“And you stayed on?” said Shackleford. “Wasn’t that a little imprudent?”
“You must remember that I was born in Venice. And there were relatives I could call on.” They had not proved particularly welcoming, but there was no need to go into that. After all, why should they welcome a poor relation, the foreign son of a cousin who had disgraced herself by joining a theatrical troupe? The gondolier Lord Somerset had used had proved more helpful in setting me on my feet. Which was why we were now travelling in his gondola.
Boscombe had had enough of my reminiscences. “Tell me, do you know the nobleman Piero Garzoni?”
“Sir…” Shackleford broke in, as if dismayed by the question.
“I have heard of him,” I said, after a curious glance at Shackleford. “I can hardly claim his acquaintance.”
“Well, no, I didn’t expect you to be the fellow’s friend,” said Boscombe, with his sudden laugh.
“I believe he has very few friends,” I said. “He lives a rather retired life, by all accounts. He only attends the Great Council when absolutely obliged to do so.” He was actually a notorious recluse, and all sorts of rumours abounded about what he got up to in his ancient Gothic palace on the Grand Canal.
Boscombe lowered his voice: “Is it true that he engages in the Rosicrucian mysteries?”
“Sir,” said Shackleford in a pained voice.
“I cannot say,” I declared with complete truth. I had only vaguely heard of these mysteries, mainly from a distant acquaintance of mine, the ex-abate Giacomo Casanova, who claimed some familiarity with them, though I could not say with what degree of seriousness.
“I think we would do better to refresh our mind on the history of the republic,” Shackleford said earnestly, referring again to his book. “We are told here that it was founded by refugees from the city of Aquileia, fleeing from the brutal incursions of Attila the Hun…”
His voice droned on. Boscombe gazed vacantly and amiably out of the window, while the names of doges and saints flitted past him, together with dates of treaties, naval battles and sackings of cities, all testifying to the steadily growing power and splendour of the Most Serene Republic of Venice. As we entered the Grand Canal (and the Fourth Crusade) I murmured an apology and stepped out of the felze to confer with Bepi.
“No sign of trouble?” I said.
Bepi gave a shrug. “Nothing I can see.”
I gazed at the busy scene around us. I always took pleasure in sharing the first view of Venice with our clients; it allowed me to see the city with fresh wonder. If there was one advantage I had over Bepi (and, of course, over all Venetians), it was that I could remember my first view – at least my first adult view – of the city. And at the same time I could share in his own personal pride in the city: after all, had I not spoken the dialect since infancy? I could thus indulge in both pleasures: that of the wide-eyed visitor and that of the all-knowing native.
At this early evening hour, with the setting sun behind us casting a reddish-golden glow on the upper storeys of the palaces, the city was at its most splendid. Gondolas and barges, sandolos and ferries thronged the water. There was the usual hubbub of warning cries, salutations, quips, insults and challenges, together with a few songs, romantic or bawdy, and lamps were already lit in the prows of the more prudent crafts, adding flickering dots of brilliance to the scene. Shackleford’s voice had faded out behind me. I hoped they were both enjoying the spectacle. If they were not, they did not deserve to be here.
By the time we approached the Rialto it was definitely dusk. The inn had lamps blazing beside the great Byzantine arch of its entrance, but the adjacent palace was unlit, being currently under restoration, and dark shadows were cast on the right-hand side of the inn by the scaffolding that covered its façade.
“Is this it?” said Boscombe, peering out of the felze. “It looks rather old.”
That was an understatement. The Leon Bianco is situated in a palace that dates from the thirteenth century. “I can assure you that the rooms are very comfortable,” I said.
“Your brother can be trusted, eh?” he said, and gave that bark of a laugh again.
I smiled dutifully, and then called out to the porter, who was peering out from the entrance. “An English milord and his tutor! Do you have rooms, Andrea?” Even if Boscombe had mentioned no title, all wealthy English visitors were milords.
“Ciao, Alvise,” said Andrea, in his cracked Venetian. He gives the impression of being only a little younger than the palace itself. “Yes, we can accommodate them. Second floor, with a view on to the canal. How many servants?”
“Just one valet,” I said. “He’s coming with the baggage in Tonin’s sandolo.”
We were soon standing in the inn’s large entranceway. The landlord, Sior Scarpa, had come down himself to greet the new arrivals, and was bobbing and smiling and saying “Plee-eesa”, his one English word. Bepi’s brother had arrived in the meantime, and the servants were busily unloading the trunks and cases. Boscombe and Shackleford looked a little uncertainly at the draughty entranceway, with its cracked marble walls and shadowy statues.
“You must think of this as the stables,” I said. “The real hallway is on the first floor, as in all Venetian palaces.”
Bepi sidled up to me. “Well?” he said.
“I think so,” I said. “At least they haven’t said no. I think it’ll depend whether they like my brother’s rooms.”
“Your what?”
“Just a running joke with milord,” I said. “I’d better help settle them in, then I’ll let you know.”
But I had no real doubts by this point. Sior Scarpa knows how to treat his English clients, and the first floor, with its polished mirrors, blazing chandeliers and stuccoed walls, always makes a fine first impression. By all accounts the bedrooms are warm and the bedding clean, so Boscombe would have to be exceptionally fastidious to object.
