by Susan Moody
I made a telephone call. Sent an email. Poured a quick medicinal whisky. Then I lingered in the luxurious marble tub, keeping my newly done hair dry – I’d had it done for the second time in two days! – then I shimmied into another of Lena’s evening frocks, and I was ready. I planned to wear flatties to walk the relatively short distance to the opera house then duck into a nearby doorway and change into heels.
The Marchesa was waiting for me when I went through the doors of the opera house. A festive atmosphere filled the lobby. Handsome men, gorgeous women, the heady scent of a dozen expensive perfumes, mixed with the more subtle bouquet of cashmere, silk, chiffon and leather.
‘Ah,’ she said. She tucked my hand into her arm. ‘I’m so glad you could come. This is by way of being a truly gala evening.’
‘I’m already enjoying it.’
‘You must be aware of how grateful we all are for your help in rescuing our beloved Sandro.’
‘Well, I—’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t had time to get better acquainted, Alessandra. As always, I have so many difficulties to overcome and problems to solve, which take up …’ She patted my hand. ‘But not tonight, is that not so?’
‘I hope so. Absolutely.’ The whites showed all round the irises of her eyes, as though she were a mare about to bolt. Excitement, I guessed. After all, for once this was her show, and not her husband’s.
As we proceeded towards the stairs, she nodded and smiled, even stopped occasionally to introduce me, without explaining who I was. How many of them even knew that Sandro had been held to ransom, let alone that I had been instrumental in freeing him? Not that I wanted any share of the glory: Joey Preston deserved at least as much of that as I did.
The performance was tear-jerkingly good. An unportly Alfredo with a voice like a god, a Violetta who believably wrung the heart as she moved towards her death from consumption. I was filled to the brim as I followed Allegra – as she had asked me to call her – towards the reception immediately after the final fall of the curtain. Gilt plasterwork, marble pillars, swags of red velvet, paintings, mirrors. It was all so Venetian and over-the-top. I loved it.
Glasses of champagne circulated. Huge trays of hors d’oeuvres were carried round. Conversation was operatic and knowledgeable. I wondered if I could live full-time in Venice but this kind of event – at least ones to which I’d be invited – would be few and far between. The rest of the time my life wouldn’t be that different from what it already was. I talked to several interesting people and established some connections which I knew would be useful in the future.
Finally the Marchesa – I really couldn’t think of her as Allegra – suggested that it was time to go. More than, I supposed, since nearly everyone else had left, but she had probably had to organize the party and wanted to make sure that all was in order.
Outside, it was chilly and damp, the cobbles slick under our feet. She had insisted on walking me back to the hotel, saying she could get a water taxi from there, so we strolled along the riva, close to the wind-chopped waters of the canal. The streets had emptied by now, but voices could still be heard in the distance. It was difficult to walk on the slippery pavements in heels and I was about to ask Allegra to give me an arm to lean on while I got into my flatties when I was suddenly aware of movement behind me, a blur of arms and hands, a glint of light. Something hard luckily missed the back of my head and landed agonizingly on my shoulder. At the same time, the Marchesa put out her hand and pushed hard against me. I only avoided being knocked into the canal by dropping to the ground, howling with pain. I heard the sound of running footsteps, caught a diamond flash as a man rushed past me, heard Allegra cursing.
‘Gotcha!’
I’m pretty self-sufficient. I like to think I can take care of myself in most situations, however tricky. But I’ve never been so glad to hear a familiar voice as I was at the sound of Joey Preston’s shout. Then more footsteps as three or four people emerged from side streets and rushed to help us.
‘You’re hurting me.’ At her most haughty, the Marchesa tried to shake off Joey’s restraining hands, but it was no good. He had her in a tight grip, while the others stared at the two of them, murmuring among themselves.
‘Couldn’t believe my eyes!’
‘I swear she was trying to push that other woman into the canal!’
‘There was a man with a weapon in his hand.’
‘… attacked that poor girl …’
‘Isn’t that the Marchesa de …?’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Will you all please leave us alone,’ the Marchesa said imperiously. ‘There was almost an accident just now. That’s all you saw. Luckily this gentleman happened to be right there to help or someone would have gone into the canal.’
