“A small place, Venice,” said her sister.
“We’ve all kinds of messages for you from the girls,” said Miss Brown. “And one from Dr. McCartland. Rather—well, rather confidential, I’m afraid. He said it was a mercy we were coming.”
I’m going crazy, thought Julia. How could she have failed to notice that faint, unmistakable American accent?
“We’ve been back home for a visit.” This was the younger Miss Brown. “Then just a night back in London and straight here. Dr. McCartland said it was better than writing. We called yesterday.” She anticipated a question that had just asked itself in Julia’s mind. “But nobody answered. And now, what luck to have found you. We’re off to Florence in the morning. We’ve a million things still to see here, but a reservation’s a reservation, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed.” Breckon pulled forward chairs for them. “I mustn’t waste your valuable time. If you’ll excuse us?” There was to be no chair for Julia. “Maria!” He raised his voice. “The signora is leaving.” And, to Julia, “I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
It was final, and she knew it. “Very well. The Da Rimini. Good-bye.” She had swallowed her tears, painfully, by now, and managed civil farewells to the Miss Browns.
“Don’t forget the Academia,” said the elder, as Maria appeared in the doorway.
“I won’t.” Following the maid down the wide stairway, Julia suddenly realised that now she had all the time in the world to sightsee. She had found Dominic, and found him lost beyond recall.
The big door shut quietly behind her. She would not accept it. In the end, surely, Breckon would understand. There had been a moment, back there, when he was talking about La Rivière , when she had thought things were opening up again, just a little, between them. If only the Miss Browns had not arrived. Odd about the Miss Browns…The alley was cool, shadowed, and empty. Automatically, she made a note of its name, and the number of Breckon’s house, wishing all the time she had told him about the letters that had brought her here. For some reason, the discovery that Dominic was well, happy, and in the best possible hands—except her own—had made them seem more rather than less sinister. Almost, she rang the bell and insisted on returning. But it would not work, and she knew it. She would hurry back to the Da Rimini and telephone from there. She hailed a water taxi and was back at the hotel in ten minutes.
But there was no Rivers in the telephone book, and the operator disclaimed all knowledge of such a number. What then? A note, of course. She would write at once and take it back with her. More and more, a sense of urgency drove her. She was turning away from that exposed telephone at the desk, when Tarn Menzies’ voice stopped her. “Julia!” He had just come in from the street. “My oath, here’s luck. I ditched Mr. Heyward and came by on the off-chance. My God, girl, I think I’ve found it. Where’s that picture, so we can check?” And then, looking round the lobby, and, belatedly, remembering the need for caution. “Come and have a coffee?”
“Love to.” He was just what she needed after that brutal reception from Breckon. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” She turned back to the desk and asked the girl there for an envelope. Then, rejoining Tarn, “I found it, too,” she said quietly, as he held the door for her.
“You did?” And then, “Sure. What a fool I am. You were bound to. Just above the Rialto? I spotted it this morning when I took Heyward to the Ca’ Rezzonica. Can’t think why I didn’t sooner. Looking the other way; that’s the strength of it. But—you think it’s right?” They had reached ‘a small cafe tucked away in a minor square between the Da Rimini and the Salute, and he pulled out a hard chair for her and ordered two espressos from an idling waiter.
“I know it’s right. I’ve been there.” She tried not to look at his black eye and swollen cheek.
“You’ve been? But you promised, girl! Thank God, you seem to have got away all right, but don’t you see, you’ve blown the game. They’re likely moving him right now.” He pushed back his chair. “We’d better go straight over.”
“No need,” she said. “It’s not what we thought at all. My husband’s got him.”
“Your husband!”
“My ex-husband.” She corrected it wearily. “He’s had him all the time.”
“I thought he didn’t know?”
“So did I. Apparently he came to London when I was in hospital and found out…all about it. He’s had Dominic ever since.” It reminded her of the urgency of the situation. “But, Tarn, what am I to do? He didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the letters, I was going to, but some people came. He practically threw me out.”
