Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  “And what do you mean by hints?”

  Up to this point he had been talking in a low tone, his eyes unfocused. Now he looked hard at me. “Just who are you? And why should I tell you anything?”

  “Well, if you want to know, I’m a confidential agent of the Missier Grande. And I was asked to investigate Garzoni.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that? A cicerone and frappatore? Spying for the Venetian state?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me whether you believe it or not, but you might at least recognise the fact that I’ve saved your life. Just as I acknowledge that you’ve done the same for me. But let’s find somewhere better to talk things over.”

  “Where?”

  “We’ll have to think,” I said. I wondered whether we could go to the Missier Grande’s office in Saint Mark’s Square in the hope that Sior Massaro might be there, working through the night. But a second’s reflection told me that it was an idea born out of wishful thinking. Then an alternative struck me. “How about an empty theatre?”

  “Do you have a particular one in mind?”

  “Yes. And you might as well admit it, such a place would be home from home for you,” I said on a venture.

  He looked sharply at me. “How did you –”

  “It’s come to seem inevitable in this whole business,” I said. “Everything seems to lead back to theatre. I could tell you were an actor. You couldn’t even stop yourself quoting Shakespeare when you were supposed to be a count from Georgia.”

  “Ah,” he said, “did I? I don’t recall…”

  “Julius Caesar,” I said. “Twice.”

  “Ah well, yes,” he said, “that was one of my favourites.” He gave a sigh. Perhaps he was recalling spellbound audiences and thundering applause … or perhaps he was just remembering getting a regular wage.

  “But then,” I said, “this city does bring out the histrionic in everyone.” I gestured towards the niches in the church façade. “Just look at those statues there. Members of the Barbaro family, all ready to take a bow. Not one of them looking the least bit God-fearing, or even just suitably pious.”

  He looked at the posturing marble figures in some perplexity. He clearly did not see the point I was making.

  “Come on,” I said, sighing myself. “We’ve a long walk.”

  We headed east. A few minutes later we stepped out into the great glistening expanse of Saint Mark’s Square. At the far end, towards the basilica, they had begun assembling the colonnade for Ascension, but at the western end the wooden planks and columns were still stacked along the sides of the square. There were plenty of people around, despite the late hour. Animated groups were clustered round the tables outside the coffee shops, although no one was sitting down, presumably because the chairs were still wet from the storm. I glanced up at the windows of the Missier Grande’s offices. There was no light there. Sior Massaro did go to bed then, like other common mortals.

  As we set out across the square I heard my name called by a female voice. “Mr Marangon!”

  I looked towards the tables outside Florian’s coffee shop. It was not difficult to spot Miss Boscombe; one only needed to follow the direction of most of the bystanders’ eyes. There was no sign of her father. She appeared to be surrounded by young Venetian noblemen.

  “Who’s that?” said the count sharply.

  “She is Mr Boscombe’s cousin.”

  “I don’t wish to meet her,” he said firmly.

  “Very well.”

  “I will wait beneath the clock tower.” He strode across the square while I walked towards Miss Boscombe.

  I bowed. “Miss Boscombe, a very good evening. I trust you will forgive me –”

  “Anything, dear Mr Marangon. What have you been doing?” And she let out a little trill of laughter. I had the impression she must have been drinking. Two of the young men with her, who had been looking suspiciously at me, laughed as well, although I am sure they had not understood a word. They had certainly been drinking.

  “I trust you will forgive me if I do not linger with you,” I said. “I’m afraid I have been forbidden to speak to you.”

  “Oh, that nonsense,” she said. “Never mind about that.”

  “Please give my regards to your father, as well,” I said.

  “Oh yes, of course. He’s somewhere around,” she said, vaguely gesturing at the whole square. “I just thought I’d tell you that I managed to speak to my cousin. We were allowed a brief meeting in the prison. Poor Frederick.” She forced herself to look serious for a few seconds.

  “So he has survived his ordeal,” I said.

  “He looked so pale,” she said. “I don’t know whether they’ve been feeding him or not. We protested to the Resident.”

  “I’m sure he’s been given every –”

  “Well, never mind all that. What have you found out?”

  I felt startled for a moment. Did she know about my role as a confidential agent? I almost asked her who had told her but then she went on: “I hope you haven’t given up your inquiries on my behalf.”

  “Miss Boscombe, I did explain to you –”

  “I see. So you care more about what some petty Venetian official says than a lady in despair from your own country.” Her tone was so clearly bitter that the young men around her looked hard at me. I think one of them even put a hand to his sword. Then she said meltingly: “And I had thought we could be such friends.”

  “Miss Boscombe, I’m afraid I must leave you. Give my regards to your father.”

  “Oh, go then. I suppose it’s that wretched girl in the bookshop who’s made you such a poltroon.”

  “Miss Boscombe, I will attribute your remarks to your distress over your cousin. Good evening.” I realised that I had better get away before I exploded and possibly ended up on the end of some young hothead’s sword. I bowed and walked away, while she let out a shrill peal of mocking laughter which seemed to be taken up by the whole square. I wondered where her father might be and guessed he was probably studying the sculptures on the basilica or the Doge’s palace.

  The count was waiting by the clock tower, as he had said, and he was eyeing the parade on the Liston, which was still quite animated. I wondered if he was thinking nostalgically of the splendid appearance he had made there just a few weeks earlier.

  He pointed to the half-built wooden colonnade that had arisen just in front of the flagpoles. “What’s going on?”

  “Another piece of Venetian theatre,” I said. “It’s preparations for the Sensa.”

  “The what?”

  “The Feast of the Ascension,” I said. “One of the key dates in the Venetian calendar, when the Doge rows out to the Lido and renews the city’s marriage vows with the sea.”