“Any sign of our friends?” I asked Bepi before I followed Boscombe up the stairs.
“Just one watcher in the entrance. But I think he’s an Inquisitors’ man.”
I nodded. New foreign arrivals at all large inns were quickly reported to the Inquisitors; by tomorrow Boscombe and Shackleford would already figure in a register somewhere in the hidden chambers of the Doge’s palace, no doubt with full details on their financial status, sexual preferences and shoe sizes. Or so most Venetians liked to believe.
Minutes later I rejoined Bepi and told him that we were hired for that evening and the next day at least. “They want a trip to the Piazza and I think Mr Boscombe would like to find a gaming room. But first he wants me to take the tutor to the Regina d’Ungheria to see if there is any post awaiting them there.”
“Do you want help?”
“I know the way,” I said. “And it’s quicker on foot.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But let’s not get things out of proportion. I’ll be careful.”
Bepi looked doubtful but nodded. It was strange that I should be giving lessons in calm realism. Bepi, after all, is the man for whom the adjective “laconic” was invented.
The tutor now came down the stairs. He had changed out of his travelling garments and presumably put on his best city clothes. He still somehow contrived to look dusty, as if he had been scrambling in the cobwebby corners of some uncatalogued library. His wig seemed designed to look lopsided; it matched the peevish curve of his mouth, and I got the impression that this immediate trip to the other inn had not been his idea.
“Well, shall we go?”
“Yes, certainly,” I said. “It will be quickest to walk.”
“Will we need a link-boy?”
“A codega? I don’t think so. The main roads towards Saint Mark’s Square are well lit.”
We left the inn by the land entrance and immediately found ourselves in the crowds thronging towards the Rialto. Shackleford looked around. “I thought people would be wearing masks,” he said.
�
�Carnival is over,” I said. I had come across this before with foreign visitors, who presumed Venetians wore masks all year round.
“Ah, so you only wear them for Carnival,” he said.
“Well, no, there are other times of year as well. Feast days, like Ascension, and the period immediately afterwards; the theatre season, from October till Christmas … and then for various high days and holidays. And you’ll need them if you go to gaming houses, as I believe Mr Boscombe wishes to do.”
“Well, my feeling is that an early night would do us both good,” he said.
“No doubt,” I said, “but I think you can understand that a young man, in Venice for the first time…”
“I suppose so,” he said with a sigh. “But I would appreciate it if you did not encourage him.”
“I merely obey instructions.”
“You also make suggestions. This inn was your idea, after all.”
“That was in response to what appeared to be a definite danger.”
“Are you sure you didn’t exaggerate?” Could they not have been just eager ciceroni – like yourself?”
“Mr Shackleford,” I said, “I have been doing this job for over a year now and I have never before seen a rival offer money in order to secure a client.”
He made no answer. I had the feeling that he had put forward this notion more from a desperate wish to believe that it was so than out of any genuine conviction.
I decided to ask the obvious question. “Do you have any idea why these people should be interested in you?”
“No, no, absolutely not,” he said at once. “I don’t understand it at all.”
The answer was too quick. He had already decided to deny all knowledge. There would be no point in persisting.
“Well, even so you might like to consider buying a tricorn hat,” I said. “You can pull it down over your forehead and it works almost as well as a mask.”
The purchase made, we passed through Campo San Bartolomeo, always the busiest small square in the city, with crowds criss-crossing from Cannaregio, San Marco and the Rialto. As we approached the small side street where the land entrance to the Regina d’Ungheria inn is situated I could sense that he was growing more and more nervous; when I told him to pull down his hat he seemed to have an urge to tug it almost as far as his mouth.
Instead of turning into the side street, I indicated that we should proceed towards the bridge from which there was a view of the water entrance to the inn. A man in a tabarro and bauta was standing idly on the bridge; he did not look at us. He was tossing a coin in his hand. It was as if he were posing as the spirit of Carnival just for Shackleford.
We walked on down the other side of the bridge. Shackleford made a half-turn, as if about to walk back to the inn, and I hissed: “Keep walking.”
We reached the large basin, busy with gondolas, just before the entrance to Saint Mark’s Square and at last I spoke. “Did you recognise that man on the bridge?”
“On the bridge? He was wearing a mask. How could –”
“It was the man from Fusina. The one who wanted to take you to your inn.”
“How could you tell?”
“I couldn’t swear to it in court, but you may remember the way he moved. Supple and snake-like. It was him.”
“Oh, dear. What –”
“There’s another way to approach the land entrance.” I indicated a calle to our left. It led towards the Frezzeria, the narrow but busy shopping street that runs parallel to the western end of Saint Mark’s Square. We made our way along it, turned left at the end and then immediately right into a narrow alley that led to a little bridge. “Don’t turn round as you cross,” I said. This was the only weak point in our alternative route; the bridge was just yards away from the other where the watcher stood. We must do nothing to attract his attention.
I hoped the night would work in our favour. We would be just two dark figures against a dark background. With luck his attention would be on the water, where he was expecting to see a gondola arrive. I forced myself to gaze rigidly ahead.