“Tough.” Tarn’s sympathy was balm. “But, one thing—you know the child’s OK. Did you see him?”
“Not to speak to. Breckon wouldn’t let me. Just out the window. He looks fine.”
“Well, there you are. Drink your coffee, there’s a girl; you look like three cents’ worth of God help us.”
She sipped obediently at the black brew. “Tarn, I’m so worried. Nothing seems to make sense. I mean, Breckon’s got Dominic. Everything’s fine. Not for me, of course, but for Dominic, which is what matters. But—what about the letters? Where do they fit in?”
“Someone trying to make trouble between you and your ex,” said Tarn at once. “Sounds like that family of his to me. Suppose they’ve got the idea the kid’s more than just adopted, mightn’t they be afraid it might mean a makeup between you two?”
“But then, why bring me out here?”
“Queer as Dick’s hatband. But, then, they sure sound a ropey lot. Maybe they’ve laid the ground somehow, so you and your husband are bound to quarrel.”
“They didn’t need to,” she said bitterly. “I think he hates me already.”
“They weren’t to know that. And, come to think, what’s he doing all this way from home? I thought he was fixed for life at that place—what d’you call it? —La Rivière .”
“So did I. That was odd, too. He said something about owing me an apology. I think he’d got on to it that something really was wrong there. Only then the Miss Browns came.”
He gave a long, soundless whistle. “The Miss Browns? The ones from the train? What the hell were they doing there?”
“Wasn’t it odd? It turns out they’re from Charleston really, just living in England. They’d been back there, and brought a message for Breckon, they said, from Dr. McCartland. It’s extraordinary. I can’t think how I missed the accent before.”
“For a bet, because they weren’t using it. Come on, girl, use your head. The Miss Browns sound like your answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“For a start: what was the message?”
“I don’t know. They said it was private. That was when Breckon threw me out.”
“And now they’re busy as bandicoots poisoning his mind against you. Tough. If you’d only got there half an hour earlier…”
“But what do I do now?”
“Play it slow and cool. Of course”—was there a mocking sparkle in his dark eyes?—”first you need to make up that mind of yours just what you do want. Maybe the old folks at home have got it right. Maybe you are burning the midnight for that stuffed-shirt husband of yours. Maybe you do want to give him another chance to let you down, like always. Take you back to La Rivière and get you hit over the head again. Maybe for keeps, this time. But even if that is what you want”—he silenced her with a hand—”I still say you should play it cool and slow. They think you’ll panic: start telephoning, writing, generally get in his hair. Right?” He looked at his watch. “So, instead you come out to Torcello with me, forget your troubles, and give him time to think things over. He can’t be a complete fool or you wouldn’t have married him. So—give him time. Time to get his cool back and realise he has to let you see the child. If that’s what you really care about.”
“Of course it is.”
“Well, there you are.” He snapped his fingers for the bill. “Let’s go. My oath, those Miss Browns will probab
ly overplay the hand anyway. They sound like a proper pair of amateurs to me. Imagine letting their accents slip. A bright girl like you was bound to spot it. Look how you spotted mine. I don’t think you need lose much hair over them. Chances are that husband of yours is having second thoughts already. He knows where he can find you?”
“Oh, yes. He said he’d call me tomorrow, at the Da Rimini.”
“Goodoh. There you are. Don’t call him. Let him call you.” He paid and tipped the waiter. “Much better that way, and you know it, girl. Come on, let’s go. We’ll have to shake a leg if we’re going to get that boat.”
There was something wonderfully reassuring about his calm common sense. She had been letting herself get into what Breckon would have called “one of her states,” and Tarn was right, nothing could have been more fatal. Glad to have the burden of decision lifted from her, she let him take her arm and guide her down to the canal by the Salute where water taxis often waited.
“We’ll just make it, with a bit of ‘Strine’s luck.” He helped her in and spoke rapidly, in Italian, to the boatman, who also consulted his watch, then nodded. Yes, they could indeed cut across the main island to the north shore and just catch the Torcello boat.
