smile.

  ‘I was plannin’ to, dearie. It was the usual story, though. We only had the one lad: Billie, named after his father. He died in the war, in 1916, fightin’ for an England he had never lived in, except for a few Christmas visits now and again. And then his daddy died not long after. When I came to pack up my bags and go back I found there was almost no-one left of my own family, and those that were left were in the same position as me: heartbroken, or in pieces, or worse. So I stayed on here, and I bring out English staff so I feel more at home. And here I’ll stay. I’ll join old Bill on that awful little island where they bury corpses. But forgive me, I’m wanderin’ again… Can you think of anythin’ else I can help you with?’

  Posie looked down at her notes quickly. What had she learnt here? That Bella Alladice had made some sort of discovery at about nine-fifteen in the morning, either alone or in the company of another person. Then she, or another person, had thrown her folio of papers around in a blind rage, before collecting them up again.

  And lastly, that Bella had taken coffee alone at nine-thirty, in a frantic mood, and had still been totally alone at ten o’clock when she had placed two unsuccessful calls to London, the first one to who-knew-where, and the second to Scotland Yard, about a murder.

  Alone.

  ‘Mrs Persimmon, are you sure Bella was alone when you dropped off the coffee things at nine-thirty?’

  The woman scoffed. ‘I’m certain of it. There are no hidin’ spots in my dining-room. And don’t you think I wasn’t lookin’ all about me to see?’

  Posie nodded, satisfied. ‘So if there was someone in with Bella at nine-fifteen, he or she must have slipped away while you went to get the coffee?’

  ‘That’s right, dearie. No two ways about it.’

  The next bit was crucial: ‘This is important, Mrs Persimmon. When you brought the coffee things in, and put them down, at nine-thirty, were Bella’s papers still with her on the table?’

  Mrs Persimmon chewed at her lip. She closed her eyes for about a minute. And then she shook her head. ‘I can’t be one hundred per cent certain. But when I go over those couple of minutes in my head, I can’t remember seeing any papers at all. I put down the coffee-pot – the best one I had – with a jug of cream and a dish for those teeth-rotting candies of hers, and some sugar. And I put all this around the Countess, around her pen and her fancy leather book, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m certain, dearie, thinking back, that there wasn’t one piece of paper at that table. So there must ’ave been someone in there with her before. And whoever it was must have snatched the lot away, surely?’

  ****

  It was a few minu
tes before six o’clock, and Posie had managed to get her facts and her face in some sort of order, ready for the meeting downstairs. She had changed and her dress was violet and velvety and plain as night, a matching sequinned band tied around her head.

  Tonight would be hard. Tonight she and Alaric would have to speak. Properly, that was…

  Licking an errant bit of lipstick off her teeth, she was about to step out when another rap came at her door. Her stomach turned, certain this was Alaric, come, no doubt with his policeman, to accompany her downstairs in some sort of semblance of normality.

  But there was no-one there.

  Well, a policeman was there, and the maid brought out from England. The girl looked up expectantly at Posie. A tiny, dark slip of a thing. Blink and you’d miss her.

  ‘Can I help you, er…’ It came to her. ‘Rita? Isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss.’ The girl sounded pleased someone had remembered her name. She stepped into the room, and Posie groaned inwardly. She checked her watch pointedly.

  ‘I need to tell yer sumthin’, Miss. That nice policeman with the smile on his face downstairs said we could come to him or you if we had anyfin’ to tell. But I’m choosin’ you cos you ain’t a real gal copper, are you?’

  ‘Never a truer word was said,’ muttered Posie, closing the door behind them, resigned to being late.

  Rita shifted from foot to foot, seemingly oblivious to Posie not offering her a seat. ‘It’s about those masks, Miss. The ones which have been made black. Which I was told to clean up.’

  Posie had quite forgotten about them. They had seemed a mere anomaly at the time; yet another complication. ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Well, I know who blacked them up, Miss. And I know who used them, too. And I ain’t sure I like what I know, Miss.’

  Posie eyed the girl keenly. Rita didn’t seem the over-excitable type, prone to dramatic turns of phrase. She looked like the sort who preferred a quiet life, a shirker, in fact; the less work the better.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘These people all arrived yesterday after the fire, didn’t they? And it was chaos, to be honest wiv’ you. You’ve seen that we’re not much equipped to deal with complicated people. Jones and me, we were runnin’ around with people’s bags and coats and things. Well…’

  ‘Go on, please, Rita.’

  ‘I caught sight of those two masks, Miss. Like Mrs Persimmon said, they were usually stored in the hallway, but yesterday I saw them at tea-time, upstairs in one of the guest’s bedrooms. They were still brightly coloured at that point. I thought they had been carried up in all the confusion. So I went to gather them up in my arms and take them back down again, but it was that Miss Minnie who stopped me. They were in her room, on her bed.’

  Posie raised an eyebrow dubiously. ‘Minnie? What did she say about the masks when you drew attention to them?’

  ‘Oh, nuffin’ much, Miss. Laughed it off. Said she’d obviously brought them up by mistake and would take them down again herself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Posie was disappointed. This was hardly much to go on. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Miss Alladice who changed the colour? She probably just put them back, as she promised.’

  ‘Not her, Miss.’

  ‘You don’t like Miss Alladice much?’

  ‘Well, it’s not my place to judge, is it?’

  ‘You can be completely frank with me, Rita. Social conventions don’t mean much when you’re dealing with a murder.’