‘And we all know who,’ Joey said grimly.
‘I’ve seen her before,’ someone directly behind me muttered. ‘At the casino.’
By now, I was on my feet, clutching at my shoulder. Lena’s dress was wet and muddy: I hoped it would clean up when I got back to England.
A chap in evening dress approached. ‘The police will be here any minute,’ he said. He thrust a card into my hand. ‘In case you need to get in touch.’
‘Thank you.’ I had no idea why I might need to contact him. ‘How very kind.’ Gracious to the end, that was me.
It was much later that Joey and I returned to my suite, after several hours of questioning by the police. In that strange Italian way (or is it just in Venice?) the Marchesa had been allowed to return to her apartment, though clearly guilty of some kind of assault. Fair enough, since apart from my shoulder, there was little to accuse her of. After all, it could have been, as she insisted, an accident. The fact that the skin had already turned a fine shade of purple-blue and I was sure that at least one bone had been fractured, was not of interest.
At the hotel, despite the lateness of the hour, the staff were attentive almost to the point of obsequiousness. But why not? Everyone could do with a spot of obsequious now and then. The reception at the opera house seemed a long time ago so we ordered up an array of cold antipasti and a bottle of Chianti Classico Gran. Perfect.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I’m still not sure how it all went down,’ Joey said. ‘Or why.’
It was three days after our return from Venice, and we had arranged to meet up at a restaurant in Soho which Joey swore produced the best Italian food outside Italy. ‘I thought we were keeping our beady eyes fixed on that fossilized mistress. Valentina Thingy.’
‘Apart from trying to cling desperately to her lost youth, she had nothing to do with any of it. It was the Marchesa all along,’ I said.
‘I’m realizing that. But why?’
‘I almost feel sorry for her,’ I said. ‘Her husband is a dictatorial, overbearing bastard. Any self-esteem she might once have had was long ago knocked out of her by his campaign of sneering and belittlement. And when he discovered that she couldn’t provide him with an heir …’ I speared a tiny pastry stuffed with artichoke heart and some kind of creamy cheese. Then speared another. ‘Mmm … the poor woman. I can’t help feeling sorry for her although she’s an extortionist, a blackmailer and a murderer.’
‘Murderer? You mean Katy Pasqualin?’
‘It’s obvious when you think about it. Katy had clearly caught the woman removing precious bits and pieces but, since they were from her own appartamento, she didn’t at first think anything of it. When Sandro mentioned seeing the doge’s ring in the pawnshop, Katy was on to it like a terrier on to a rat. Pay up, or I tell your husband what you’ve been doing.’
‘So she dropped in on Katy one evening, found her conveniently in the bath and held her under until the girl died. Given that Allegra was more or less Katy’s aunt, I’m sure she was able to get hold of a key to let herself in. And if any of her prints were found, well, why not? Because of the family ties, and the fact that the two women were close, she was round there all the time when she was in England.’
‘And kidnapping Sandro?’
‘I’ve absolutely no doubt that she will be heavily implicated.’
‘And she was in it for the money.’
‘That’s all she wanted. She herself had lost most of hers at the casino. Not because she was a gambling addict – simply in an effort to win. And if her husband had discovered what she was up to …’ I shrugged. ‘There would have been hell to pay.’
‘More than hell, from what you’ve said.’
‘It wasn’t just the money, of course. It was the prestige as well. A marchese isn’t that high up the aristocratic pecking order, but it does give her quite a bit of kudos, to make up for the humiliations of her home life. And then there was the opera house. From what I was told at the reception, she was one of the most generous sponsors. Where was she getting the money from?’
‘My mother is from Milano, and she always goes on about the sleaze and deceit underneath the gold and the glamour of Venice,’ Joey said. ‘I guess she must have been right.’
‘The point about the ransom money was that if the plan had gone right, she would have been able to pocket most of it, after paying off the minions.’
‘Seems a bit odd that she would have underworld connections.’