The land entrance to the inn was quiet. We climbed the staircase to the hallway of the inn. A large woman with an apron came forward and looked at us enquiringly.
I took off my hat and bowed. “Madam, I have brought this English gentleman. He wishes to know whether any mail has arrived here for him or for his young companion, Mr Boscombe. They had meant to stay here, but have had to change their plans.”
“Ah, the English milord,” she said, nodding. “Yes, there have been enquiries.”
“Really? Could you tell me who?”
She looked at me a little suspiciously. “And who are you?”
“Alvise Marangon, at your service. Professional cicerone. I have brought clients here in the past,” I said, with my most winning smile. Well, I had once dropped a drunken German at the entrance, after he had vomited over Bepi’s gondola.
She sniffed and said, “I don’t know who. He was masked. Just wanted to know if the milord had arrived. Then he went away. There are a couple of letters.”
She reached into a drawer and pulled out two letters, both with unbroken seals. “So the gentleman is not staying?”
“Unfortunately not,” I said.
“Can he prove who he is?”
I translated this for Shackleford. As usual he looked both flustered and automatically suspicious at the request for information, but then he said, “I have Mr Boscombe’s signet ring.” He pulled it from his coat pocket, and she handed over the letters.
“Who left those?” I asked her. This was, perhaps, none of my business, but since I had been pulled into their secret game of hide-and-seek I felt I had a right to find out about the rival team. In any case, Shackleford could not understand.
“It was a boy,” she said, “an impudent brat.” Then she added, “But he won’t try that sort of nonsense again.” She looked at her hand with some satisfaction, as if she could still see the imprint of a freshly smacked cheek.
Shackleford had broken the seal on one of the letters and was reading it eagerly.
“Good news?” I asked conversationally.
He glanced up. “Everything is as it should be,” he said. He concluded his reading and put the missive carefully into his coat pocket, along with the other one, its seal still unbroken. “Shall we go?”
I looked at him. There was a fresh pink glow to his cheeks, and his eyes looked brighter. One might even have described his wig as being at a rakish angle, rather than just lopsided.
“Yes, certainly,” I said. I thanked the woman and we set off, replacing our hats.
When we got outside I glanced around. There was no sign of any watcher and we set off towards Campo San Luca, where I glanced back.
“Ah,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think, though I can’t swear to it, that we have company.”
3
“Oh dear, oh dear.” He had instantly returned to his state of flustered nervousness.
“We can try an experiment,” I said, and indicated the narrow alleyway opposite us, which led to Calle dei Fabbri. Taking it would thin out the crowds around us and make any follower easier to distinguish.
When we reached the end of the alleyway I looked round again and saw a dark-cloaked figure entering it in our wake. I thought I recognised the lithe, supple gait, and turned immediately right into Calle dei Fabbri. “Quickly,” I said. “Into the first shop.”
Seconds later we stepped into the welcome gloom of a bookshop.
“How can I –” began the small figure behind the desk.
“Sior Fabrizio,” I said, doffing my hat, “please let us into the back room. I’ll explain later.”
Fabrizio wasted no time on questions but opened the door behind his desk and waved us through. Seconds later Shackleford and I stood in a dark, cramped space surrounded by stacks of leather-bound volumes, loose papers and a general smell of mustiness.
“We’ll just wait unti
l we can be sure he’s gone past the shop,” I whispered.
The tutor said nothing. He was breathing heavily and irregularly, as if we had run a race. I imagined he was not used to this sort of agitation.
A minute or so later Fabrizio opened the door, so that the lamplight fell in upon us.
“Do you wish to stay here indefinitely?” he said. He is a small man, in his early fifties, whose air of scholarly mildness is deceptive; cross him on a point of Latin grammar and you unleash a tiger.
“Did anyone come in – or look in?” I said.
“You know what a thriving business I run,” he said drily. “I think I had a client last February…”
“I wasn’t asking about your sales figures,” I said. “Just whether anyone looked in through the window or the door.”
“There was one man, in a mask and a cloak. He looked in very briefly. Somehow I don’t think he was a booklover, but in that he is little different from most of the inhabitants of this city. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Of course. Mr Shackleford, this is Signor Fabrizio Busetto,” I said, switching back to English, “owner of the best bookshop in Venice.”
We stepped out of the dark back room into the slightly less gloomy precincts of the shop itself. Bookcases in polished wood with curious curlicued carvings stood all round, even creating a series of small narrow corridors on one side of the shop. Their shelves were filled with volumes bound in darkly gleaming leather. I could see Shackleford’s own eyes gleaming in response, as he took in his surroundings. I guessed this was his kind of setting.
“An English gentleman,” said Fabrizio, switching to French, a language he presumed Shackleford would speak. The tutor mumbled a few words of courteous, heavily accented French and the two men shook hands.
“We’ll stand over here for the moment,” I said, retreating into one of the dark book-lined corridors, and beckoning my companion to follow me. “Just in case our friend comes back up the street.”
“Is this trouble with your landlord again?” asked Fabrizio, switching back to Venetian. “Or another sacristan you forgot to tip after enjoying a private view of the Tintorettos?”
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