At Midnight in Venice

by J C Briggs

  They bent to go through into a little room full of old bits of scenery and broken gas footlights. It smelt of dust and age, and there, sitting miserably on a basket, was the man for whom they had been seeking: Rolando Sabatini.

  ‘Mr Dickens — I am so glad you came. Jack persuaded me that you would listen and help.’ Rolando Sabatini looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. He looked dusty and ill-kempt, and he looked like a boy who needed comfort. Not yet, though.

  They all perched on various baskets — the room was far too low to stand in with any comfort. Jack Marchant fetched a collection of tin and wooden goblets and poured some wine.

  ‘This is about Miss Pout?’

  ‘Yes, Jack read that she was dead — murdered. He brought me here. I thought — I was terrified that —’

  ‘You would be suspect.’

  ‘Yes, I left with her…’

  ‘Why — why did you desert Miss Fane?’

  ‘How do you know about Mariana?’

  ‘I spoke to your aunt, Mrs Marchant.’ He did not look at Magpie — that enquiry would do for later. ‘I had been asked to enquire after Miss Pout by her mother. Mrs Marchant told me that you were in love with Miss Fane and wanted to marry her. She told you to leave the household and if you felt the same after six months you could ask Sir Neptune, but then you disappeared with Miss Pout. Why?’

  ‘Violet said that Lady Fane knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’ asked Dickens sharply.

  ‘About Mariana and me. Violet said we must leave, or we would be sacked.’

  ‘Why Miss Pout?’

  ‘Because she had known about us and had not reported it to Lady Fane. She blamed me — it was my fault — I should not have — we met in secret. Miss Pout felt sorry for us. I felt I owed her something. And she was so upset — it wasn’t her fault. Aunt Dolly warned me —’

  ‘You told St George Pierce that Mariana was having her portrait painted. Tell me about that.’

  ‘Miss Pout told me that a friend of hers wanted to paint Mariana. He had seen her at the zoo one day. It was to be a birthday surprise for Lady Fane. That’s why it was a secret.’

  ‘How many sittings did she have?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could not be many. Sir Neptune did not approve of too many outings, but a few months ago, Violet and Mariana went out together on a number of occasions. Mariana went with Violet to the dentist — Violet was afraid to go alone and Lady Fane relented. She is very kind. I don’t suppose she told Sir Neptune. There were some trips to the shops when Sir Neptune was away.’

  ‘You didn’t see any portrait?’

  ‘No, Violet told me that Mariana did not like to deceive her mother and she was afraid Sir Neptune would not like it. And one time, Mariana told me she had fainted. She seemed frightened and then…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She never seemed well after that. She was very quiet. I wondered if she still cared for me.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘She said so. I begged her to allow me to speak to Sir Neptune, but she was too afraid.’

  ‘And it was how long after the fainting that you left?’

  ‘It was in September that Mariana seemed not herself. I left in November — nearly three months, I think — when I saw Mr Pryor he said that Mariana had been sent to the country. They must have known about us and it is Mariana who has been punished. My fault — my cowardice. I betrayed her.’ He wept then. Magpie sat next to him and gave him his handkerchief.

  He is innocent, thought Dickens. He knows nothing of Mariana’s condition. He would have to tell him.

  ‘I am afraid it is worse than that. Miss Fane is in an asylum at Hammersmith.’

  ‘She is ill?’

  ‘She is with child.’

  Rolando and Magpie stared at him. Their astonishment and horror was genuine. Rolando put his hands over his face, which had turned so white that Dickens thought he would faint. Magpie made him drink some more of the wine.

  ‘You have to tell us everything, Rolando. Tell the truth if you know anything of this.’

  Rolando looked up. He wiped his eyes. ‘No, no — it is impossible. I would not have — could not have. She so innocent, so pure. I wanted to marry her. I loved her.’

  ‘I believe you did, and I believe that you did not seduce her.’ Dickens felt certain.

  ‘Then who — she would not have betrayed me — there was no other —’

  Magpie understood. ‘This artist — it was after she fainted that Mariana became ill. And —’ he looked at Dickens, his thin face hardening — ‘Violet Pout knew. That is what she was afraid of — it was her friend. Who is he?’

