She thought it over. “It’s difficult. Because I suppose we have to assume that, if anything, it’s my end that’s going to be bugged.”
He laughed. “No flies on you. Just that. I wonder where the telephone is at the Da Rimini. One thing: you’ll know soon enough. So—more code. If it’s in a very public place you’d better say you can’t hear me, first time I call.”
“Right. And when they do get in touch—if they do—I’ll lose my temper and say I’m tired of being bothered.”
“And I’ll be round like a bat out of hell. Do you lose your temper loud or quiet?”
“Actually, I don’t lose it much.” Who was there to lose it with?
“Feel free to lose it with me.” He was almost uncomfortably quick, this young. Australian, but she felt it made him a redoubtable ally. “When you do,” he went on, “I’ll be outside the Da Rimini pronto, ready to follow you wherever you go.” He frowned. “I wish I could think of a better way to set it up.”
But though they discussed it all the way to Milan, they only made a few minor improvements on this original plan, and she felt a curious sinking of the heart when she said her cool, public farewell there, and went off, by herself, to find the connecting train to Venice. Nothing wrong with her reservations this time, except that she was in a smoker already full of young Italian soldiers on their way home from training in the Alps. But their admiring glances, and comments meant to be unintelligible, were almost as good for her morale as Tarn Menzies had been. She caught the eye of the youngest of all, smiled at him, and found herself instantly embroiled in cheerful conversation. Extraordinary. And, thank God, there was nothing faceless about these friendly young men. They would never dart out at a girl from a dark street corner. Or would they? She thought of things Sir Charles had told her about Italy under Mussolini about Mussolini’s own death. The world’s a jungle, Sir Charles had said.
Just the same, she was sorry when they got off, with many a backward glance, at Venice Mestre. For over three hours, she had almost forgotten her burden of guilt and anxiety, and now, curiously, whether because of Tarn Menzies, or of the friendly young Italians, she found that everything seemed different. Watching eagerly out of the window as the train moved out on to the long bridge across the lagoon, she felt, for the first time, that this was an adventure she was embarked on. She felt, amazingly, alive.
But in Venice, it was the rush hour. Emerging from the station onto a broad flight of steps, she was too busy pushing her way through the crowds to do more than half notice a bridge, a church, a great deal of sky, and, in front of her, the Grand Canal; and, immediately important, its vaporetto stops. Thanks to Sir Charles and his map, she knew that she needed Route Number One, bought herself a ticket, and sat down on a plastic green chair in a waiting room that rocked gently with the movement of the canal. Across from her, Tarn Menzies, on a similar seat, was leaning forward, eagerly trying to catch her eye. It was enormously tempting to smile back, but she would not let herself. She was here, now in Venice, as “they” had planned. How was she to know that they had not met her train? She made herself look cooly through Tarn Menzies.
He took the same boat, putting his case on the luggage rack beside hers and standing close to her in the crowd, but again she made herself ignore him. When he got off at the Rialto Bridge, she felt a queer little sinking of the heart, but ignored it and went on eagerly studying the buildings along the Grand Canal. Could the bars in the picture of Dominic belong to a second-floor balcony? No—stupid—there were trees in the picture. It was an outdoor scene. If “they” did not get in touch with her, she would spend tomorrow combing the canals in the hope of finding where it might have been taken. There could not, by the look of things, be many places where gardens ran down to the water. Just the same, it would be a long job, she realised, as the vaporetto went its slow and steady way from stop to stop, crisscrossing the wide canal. Because of the crowds on board, it was impossible to watch more than one side of the canal at a time. And the trip from the station to her stop at the Salute took almost an hour. If she heard nothing, tonight, she would decide tomorrow whether to hire herself an expensive motor gondola, or do her search the inconspicuous way, from the vaporetti. Probably best do that. How could she explain such a search to a hired gondolier?