  The maid sniffed pointedly. ‘She’s not what she seems. Bosses me around like she’s a Countess. The real Countess was bad enough – God rest her soul – but Minnie Alladice takes the biscuit! Expects me to skivvy for her and pick everythin’ up off the floor like I’m a ladies’ maid or summit! And it was her who blacked them up: she didn’t realise I saw a tin of Avon black boot-polish beneath those masks on her bed. And what’s more I saw her wiv’ the masks last night. Late, it was, and she was wearin’ one of them. And that’s when I heard the true woman speak. You’d never believe it! The words she said, absolute venom. It were pure evil!’

  Posie stared at the maid in complete surprise. ‘Really? Where was this? And who was Minnie talking to?’

  ‘You said I can be frank wiv’ you, Miss?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have a lad I’m steppin’ out with, but don’t tell a soul, Mrs Persimmon would kill me for it. He’s an Italian, Luca. We always meet at an empty boatshed on the Zattere, about five minutes’ walk from here through the backstreets of the Dorsoduro.’

  Classy, thought Posie, trying not to grin.

  ‘It was quite busy down there on the Zattere last night, see? These people for the Festa della Salute, carryin’ lamps, and gettin’ in everyone’s way, even though the weather was foul. It’s awful narrow down there, Miss, with those little streets all facin’ right onto the canals, and the people pushin’ along somethin’ terrible. I was right scared! We stopped off on the way back, about eleven o’clock, at the Church of San Trovaso. Me and Luca, we stood inside the entrance to avoid the crowds and get shelter from the pourin’ rain. It was dark inside.’

  A kiss and a cuddle in a quiet, candle-lit space, you mean, thought Posie, trying to remember what it felt like to be nineteen again.

  The girl nodded: ‘But I’d only had a second or so to catch my breath when I heard an English voice pipin’ up next to me in the church entrance. A northern accent, it was, clear as a bell, even though she was whisperin’! I looked over and saw a woman in a black mask and a black cloak.’

  ‘Minnie Alladice?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss.’

  ‘Who was she with?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing. I don’t know these people, of course: we only clapped eyes on them for the first time yesterday afternoon. But the man she was with was an Italian. He had a very high voice, and he was short, and he was wearing the second black mask. Obviously neither of them wanted to be recognised at all. When I spoke to Luca about it afterwards he said that the man was a nobleman, that he was…’

  Posie had to stop herself from gasping aloud in surprise. ‘Count Giancarlo Romagnoli?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss. Odd, innit? You’d never see those two talkin’ to each other normally, would you? But it was her what was in charge!’

  What an unlikely, and mysterious pairing. ‘What did they say? Did you catch any of it?’

  ‘Somethin’ of it. But I didn’t understand. The Count was angry; stark raving furious, in fact. He said: “You’ve gone too far now.” And then she said: “You’d better pay me again then, hadn’t you? Or else I’ll make certain of a scandal.” And then he called her somethin’ unrepeatable in Italian – I had to ask Luca for its exact meanin’ later – and then the Count told Miss Alladice that she was tryin’ to destroy everyone close to him.’

  Posie nodded carefully. None of it made sense to her yet but she didn’t want that to look obvious to Rita. Blackmail of some kind? The poisonous woman whose evil thoughts had been scrawled in a diary was perhaps transferring their malicious sentiments across into real life. Perhaps dangerously so.

  ‘So they left before you?’

  Rita nodded. ‘But not before the Count handed over an envelope to Miss Alladice. I’m guessin’ it contained money. He said: “Don’t ever give that to anyone vulnerable again or involve them in your sordid plans.”’

  Posie was stumped. Vaguely, she motioned at the door. ‘Is that everything, Rita? I think we should probably go down now if you’re quite finished?’

  But Rita stood her ground. ‘Oh, but I’m not finished, Miss. I heard somethin’ else.’

  ‘Does it concern Miss Minnie Alladice again?’

  ‘Nope. It’s somethin’ I heard later on last night, when I was back from meetin’ Luca. Just along here, in fact. I was bringin’ up fresh towels to all the rooms on this corridor.’

  So yet more people had been creeping about late last night, people who noticed things. Posie hoped to goodness she hadn�
�t been seen with Max. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Oh, about midnight. I saw you slippin’ by while I was up here, and I also saw Miss Christie. She was going into that handsome chap’s room, Roger Valentine…’

  ‘What did you hear, Rita?’

  ‘An argument. Comin’ from Mr Valentine’s room.’

  Posie frowned. Could Lucy and Roger have been arguing together?

  ‘I heard Mr Valentine say: “They’ll kick up an awful shindy about it – I’ll show it in the morning unless you pay up. So far I’ve only received half! I’ve asked several times now!”’

  ‘Show what exactly? Roger Valentine wasn’t more specific?’

  ‘No, Miss. Sorry. And then he also said: “But that’s nothing compared to this bit of reel! So where’s the money?” After that I hurried along. It sounded as if there was some sort of scuffle going on in the room. Sounded like a table going over.’

  ‘Could it have been a woman he was arguing with? Miss Christie, maybe?’

  Rita shrugged, but her eyes were keen and interested. ‘Why not? They’re a rum lot, aren’t they? In fact, it could have been any of them in there with Mr Valentine, couldn’t it? The dead Countess included.’

  Posie agreed. Could Bella Alladice herself have been the person in the room being blackmailed, as Rita had, quite sensibly, suggested? Or was Bella the one who was expected to kick up an awful shindy? But about what exactly? What was ‘it’ which Roger had threated to show if he wasn’t paid? And what on earth was the ‘reel’?

  It seemed that there were two dangerous items at stake.

  And maybe these two dangerous items of Roger’s had found their way into the fat folder of Bella’s this morning? Items which had since disappeared… Had they been the reason for her strange calls to London? Been the reason for her death?