  ‘I do not know — the police are trying to find him. It is possible that he killed Violet Pout and Jemima Curd — you knew about her.’

  ‘I read of it. I remembered the name and I remembered you, Mr Dickens, which was why I sent you the message. I was afraid for Rolando.’

  ‘Who is your cousin.’

  ‘You know who I am.’ Magpie’s face looked haggard in the dim light — that impudent, carefree young man was gone.

  ‘I do, Mr Marchant. Your mother suggested that Rolando might be with you. Did you know Jemima’s name when I first mentioned her?’

  ‘No, I did not know Miss Pout’s, either. I know nothing of Sir Neptune Fane’s household. It is not a house to which I was ever invited. I have not seen my mother for over two years — we have our differences. But this man who may be a murderer?’

  ‘I hoped that Rolando might be able to give me some information.’

  Magpie turned to Rolando who sat as one stunned. ‘Rolando, try to remember something, anything that Miss Pout might have said.’

  ‘St John’s Wood — she said that’s where she was going when we parted.’

  ‘That may be helpful,’ Dickens said. ‘Your aunt told me that you and Mariana met her at the zoo last summer and that a stranger spoke to her and Violet Pout. Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember meeting Aunt Dolly, but I don’t remember a stranger.’

  ‘You didn’t see a man talking to Miss Pout.’

  ‘I am afraid not. Was this man the artist? Did my — my mother remember him?’

  ‘Only vaguely. Now, Mr Sabatini and you, Mr Marchant, must come to Bow Street tomorrow morning to see Superintendent Jones. You need not fear, Mr Sabatini, he will listen and he will think as I do, but he must be told if you are not to be suspect in this. Do I have your word?’

  ‘We will come, Mr Dickens, you have my word.’ There was a trace of the smile that had first attracted Dickens to the insouciant thief.

  ‘Then take him away from here, take him to your mother’s house. She is worried about him —’ Dickens saw the refusal in his face — ‘or take him to your room. Perhaps Miss Jianna can take care of him.’

  ‘Jianna is not with me anymore.’

  ‘Wherever you think fit — he needs to rest.’

  Magpie took Dickens and Scrap to the stage door. As they were about to go out, Magpie said, ‘But Violet Pout and Jemima Curd were found in Clerkenwell. Can it be the same man?’

  ‘We don’t know that, either. We do know that Violet Pout was living in a house in Amwell Street with an artist. There are two other cases of suspicious drownings there — one a girl thought to have been an actress or dancer at Sadler’s Wells. It made me think of an artist who —’

  Magpie looked stricken. ‘Oh, God, Mr Dickens, you are thinking of an artist who paints scenery.’

  ‘I am — why, what is it you are thinking?’

  ‘There was a man — an Italian — here some weeks ago — an artist. Jianna did sewing for the costumes. He talked to her. She said she had known him before when she was an artist’s model. He wanted to paint her — he admired her hair. Oh, God — Mariana Fane’s hair, it is the same colour as Jianna’s. Is that why —’

  ‘It may be significant, but tell me about them.’

  ‘I sensed that she liked him — we were not bound to each other. She cam
e to live with me because she had nowhere else. He disappeared — it happens. People come and go all the time — and then Jianna was gone.’

  ‘He wanted to paint her?’ Dickens wanted to be sure.

  ‘She said so — she liked the idea of being an artist’s model again. She believed he would pay her well. I didn’t think —’

  ‘Why should you? But I need to know about him.’

  ‘Jianna — could be in danger. I must find him — I must — Oh, God, poor Jianna.’

  Looking at Magpie’s agonised face, and fully understanding his need to act immediately, Dickens, for whom delay was agony, found himself cool as ice. His counsel must be restraint. ‘You cannot do it alone. What you can do is come to Bow Street tomorrow. Superintendent Jones has policemen searching Clerkenwell and St John’s Wood. He has information about other girls —’

  ‘But I must —’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Antonio Polidori.’

  ‘Think hard about the man, every detail, and tell Superintendent Jones all you know. Then come back here. Talk to everyone who knew this man. Search every corner of the scenery store. See if you can find any trace of him.’

