Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie covered her mouth, finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘When you didn’t show up, Miss Parker, they joked a little at first, saying you were fashionably late. After half an hour I got nervous, and asked the Reverend Blythe to telephone to Mrs Persimmon’s to enquire if you were available. But no-one answered. I informed Mr Boynton-Dale at this point about the woman telephoning to cancel the ceremony on the Tuesday morning. I said I was very sorry, but it appeared that my Chaplain had informed you, Miss Parker, that the ceremony was all off. Which perhaps accounted for your no-show?’

  Posie felt a terrible sense of dread: ‘And what did Alaric say?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was rather terrible to behold. He collapsed down onto one of the pews. Lit a cigarette. “So that’s what Posie meant at the Frari, about being jilted at the altar!” he kept saying. No-one knew what he was talking about, I’m afraid. The music quartet lingered on, unsure whether or not to pack up. But he – Alaric – told them to stay.’

  ‘Gracious,’ muttered Lovelace. ‘What a mess! But who on earth cancelled the wedding?’

  Father Gregory was standing with his hands linked behind him, fingers twisting together over and over again in embarrassment. He coughed hesitantly:

  ‘I think I may be able to help you there, sir. Or at least to pass on what I know.’

  ‘Go on,’ whispered Posie, although she thought now that she knew what the man was about to say.

  ‘Mr Boynton-Dale was muttering: “Curse her! I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she’s been a thorn in my side recently: pitching up here, there and everywhere, uninvited.” And Dickie Alladice seemed genuinely surprised. “You mean Silvia Hanro, old boy?” he was asking. “You mean you didn’t ask her out here and install her up in your rooms as your mistress? You missed a trick! Everyone thought she was your mistress. Why, I virtually told Posie that was the case!”’

  The Vicar coughed in some embarrassment. ‘You can see it was a rather peculiar conversation for me to be overhearing, can’t you? Not altogether appropriate on the morning of Mr Boynton-Dale’s wedding to another lady, in a sacred place. To be speaking of a second party in such a manner…’

  ‘What else did the two men say?’ asked Lovelace sharply. ‘We might as well hear the whole thing.’

  Father Gregory shrugged.

  ‘I can’t remember the exact words, of course, but Mr Boynton-Dale was angry at his friend. He said: “How could you think such a thing? I never wanted her out here for a second, nor in Turkey. She had become obsessive.” Mr Alladice hinted that it was a jolly nice problem to have had, one most men would desire, but Mr Boynton-Dale kept shaking his head, and said: “It wasn’t a nice problem. Silvia threatened she would come out here. She joked that she would cancel the wedding, but I see now that it was no joke, and she meant it literally.”’

  The Vicar splayed his hands apologetically:

  ‘Mr Alladice lost his temper then, I recall. He was shouting out questions. Why had Mr Boynton-Dale been so anxious to find Silvia Hanro after the fire, if he hadn’t cared for her at all? Why had he, Mr Alladice, been enlisted at night to help Alaric look for the girl over in the dangerous Palace with a torchlight? Why had Mr Boynton-Dale ignored you, Miss Parker? And so on…’

  ‘And?’ Posie’s voice sounded far off, even to her own ears.

  ‘Mr Boynton-Dale said Miss Hanro had been at school with his sister, back in the old days. He felt a responsibility for her: that was all. And then Mr Alladice asked why his friend hadn’t explained this all to you, Miss Parker, and your fiancé just groaned and said: “Pride, my man, and arrogance. I assumed Posie’s trust in me was absolute. I didn’t count on her seeing that magazine cover, or on Silvia actually cancelling our wedding, or of Posie hearing of it in that way. But why couldn’t Posie bring herself to tell me what this Chaplain fellow said? About the wedding being called off? We could have sorted it out. I don’t understand.”’