The Hotel Da Rimini turned out to be more of a pensione, inconspicuously tucked away on a minor canal about five minutes’ walk from the vaporetto stop. Entering by way of a trellised courtyard that would be vine-shaded in summer, Julia made a quick decision and spoke to the girl at the modest desk in English. No need to let “them” know she understood Italian. If they were really watching her…She looked around. Several students, a family of Americans—it could be any of them.
Yes, the girl spoke English, and yes, again, indeed they were expecting the signora. She accepted the Acme voucher and Julia’s passport but shook her head at her eager question. No, there was no letter or message. She summoned an elderly porter from his den to take Julia up to her room. It was in an annex, reached by a bridge that crossed both the courtyard and one of Venice’s innumerable alleys. Temporarily disorientated, Julia thanked the man in English, gave him a handful of small change, and window looked over the canal. There was no pathway below. Remembering Sir Charles’ advice, she considered the chances of anyone’s being able to climb in, and decided, with amused relief, that it would be impossible.
By the time she had unpacked and changed, it was after six. Almost time for Tarn Menzies’ call. She had noticed a tiny bar in a cubbyhole off the large entrance hall that served as lobby, sitting room, and reception, but when she got down there, it was empty and dark. “A drink?” The same girl was on duty at the desk. “Yes. Dry vermouth?” “Yes. If the signora would wait a moment…” Once again she summoned the elderly gnome of a porter, who soon reappeared and shambled over to Julia with her drink on a battered tin tray. Sipping it, Julia looked around the deserted lobby for a telephone booth, but saw no sign of one. Could the one on the reception desk be all there was?
It rang and the girl answered it. “For you, signora.”
“I take it here?”
“Si.” The girl handed over the receiver.
“Hullo.” Tarn Menzies’ voice sounded deep and reassuring. “Mrs. Rivers? It’s that ‘Strine again. How about a drink and a bite of pasta?”
“I’m sorry,” said Julia. “I can’t hear you very well.”
“Oh.” She could feel him taking it in. “Telephone in the lobby?” and then, again, carefully and loud, “Menzies speaking. I was hoping you would dine with me tonight.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m busy.”
“Too bad.” He sounded as if he meant it. “Another time, perhaps.” He rang off, leaving her feeling curiously forlorn. It would have been pleasant to have dined and compared notes with him.
While they were talking, the lobby had filled up with a party of cheerful young English students, and Julia found her chair surrounded by them. Listening to their sociable plans for the evening, she wished again that she could have met Tarn Menzies, made herself finish her drink, and went out, firmly, for a brief exploration before dinner. It confirmed what she had already begun to suspect. Most of the minor canals were too narrow for the picture of Dominic to have been taken across one of them. It must have been taken either across the Grand Canal, or from the lagoon in one of the few places her map showed where there was no causeway. Unless, of course, it was on one of the other islands. The map showed her that Giudecca and Murano both had wide canals without paths along them. But, tomorrow, she would back her hunch and start to explore the Grand Canal.
At the Da Rimini, one was encouraged to dine early, and Julia, eating delicious pasta and looking round the crowded dining room, wondered if anyone was watching her. To her relief, she had a small table to herself, and propped her map of Venice against the salt cellar to study as she ate. It was logical, but depressing, that so much of the Grand Canal had no footpath. Natura
lly, the Venetian grandees who had built those magnificent, decrepit palaces had wanted immediate access to the water.
Two harassed waiters, one old, one young, were doing their slow best by the crowded room, and when Julia finished her apple it was quite dark. Once again, she remembered Sir Charles. “Think of them as your enemies,” he had said, unnecessarily. “And take no chances.” She went to bed, read Ruskin, and plunged deep into the old nightmare.