I laughed. ‘It took me a while and some phone calls to figure it out. Years ago, there was a bit of a scandal when the Marchese seduced a young Scandinavian au pair girl and got her pregnant. There was a hell of a fuss, money changed hands and the girl went back home to Stockholm, Oslo, wherever. Cesare never knew about the pregnancy, but his wife did. She went to the girl’s home town and helped her out. Kept an eye on her over the years. And when the kid had grown up and was looking for a job, she found him one in Venice. She probably saw it as a deliciously subtle revenge on her cheating husband. There is indeed an heir who is his own flesh and blood, to carry on the family name. It didn’t matter that he doesn’t know. In fact, most of the fun comes from the fact that he doesn’t, and never will.’
‘Very Machiavellian.’
‘Agreed. Of course the bald guy – the Norwegian son – would do anything for her, and often did, even if it involved breaking the law, inflicting GBH, perhaps even killing.’
‘I take it that the intention was for you to be quietly disposed of that evening after the opera.’
‘Of course. And later, she might have come after you. After all, because of us, she lost twenty million euros.’ I vividly remembered Sandro saying ‘Vengeance is mine!’ even if he was wrong.
There were newspapers on a rack on the wall of the restaurant. English and Italian. While the waiter brought us coffee, Joey stood up and brought over a copy of Corriere della Sera. The front page was taken up with some tortuous Italian political scandal which I couldn’t be bothered to unravel, though Joey was riveted. When he turned to the second and third pages, he went still. ‘Oh my God!’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You won’t believe this, but she’s killed herself … or that’s what it looks like, anyway. After she got home the other night, according to the housekeeper, she went out again, and this morning they fished her out of the Canale di San Marco. Spotted by a passing vaporetto bringing people in to start their day’s work.’
‘Are you talking about the Marchesa?’
‘The very same.’
I said nothing. I recalled the way the whites of her eyes showed; it was obvious that the woman had been in a state of acute nervous tension, probably from knowing that after the performance, she planned to kill me. Despite her murderous plans, I felt slightly sorry for her. I imagine that the possibility of a public enquiry into what had happened that night, even if it hadn’t led to any kind of prosecution, would have so undermined her fragile self-esteem, with the cream of Venetian society aware of what she’d tried to do, and the scandal of it all, that she had been persuaded she really had no other option. It seemed to me that her husband was in large measure to blame. But undoubtedly he would immediately become eligible marriage material, the object of avarice and pity. Good luck to the bastard. I forced myself to remember that he had appeared genuinely concerned about Sandro’s wellbeing when we were on Burano.
I was tired by the time I got back to Longbury. There were ships anchored on the horizon, lights blazing in the darkness and a pale shaving of moon stood in the sky, surrounded by stars. I parked my car beneath the windows of my flat and sat still for some moments.
I wanted Sam Willoughby. I admitted it. Without him around, my life was thin. Not meaningless, since I had my work, my friends, my family – which now included two new babies. But I had no one to share it all with. No one to eat with or laugh with. No one to give me meaning – or to whom I could give meaning. I was well aware of the tactics he’d been employing over the weeks, to make me reach the conclusion that I needed him. That I loved him.
Tomorrow I would swallow my pride and email him. Ask how he was, whether he was enjoying himself, when he was coming home. Although I doubted it, I might even manage to tell him I missed him. Because I did. I really did.
Finally I climbed out of my car, house keys in hand. A salty little breeze was blowing in off the sea. The stars were very bright. Somewhere nearby a car door slammed. I turned, tensing. And then, miraculously, Sam was there, walking towards me. Bigger than I remembered him. More … assured. ‘Sam,’ I said. My limbs were melting.
‘I’m just back from New Zealand,’ he said. ‘I came straight here from the airport.’
‘Sam …’ I said. Tomorrow there’d be questions. They could wait. ‘Oh, Sam …’
He held me against his chest. ‘Sssh,’ he said. ‘Sssh, my darling.’ He pulled me into his arms. His heart was beating like a drum.
As I wrapped my own around him, he put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up to his. He closed his eyes. ‘Kiss me, Quick,’ he said.
So I did. Yes, I did.