  ‘I can ’elp yer,’ Scrap piped up.

  Magpie looked at Scrap.

  ‘It is too late to do anything now, except to get Rolando from here — and do what you can for him. Come to Bow Street at nine in the morning. Then my friend, Scrap, will come and help you search. He’ll not miss anything.’

  Magpie still looked doubtful, but he agreed.

  Dickens took his hand. ‘Use your wits, Magpie — they’re more use than tearing about the streets with no idea where he is.’

  ‘I will. I am much obliged that you came. Thank you.’

  ‘Home, then,’ said Dickens as he and Scrap walked along Bow Street to Great Earl Street. ‘I’ll walk you back to the shop. Got the key?’

  ‘I’ll slip in. Mollie’ll never know I was out. What’ve we ter say ter Mr Jones termorrer?’

  ‘Everything — before Magpie and Mr Sabatini arrive. He might not be too pleased with us, but we’d best tell the truth — make sure he knows you saved me from the garrotter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t lie ter Mr Jones, Mr D. Even if ’e ain’t too pleased. An’ yer’ve got some more evidence. Might make up fer it — a bit —’ he grinned — ‘’E knows I got sense in the streets — I bin out an’ about long enough.’

  ‘He might not be too sure about me, but I felt I could trust Magpie when I first met him.’

  ‘’Ow d’yer meet im?’

  ‘He had just robbed the pawnbroker’s — Rarx — he shot at us.’

  Scrap laughed. ‘Goin’ ter tell Mr Jones that?’

  ‘Ah, I’ll have to see whether it’s necessary.’

  They walked on to Seven Dials. Another necessary betrayal, Dickens thought, but it might not be necessary. There would be enough to do when Jianna’s story was told.

  ‘Magpie’s girl,’ said Scrap, reading his suddenly anxious face, ‘d’yer think…’

  ‘I don’t know, Scrap. Let’s hope Magpie remembers something about him so that we can find him. Now, here we are at the shop. Get you in — I’ll see you tomorrow — at Norfolk Street before Mr Jones goes to Bow Street.’

  Dickens went up to Oxford Street and crossed into the quiet of Newman Street. Somewhere a clock struck two, followed by others, the strokes echoing in the stillness. Then the silence again and the loneliness profounder. The dead time of the night. Yet he sensed that the city was not asleep as Wordsworth had it. In the tumble of barely lit courts and alleys behind the respectable streets, there were the houseless and the sleepless, shapeless drifting spectres on their endless walks through the night. The dead and the undead — the shadows of shadows.

  And somewhere, not far away, perhaps a woman asleep, undisturbed by any dream of what was to come, her red-gold hair spread upon a pillow, and beside her a man with a jewelled chain watching her by the light of a corpse candle.

  He watches the girl on the couch. She does not stir. Her eyes are closed and her beautiful hair is loose upon her shoulders and the green velvet gown is unfastened. Her white breast gleams. The jewelled chain is clasped in her hands which lie still as fallen birds on her breast.

  The jewels on the chain catch the light of the branched candles on the small table by her head. He moves it so that a shadow falls and her neck is hidden from his view. The jewels wink at him. Once, he preferred rubies. That was a long time ago — it doesn’t matter now. He has painted all kinds of jewels: pearls for tears; moonstones to wear by moonlight; sapphires for midnight, golden flecked beads from Venice. Ah, once — the jewels at her breast are mere glass, but the candlelight lends enchantment even to these on their brass chain which looks like gold. Rubies for blood. For death.

  She is perfect now. He looks at his work on the easel. It is nothing to him, though he knows that the green robe is painted so finely that you might touch its velvet smoothness; the jewels are alive with light, and the hair is the hair of a living woman. But there is no face.

  He had found her at last. She for whom he had sought so long had been sitting in her green velvet dress, quietly at her sewing, her hair copper gold in the gas light. Gaslight which drew sickly shadows on most faces, draining them of life. She might have been sitting in sunshine. She sat in front of a bit of discarded scenery — a painted scene of Italy with an arched window and cypress trees beyond, then hills. Ferrara, he had thought, and such an anguish possessed him that he almost cried out.