  Pride, swallowed Posie. Because I’m the most foolish woman you could hope to meet…

  The Vicar was continuing hazily. ‘I don’t remember much else of the conversation, Miss Parker, because it was at that point, about half an hour after the start of the thing, that Mr Boynton-Dale decided to hurry around to the guesthouse and see if he could convince you to come and get married. We heard him from here, practically breaking the door down and shouting your name aloud…’

  Posie remembered Mrs Persimmon saying that the only disturbance that morning, when everyone else had been out of the guesthouse, had been at about eleven o’clock. An infernal racket, someone hammering and yelling. It had been Alaric.

  And all that while Posie had been sleeping up in Inspector Lovelace’s room. Probably the last place Alaric would have chosen to look.

  But even so…

  She frowned. Would it have made a difference? What would she have said if Alaric had found her? If he had explained? Would she have trotted back to St George’s Church, wearing her hastily-thrown on cream wedding suit and a bright smile? Would she have been able to go through with the wedding vows?

  For she was positive, sure as bread was bread, that Venice had opened her eyes to something she had probably known but not acknowledged for a good long while: that she and Alaric could not, should not, have been together. Perhaps it had been a misplaced love from the start? If they had married they would have been creating a future built on foundations as vulnerable as this beautiful, doomed city…

  But Posie kept remembering Alaric’s face, his wounded expression whenever his gaze lingered on her, up in that horrible little foreman’s office. The hurt that she hadn’t turned up at their wedding. That she had jilted him at the altar. That her trust in him wasn’t absolute, after all.

  Now Silvia Hanro and Alaric were both dead. And Posie, as usual, was the survivor. The one who had to face things head-on, like it or not. The one left to re-invent herself, yet again.

  Alone.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered to the Vicar.

  Father Gregory nodded. ‘I had to get that off my chest. Perhaps now you’ve heard all of that you can reconsider your position? Find Mr Boynton-Dale and maybe re-book the wedding? We’d certainly be happy to host your ceremony, under happier circumstances, this time around…’

  And Posie ran from them then, pushing through the dark vestibule of the guesthouse, trying not to choke, trying not to look backwards, only forwards.

  ****

  Thirty-Two

  It was late, even by Posie Parker’s standards. But she’d packed and repacked her bags, ready for tomorrow. Ready to leave.

  She couldn’t sleep. She tried not to run over the events of the day, but it was fiendishly difficult.

  She didn’t know what was going to happen to Alaric’s body, but she hoped against hope that Commissario Salvarocca would be able to deal with it. If Alaric was buried out here, on that ghoulish island in the lagoon which Mrs Persimmon had spoken of, Posie wouldn’t be coming back to attend the funeral.

  She’d said as much to Inspector Lovelace as they stood together in the salon, after the priests had left, drinking brandy. Lovelace seemed more dumbfounded and shocked than she was.

  ‘Salvo is a good man, Posie. He’ll see Alaric right, don’t you worry. Even if he has to be the sole mourner at his funeral. He’s a good man.’

  ‘He’s a fascist, sir. How can a good man be a fascist?’

  Lovelace had sighed, lighting up a cigarette and looking out over the water. ‘I know you doubt him. But sometimes you find yourself in unexpected places, or in unexpected situations. All you can do is try and survive. Even if it means sporting a coat which is different from the one you would normally choose to wear.’

  Posie didn’t answer. Just rolled her eyes.

  ‘He was married, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mnnn. She was a lovely young thing, although I only saw a photograph, of course. When I met him the first time round they were newly married, and Rosalie was the love of his
life. She was the Venetian, not him. He was a Rome boy, born and bred. But she convinced him to move here, and here he stayed. Even after she died. A love for her, rather than a love for the city, have kept him on here ever since. I doubt he could ever move. The night he lost Rosalie he lost everything, and I daresay that the fascist organisation means very little to him. He wouldn’t give two hoots if they covered him in medals or shot him down in the street. Not much can touch him now.’

  ‘Golly,’ breathed Posie. ‘I had no idea. How sad.’ She remembered the pain which seemed constant in the man’s eyes. ‘How did his wife die?’