In fact, they were held up by a water ambulance, siren screaming, on its way to the Civil Hospital, and ended by running down the new quay and panting, last on board, onto the Linea Twelve boat that went to Murano, Burano, and Torcello. Tarn led the way to the top deck, which was blessedly uncrowded this late in the afternoon. “Here.” He settled them in two seats, looking forward and to the right. “We won’t have long on Torcello, but the ride will do you good.”
“How long does it take?” Now that the boat had started she was riven by second thoughts. Tarn might well be right in his analysis of her situation, but suppose he was not? Suppose there was something more sinister about that series of letters than mere family jealousy, and she had failed to warn Breckon? Now, she knew she should have written that note. Calmly and coolly, perhaps, but written it, at least, and dropped it in to that elegant house of his. She would do it the minute she got back.
“Only an hour.” Tarn’s cheerful answer took her breath away.
“An hour!” Concentrating on the main islands, she had no idea Torcello was so far away.
“Relax, Scheherazade. You’re on holiday now, remember? Day off. Look, there’s the cemetery island.”
“A whole island?” She looked in amazement at the walled island, with its cypresses dark against the blue of the sky.
“Tidier that way. Not bad to be buried there. With a full-blast gondola funeral.”
She was hardly listening. She could see what must be the island of Murano ahead and was trying to decide how to break it to him that she must go back and write her note to Breckon. The farther they got from Venice, the more her sense of urgency grew. She would make Tarn understand. But he had risen, with a quick apology, and left her. And now, the lighthouse on Murano was straight ahead, the boat was slowing down and swinging in to the dock. For a moment, she seriously considered abandoning Tarn, but how could she, after all the help he had given her?
He did not reappear until the boat was well out into the posted channel across the lagoon. “Dirty big queue.” He sat down beside her.
“Pity.” Her voice came out dry. “I’d been meaning to suggest we go back from Murano. I’m sorry, Tarn, but I think I owe it to Breckon to tell him about those letters. As soon as possible. Do you mind if we get off at Burano?”
“No use, girl. We’d have to wait for the same boat back as if we’d gone on to Torcello. Stop making mountains out of molehills. You’ve found the child. Right? He’s OK. Right? So—relax. You don’t want to give that ex-husband of yours the idea that you’re after him. Fatal. Eh? ‘Specially if there’s any chance of another woman in the picture. What was that you said about a stunning Sheila playing with young Dominic? Don’t you see, girl, the strength of it is that you don’t give a damn about Breckon, but will fight him till the cows come home for the right to see your child. For God’s sake don’t muck it all up now. Write him a note, if you like, when we get back. Or in the cafe on Torcello. Show him you’ve got your own life; date it Torcello.” He laughed. “Say you’re on a date. He’s much more likely to play along. I’ll drop it in on my way home tonight. Make a point of being seen, if you like. Or we both could. Look!” He broke off to point across the boat. “Look at the mountains!”
They hung, like a cloud, like a mirage, far off to the north, with the sun picking out snow on their peaks. “They’re beautiful.” Tarn was right, Julia thought. The situation between her and Breckon was difficult enough without her rushing into the kind of impulsive action he had always disliked. But then, an odd thought. What did she know about the new Breckon, the one who wore long hair and scarlet shirts? Maybe he liked impulsive action now. And maybe not. Her note to him would need careful drafting. With possible phrases drifting about at the back of her mind, she paid civil attention as Tarn pointed out the posts that marked the channel, with their electric lights for guidance at night, and notices that prohibited anchoring or shellfishing.
“What a ravishing place.” She was gazing ahead at a low island, with walls, a few dilapidated buildings, and a wild, green tangle of undergrowth.
“Deserted now,” he told her. “Some kind of military installation in the war. There are lots more like it, dotted about the lagoon. Not at all deserted. Pretty fancy living on some of them. See!” A speedboat had come roaring towards the main channel from a farther cypress-crowned island.