Chapter Two
SWAMP WATER was cold round her waist. The thought of snakes sent a slow, involuntary shudder through her. Hands that gripped the smooth, clammy cedar knees were turning blue. She dared not move. Huddled under the huge tree, she prayed the mist that had hidden her attacker would hide her too. But in the few weeks she had lived at La Rivière she had learned that mist low along the backwater might still leave its banks clear. To stand up would be to risk disaster. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, the noise seeming unnaturally loud in the dank silence of the swamp. She clamped them together, listening. Nothing. Not a sound since the first flurry of activity, when he had come at her out of the mist, and she had ducked the weapon, hearing him (or could it have been a woman?) almost instinctively, almost in time. Instead of her temple, the blow had caught the back of her head as she turned to run, slipped on a patch of mud, and plunged into the swirling water of the Cooper River.
It had caught her like a piece of driftwood, and she had let herself go with its current, wondering, in shock and terror, whether this was the end, whether she and the child she carried would be swept, helpless, down to Charleston, the sea, and certain death. But at least the river was carrying her away from her unknown attacker. She had let what seemed an endless space of time go by, before, feeling a slackening in the current, she dared, very quietly, to begin to swim, to try and edge her way through the mist to where, she hoped, the shore must lie. It was the river itself that saved her, tossing her up, like the flotsam she was, into the backwater, against the cedar knees, where she had grabbed, and held, and felt, miraculously, the suck of mud underfoot. How far had she come? She had no idea. Her attacker might have followed along the bank, be waiting up there, in case she appeared. And yet, how unlikely. If she had given herself up for lost, must not he (or she) have done so too?
She began, slowly and quietly, to pull herself up, clear at last of cold water and clutching mud. Lying under the huge cedar, she felt the blessing of sunshine striking warm on her back as she strained her ears, listening. A bird called. A fish jumped in the river. Crickets sang. Up here, as she had expected, the mist was thinner. At the moment, the huge trunk of the cedar must hide her from anyone above her on the bank. But if she moved?
And then, like a miracle, Breckon’s voice, some way off, calling her. “Julia…Julia…Where are you?”
“Here!” Shakily, she climbed round the great tree, heard her cotton skirt rip on a projecting root, and stumbled up onto the dry mud of the bank. The river must have brought her far and fast. This was a part of the plantation she had never seen before. Once, she thought, it must have been drained and cultivated for rice or cotton, but now the jungle had crept back, green and lush and trackless.
“Julia!” Breckon’s voice was nearer. How on earth had he got back from Charleston so soon?
“Here,” she called again, and began to work her way down the backwater towards him. Its bank had once been a dike to protect the fields, and must, no doubt, have had a path or even a bridleway along it. Now, she must push her way through dense undergrowth, thinking with almost equal dread of snakes and of poison ivy. But at least she was alive.
He called again, impatiently, and all of a sudden, a new fear blacked out those minor terrors of snake and ivy. He was back so soon from Charleston. Perhaps he had never gone last night, but hidden somewhere in one of the derelict wings of the huge old house, waiting for the morning walk everyone knew she took. Absurd, shameful, inexcusable suspicion. Why should Breckon, who loved her, who had swept her into marriage—why should he try to kill her?
“Here,” she called again, her voice shaking. It was true that the news of her pregnancy had horrified him. “We’re tainted,” he had said. “I thought I had made it clear.” He had never used that tone to her before. “I don’t know how I’ll face the others. We agreed—I told you—we agreed when the last of the cousins was”—he had paused for a word—”hospitalised. No children. No more taint.”
He had refused to tell the others—yet, and she had suspected him of actually hoping she would miscarry. But—it was impossible. He could not have attacked her. Not Breckon. It had to be one of the others. She had done her best to hide her bouts of morning sickness, but Breckon’s sisters had sharp eyes. She had seen them, more than once, fixed on her speculatively, and had, indeed, invented the morning walk as a pretext for avoiding the all-too-sociable family breakfast.
And if Amanda or Fanny knew, then, no doubt about it, they all did. Since living at La Rivière, she had a whole new understanding of that apparently agreeable American word “close.” The Rivers were a very close family. Amanda, the brightest, would tell Fanny, and Fan, inevitably, would tell Raoul and Uncle Paul. And then?