  Inspector Lovelace bit his lip. ‘The Salvaroccas lived in an old wooden apartment, somewhere in the centre of the city. It was one of these house fires, actually. Apparently they happen all the time out here: closely-packed buildings, old wooden panelling, takes an age for anyone to come and help. Salvo was on night duty, and was recalled as soon as possible, but of course, there was nothing to be done. It was too late.’

  Posie remembered now the difficulty Salvarocca had had when trying to explain what had happened to Silvia Hanro in that secret chamber, how he had stumbled over the words, tears not far off.

  ‘I just thought you ought to know that a large, sad heart beats inside that dreadful uniform.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. A fair point, and one I’ll remember.’

  And now, much later, still unable to sleep, the silence of the guesthouse – with everybody now dead or departed – and the lack of any bells or celebrations outside, seemed to create its own kind of dreadful weight.

  Posie turned again and again on the pillow, willing the hours to pass. It was as if she was waiting for something else, something more dreadful than the rest of it all.

  But how could that be?

  Sleep when it came was shallow and unfulfilling, and punctured by the sounds of the telephone ringing, incessantly. There was also the clamour of heavy footsteps, and someone – was it Jones? – running and hammering on a door nearby. Banging, and shouting. Men’s voices.

  Several times Posie almost got up, dragging herself from half-consciousness. But in the end it was morning when she woke properly, her wristwatch telling her it was almost eight o’clock. She dressed snappily and grabbed up her bags, almost running downstairs in her hurry to take breakfast and be off.

  But she slowed as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and there she saw Mrs Persimmon standing wretchedly outside her dining-room, eyes wide and pale, her face devoid of any scrap of make-up, her sparse hair tied up in dirty grey rag curlers. Jones, eyes lowered, stared at the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ Posie asked, putting down her bags slowly with a sense of dread. On top of her carpet bag was the red mask the Inspector had given her, as she hadn’t had quite enough space inside the valise to carry it safely.

  Both Landlady and Butler motioned inwards, and Posie saw that the door to the dining-room was standing open. A crashing nervousness hit her, confirmed when she saw the uniformed Commissario Salvarocca sitting at a table, an untouched espresso before him. He looked inconsolable.

  ‘Inspector Lovelace?’ she burst out. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  Some terrible misplaced act of revenge by another unknown associate of Dickie Alladice, perhaps? For who else knew the Scotland Yard Inspector was out here?

  Salvarocca was shaking his head now. That sadness again… As deep as the lagoon he had spent too long living next to.

  ‘Yes and no, Miss Parker. I have bad news. Perhaps sit down?’

  ‘No. Tell me rightaway.’

  ‘Very well. I am afraid I must inform you that Richard received terrible news in the night. The worst kind.’ He coughed, choking back emotion. ‘It seems there was a fire, at his house in Clapham. Last night.’

  Posie gasped, holding onto the back of one of the chairs for support. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘His wife, Molly Lovelace, she didn’t make it. She must have been overcome by the smoke and the fumes, and died very quickly. Which is something to give thanks for, at any rate.’

  ‘And Phyllis? Little Phyllis?’ Posie was aware of her voice rising, hysteria right on its edge. Tiny little Phyllis, only one-and-a-half, innocent of everything. Her goddaughter.

  ‘Be calm, Miss Parker. Phyllis Lovelace was sleeping in her bedroom at the front of the house, and a neighbour managed to get a ladder up to the window, break it open, and get the child to safety before the smoke and flames engulfed the place. She wasn’t hurt. Physically at least. Richard has left already, poor man. He’s obviously in a state of shock but he has to keep on going for the child, doesn’t he? He’s taken the early train. The post train. He said he was sorry but he couldn’t wait until this afternoon’s Orient Express to travel with you. Hoped you’d understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There seemed very little air in the windowless room. Posie put her hands to her head, steadying herself. But the Commissario obviously thought she was about to cry, to have some sort of female meltdown.