  She came with him. She trusted him — as she should, she who had known his heart. But he could not catch her on his canvas. Her face was warm and living as he looked at her, the faint rose blush on her cheeks, the red of her lips, the wistful look in her eyes, all these he knew of old.

  She had been disappointed. ‘My face?’

  ‘Soon,’ he had told her, ‘but I must study you, I must look at you so that I may read your heart. Then I shall know you and your face will be my most perfect work.’

  She had been patient. She had sat so still, her eyes gazing beyond him to some far-off place. There was always a remoteness about her. Sometimes he watched her at her sewing and she would look up, sensing his gaze. She would smile and he would go back to his easel. She never said much. He liked that quiet about her.

  He sits and watches her. Still she does not stir. Caterina, his lost love found. They will not be parted again.

  She is the painting. The most beautiful thing he has ever created.

  36: Cold Water

  What are they up to? Sam Jones asked himself as he came out of his house the next morning, but making a business of locking his door, he ignored the two on the opposite side of the road and went away swiftly.

  He heard the hurrying footsteps and paused. ‘Ambush, is it?’ he said as Dickens and Scrap appeared on either side of him.

  ‘Yer’d seen us,’ Scrap said, indignantly, ‘yer woz pretendin’.’

  ‘Cunning’s what they pay me for. It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

  Scrap looked very pleased with himself. ‘Somethin’ ter tell yer — evidence an’ witnesses.’

  Dickens thought it was time he said something. ‘I had a message from Mrs Marchant’s son.’

  ‘About Mr Sabatini?’

  ‘Yes, he took us to him at the Drury Lane Theatre — they are both coming to see you at nine o’clock. But there’s more —’

  They were crossing Oxford Street. Jones stopped at an early morning coffee stall. ‘You’d better tell me over a cup of coffee — I don’t suppose you had time. Some bread and dripping, Scrap?’ he asked, handing over some money.

  While Scrap placed the order, Jones spoke to Dickens. ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Marchant was living with a young Italian woman, Jianna — I don’t know her other name — but she left him. She’d met an artist at the theatre where she sewed costumes. He was painting scenery —’

  ‘You thought of that when Sa
dler’s Wells came up. Mr Marchant doesn’t know where she is?’

  ‘Exactly. This artist said he wanted to paint her portrait.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Antonio Polidori — Antonio, Sam — I instructed Mr Marchant to take Sabatini home and to think of everything he could about the artist.’

  Scrap came back with the coffee and his bread and dripping. Before he tucked in, he asked, ‘Told Mr Jones about Magpie?’

  ‘Magpie?’ Jones sounded startled.

  ‘Mr Marchant leads something of an unconventional life — an actor at the theatre, tumbler, acrobat — goes by that name.’

  ‘Ah, and this lady, Jianna, she is Italian?’

  ‘Yes, and she has red-gold hair.’

  ‘You met her? When?’

  ‘Very briefly, right at the beginning when I was looking for Jemima Curd. I did not see her hair then — it was dark and I didn’t connect her with any artist — she was with Mr Marchant, but I didn’t know that Magpie was Jack Marchant — I’d never heard of Jack Marchant then.’

  ‘When did she go off with this Antonio Polidori?’

  ‘That’s the puzzling part — nearly three weeks ago, just after I met him.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been at Amwell Street.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Jack Marchant was wild to search for her last night, but I told him that he should go to Drury Lane this morning after he has seen you and ask everyone he knows if they remember him. I know James Anderson, the manager — I thought Scrap and I could go with him.’

  ‘I’d better come as well, and Rogers — there must be hundreds of people who work at the theatre in one role or another.’

  ‘Jianna worked in the seamstresses’ room and he must have worked in the painting shop. That would narrow it down. The stage manager would have taken him on or the chief scene painter.’

  ‘Good — we’ll go across to the theatre after Mr Marchant has given us some names.’

  ‘And I told Rolando Sabatini about Miss Fane. I don’t believe he seduced her — he was devastated. He did remember that Violet Pout mentioned that she was going to St John’s Wood when she left.’