Julia looked at her watch. “I wish we’d get there,” she said.
Chapter Eight
THAT AFTERNOON at Torcello was a nightmare of its own. To begin with, the island, with its lush, neglected green growth of vegetable garden and vineyard reminded Julia in a strange, disconcerting way of La Rivière . And from La Rivière to Breckon and Dominic was just one agonizing mind’s breath. She ought to have told Breckon about the anonymous letters. It seemed incredible, now, in retrospect, to have let herself be brushed aside so easily. And—again—should she have let Tarn persuade (over-persuade?) her to this afternoon’s outing.
Stopping beside him on the path to pretend to admire the village green, with its scatter of grey buildings and huge, dominating cathedral and bell tower, she paid them only token attention. “Tarn, what am I going to do?”
“Quit worrying, for Christ’s sake!” He had never used that tone with her before and must have seen her face change. “Sorry, girl, I’m as low as hell myself today. And work to do before I face Mr. Author Heyward again. So, you run along, relax, enjoy yourself. I’ll be right here, nose to the grindstone.”
“Oh!” Stupid of her not to have realised that for Tarn, inevitably this must be partly—mainly?—a business trip. It had been his own necessity that had made him take such a firm line with her doubts. Mad to have come. And nothing, now, that she could do about it. As he settled down to one of his rather scratchy line drawings of the cathedral’s towering façade, she moved reluctantly towards it.
“That’s right,” said Tarn more cheerfully. “Go say hullo to the Madonna for me. She’s worth it.”
Disconcerting, as always, to have to pay to go into a church. But, once inside, Julia stopped dead at sight of the huge, tragic, triumphant figure that dominated the main aisle. She stumbled to a chair and sat, her knees weak. How could the mosaic workers who had built up the great portrait have come so deep to the quick of a mother’s grief? She found she was both praying and crying, but quietly, not to disturb the great silence of the church.
It was disturbed, after a while, by a crowd of tourists who must have come on one of the special excursions to the island, and she rose to flee from their exclamations and flashlight cameras. “Super, isn’t it?” The girl’s accent stopped her at the main door, and she recognised the young couple she had met the day before.
“Even my barbarian likes it.” The tall young man, Peter, had recognised
Julia, too. But, “Come on, Sue you get the best view from the bottom of the aisle. Be seeing you,” he dismissed Julia.
Outside, she forgot them at once. Tarn had disappeared. Absurd not to have remembered how quickly he did those sketches of his. But he could not be far off. She walked quickly around the corner of the cathedral, saw no sign of him, and retraced her steps to investigate the open gallery of the small, incredibly ancient-looking baptistery. But its door was firmly shut, and the priest who took the money at the cathedral door shook his head at her. Tarn could not possibly be inside.
To make bad worse, the sky was darkening. She looked at her watch. She had sat longer in the cathedral than she thought. Only twenty minutes now until the Venice boat was due, and the walk to the jetty took nearly ten. They ought to go soon, especially if it was going to rain. She started round the cathedral in the other direction and found herself involved in a series of marsh paths that again reminded her painfully of La Rivière . From somewhere ahead, a siren sounded. The excursion boat must be moored on this side of the island. “Hi there!” Peter and Sue came running down the path. “It’s going to pour. D’you want a lift back?”
“Could I?” The temptation was irresistible.
“Sure.” Again it was Peter who spoke. “The guide’s a friend of mine, and it’s not full. You’ll be drowned by the time you get to the regular stop.” Huge drops of rain were beginning to fall.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “But—I’m with someone.” As she spoke, she heard Tarn’s voice calling her.
“Julia!” He appeared, breathless, round the end of the cathedral. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Looking for you.” She did not try to keep the reproach out of her voice.
“For me? But I came into the cathedral for you, soon as I saw the storm coming. You’d slung off.”
“Oh, how maddening!” It was the one thing she had not thought of. “We must have just missed each other.”
He looked at his watch. “Too late for the boat now. We’ll have to sit out the storm in the café.”
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