  ‘He’ll be okay in the end, Miss Parker. You’ll see. It may take years but he’ll keep going. It’s all any of us can do, isn’t it, Miss Parker?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She must have shot him a look of complete bewilderment.

  ‘Keep going.’ The big man shrugged sadly.

  ‘All of us. We just have to keep on going.’

  ****

  EPILOGUE

  (LONDON)

  Many years later, on a hot fuggy day when the morning air brought in nothing fresher than the London smells of dust and tar, Posie Parker was brought to mind of that fateful trip to Venice.

  She was packing up her flat at Museum Chambers – her lovely flat in Bloomsbury – having decided to move on.

  And the packing up was proving to be emotionally charged.

  Each and every photograph, every single painting and framed item of value on her pale-green walls spoke of something personal.

  The very act of taking each piece down caused memories to rise, fresh as the day they had been created, sometimes bringing to mind people or places long since vanished. Or cases long since solved.

  Posie took down a pair of framed Egyptian hieroglyphics, created several years earlier by an Egyptologist she had known well; the paintings rescued from a fire out on an archaeological dig in the Valley of the Kings, a dig on which she had fallen in love with Alaric Boynton-Dale. She gulped and turned to something else on the wall.

  It reminded her of Venice.

  She hadn’t been back, not in all this time. It had been a dreadful experience, starting with a fire and ending with a fire…

  She swept back her dark hair, worn slightly longer now in a soft waved bob around her neck, and fiddled with the pink glass Murano beads which she still wore very often, although they had been re-strung several times since she had first received them.

  Posie was thrown suddenly into the memory of the aftermath of that case, the Alladice case, in the weeks which had followed her return to London. Posie remembered the details which had filled the English newspapers for weeks and weeks afterwards. The constant ringing of the telephone at the Grape Street Bureau, the requests for comments and interviews.

  And somehow the deaths of Silvia Hanro and Alaric had got swept up in the reporting on the Alladice case and everything had melded together and Posie had tried to step aside from it, to blank it out. She had politely refused a meeting with Lucy Christie, who telephoned several times at the start of December. For nice though the girl was, Posie couldn’t bear to go over the case again so soon, or be reminded of anyone from it.

  Even when Dickie Alladice had recovered from the gunshot wounds which had injured him and had been sent home for trial at the Old Bailey, she had tried to keep a distance. Even when he was found guilty and sentenced to death for his part in the murders of Robert Gattling and his own sister, Bella Alladice, Posie had kept her own counsel, refusing to give interviews or be drawn on the subject of the Alladice family. Mostly she was scared to get cau
ght out speaking about Alaric.

  So she took holidays to get away: a weekend in the Cotswolds; a stay on Lindisfarne, which felt like the edge of the world; a very strange Christmas holiday spent with Dolly and Rufus Cardigeon up at Rebburn Abbey in deepest Yorkshire, with Inspector and Phyllis Lovelace among the party of house guests. A holiday where she had blotted out the entire Venice episode, every aspect of it.

  Posie smiled now to recall the trip home to London from Yorkshire that Christmas.

  It was a wretched time: just after Boxing Day, bitterly cold, the decorations still adorning all the stations and houses, but looking unaccountably dim and tawdry now that Christmas Day itself had passed.

  She had thought she would have the first-class carriage to herself for the four-hour journey home, but had been shocked to discover a man sitting opposite her.

  It was Max.

  He’d grinned, admitting it was a planned meeting. And Posie had felt an immediate and insane amount of delight at his presence, at the fact that he had got out of Venice alive and well. That he had sought her out.

  Her own personal ghost.

  As soon as the train was off, curtained in steam and smoke, coal-air billowing about them, he’d reached over and taken Posie by the hand.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, Posie.’ His blue eyes were blazing, his white-blonde hair cut even shorter than she remembered it, slicked down close to his skull. ‘Things got a little tight for me there, in Venice.’