“Julia?” Breckon’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “Where on earth are you?”
“Right here.” Now another fear was uppermost. Suppose he still refused to believe her?
At last, sighing with exhausted relief, she emerged from the tangle of undergrowth onto a recognisable if disused path. And there, coming round the bend of the river to meet her, was Breckon, immaculate in the white suit he had put on for Charleston. It made her more aware than ever of her own damply filthy, clinging garments. Like all his family, Breckon cared enormously about appearances and had, indeed, confessed that it had been her own Dior image, so carefully constructed under Sir Charles’ tuition, that had attracted him at first. But only at first…
“Good God!” He saw her and hurried forward, arms outstretched. “Julia! What happened?”
“I was attacked. No! Don’t touch me: I’m filthy. I fell in the river.” She stood where she was, and became aware that she smelled. “It saved my life, I think. Breckon, take me home!” She had never called La Rivière home before. Would she ever again?
His answer made it doubtful. “Attacked?” No conviction in his voice.
“Yes. Attacked. I went for my walk as usual. Along the river. Under the live oaks. It was misty. You know how it lies along the Cooper. Someone was waiting at the corner of the avenue. I heard them just in time. They had a club—something—I don’t know.”
“They?”
“I didn’t see. It could have been anyone.”
“I suppose you mean Raoul, or Amanda, or Fan. Or Uncle Paul, maybe, from his wheelchair?”
“Breckon, I don’t know what I mean. I only know what happened. They tried to kill me. I fell in the river and it carried me down to”—she looked back—”to here.”
“I can see you fell in the river,” he said. “As to the rest of it…You need a hot bath and a strong drink. You’ll see things more sensibly after that.”
“Sensibly?” For a moment she was afraid she was going to lose control, to laugh, to scream, to sob. Then, almost mercifully, she felt consciousness going. The world darkened and spun around her. Shadows of trees and Spanish moss flickered across her erratic vision. Swaying, “Oh, poor Breckon,” she thought, “how he will hate catching me,” and fell.
Consciousness was a white bed, in a white room, in whitely air-conditioned air. A hospital. Solitude. Safety? Could she be sure of that? The door was ajar, held by a band round the knob. Suppose it were to swing open and reveal her enemy? She would not even know him—or her. And—she was incredibly weak. There must surely be a bell-push somewhere in this sterile room with which she could summon help. She moved her head feebly on the pillow, and saw it, hanging across the night table, which had been pushed aside from the bed. It looked as far away as the moon, but if it killed her, she was going to reach it. If she failed, that migh
t kill her too.
What time of day was it? When were visiting hours? Or, granted that this must be a private room, might not any member of the family come at any time? As these thoughts scurried across the surface of her mind, she was fighting off the knowledge of what was the matter with her. She had lost her baby. Tears began to flow, silently, down her cheeks. After all the battle she had fought, to have it end like this…
What a wretched business it had been. When Breckon had told her about the family “taint” and warned her that they must never have children, it had been, although she had not known it, already too late. Absurd, appalling misunderstanding. Oceans-deep in first love, she had totally failed to see that for Breckon, at the start, theirs had been merely a passing affair. What extraordinary gaps of meaning, she thought now, bitterly, lay between the American and English languages. If the two of them had spoken different ones, they might well have contrived to understand each other better. As it was, he had taken it for granted that she was modern, and on the pill, while she thought—in so far as she thought at all—that this rapturous exchange of selves was simply the prelude to marriage. As, indeed, it had proved. Breckon had asked her to marry him, sleepily, on their third morning together, and, sleepily, happily, she had said yes.
Over breakfast in Breckon’s tiny, borrowed flat, the blow had fallen. Crumbling his croissant, he had looked up to meet her eyes, not happily, and she had been aware, for the very first time, of tension between them. “By the way,” he had said. “I ought to tell you, at once, in case it makes a difference. No children.”
One Way to Venice Page 3