  He gave a frown. “I think I’ve heard Luca talking about this with his Excellency,” he said. “I don’t know what they were saying as they stopped talking when they realised I could hear.”

  “It’s perhaps the biggest spectacle of all: the Bucintoro –”

  “What’s that?”

  “The stage barge, every inch of it gilded and sculptured.”

  “Sounds rather gaudy,” he said.

  “That’s an odd remark from someone who dresses in silver from head to toe.”

  He sniffed. “You know as well as I do the importance of putting on a little spectacle. I saw your performance on that gondola.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And no one knows its importance better than the Venetian state. So the Doge goes out in the Bucintoro to San Nicolò on the Lido, with all the city authorities on board, all in their finery, orchestras playing, the arsenalotti rowing, they celebrate Mass, the Doge throws a nuptial ring into the sea, and then the city has a few days’ holiday.”

  “Very well,” he said. “It all sounds splendid. But tell me, what did that woman want? What did you tell her?”

  “She’s come from Florence on account of her cousin. And that’s something else we need to talk about.”

&nb
sp; “All right. But let’s get away from here before someone else recognises us.”

  That was sensible. I was already regretting that we had passed through the square, even though avoiding it would have meant taking a circuitous route. We bought a lantern at an extortionate price from a young lad standing underneath the clock tower, simply because we did not have the energy to haggle, and because I happened to have the money in my pocket. The count did not offer to contribute. Then we set off down the Merceria, turning right by the church of San Zulian towards Campo della Guerra. From there we made our way to Campo Santa Maria Formosa and then the great square of Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo. I mentioned to the count that it was near here that Mr Boscombe’s unfortunate tutor had met his end. His face became particularly sombre and he simply murmured: “So I heard.”

  I did not press this point. We walked down the oddly named Barbaria de le Tole and finally found ourselves in the square where the old theatre stood. The square was completely quiet and as far as I could tell nobody saw us clamber through the window in the side alley.

  We made our way into the auditorium. I could see no signs that Zanotto had managed to make any improvements in the décor; perhaps there were a few more ornamental pillars on the stage but they did little to combat the overwhelming sense of forlorn abandonment. A perfect place for the two of us to spend the night, I thought wryly.

  “Why have you brought me here?” said the count.

  “Have you any other suggestions?”

  He did not attempt to answer that. He took a seat in the front row and leaned back wearily. I put the lantern on the stage and then heaved myself up on to the boards after it, remembering, with a tinge of envy, how the zany had sprung there in one simple leap. I sat down next to the lantern, my legs dangling over the edge of the stage; the position gave me a slight advantage, I felt, for the conversation that had to come.

  “What’s your real name?” I began.

  “Does it matter to you?”

  “Well, it seems like a good starting point. Why shouldn’t I know it?”

  “You can call me Alfred.”

  “And why a count from Georgia?”

  “Have you ever met anyone from Georgia?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, there you are.”

  “I see. And do you speak Georgian?”

  “No. But I’ve learned the alphabet.”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “A good way to communicate with someone secretly.”

  “Someone else who knows the alphabet.”

  He did not bother to answer this, which was fair enough. But I persisted: “And who would this other person be?”

  “I suspect that you already know that.”

  “Shackleford.”

  “So why ask?”

  “Well, I still haven’t grasped the exact connection between you two.”

  He was quiet for a few moments. Then he said: “Well, you might as well know. He was my brother.”

  “Ah.” I was quiet myself for several seconds. Then I said: “I’m sorry.”

  He started crying. He leaned forward in his seat, put his head between his hands and sobbed unashamedly.

  There was not much I could do. I did not think that he would welcome a comforting arm round his shoulders, so I just waited.

  Eventually his shoulders ceased to heave and the sobs became more intermittent. He looked up at me. “I suppose you never weep.” The tone was somewhere between bitter and defensive.

  “When I have reason to,” I said. “And I can see you have.”

  “I’m all alone now,” he said. It was said simply and was quite touching.

  “Was he your only relative?”

  “I have a sister, Susan, but she’s married to a dolt of a clergyman and has never wanted anything to do with us.”

  I remembered the draft of the letter to Susan on his desk.

  “And so you and…”

  “Peter.”

  “You and Peter were close.”

  “We were,” he said. “We did so many things together.”

  “And you always got on well?”

  He took no offence at this, as I had thought he might. He seemed quite willing to talk about his relations with his much less flamboyant brother. “Well, we were obviously rather different characters. And there’s no doubt that Peter was a little jealous of me.”

  “Was he older or younger?”

  “Two years older. And he was always saying that I was spoilt because I was the youngest. Well, perhaps there was some truth to it. I was certainly the better-looking.” And he put a hand to his face and wiped away the tears; he did it with delicate dabbing gestures, suggesting that he was worried about the effect of the tears on his make-up. However, as he had presumably removed the make-up before getting ready for bed, there was in fact no streaky effect. “But I used to tell him that looks weren’t everything, and he shouldn’t worry just because his face was so plump.”

  “I’m sure he loved you for that,” I said.

  The count (I could not stop thinking of him under that title) took this quite seriously. “Well, everyone likes to be comforted. And he was certainly cleverer than me – or, at least, more intellectual.”

  “So he was a real scholar?”

  “He could always pass for one. That was his – his special line.”

  “But you were both actors.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “We belonged to a travelling company. It was quite successful – until the manager absconded with all the profits.”

  “I see. And that was when you changed your line of performance?”

  He seemed to have accepted the inevitability of telling the whole story. I think it was even something of a relief. I was beginning to realise that without his brother he was quite a pathetic figure.

  “Yes,” he said. “We tried various things, even doing juggling tricks in village squares – that’s where I learned to throw. But Peter wasn’t very good at that sort of performance. Anyway, I wanted us to go to London and try to get a job with one of the big theatres there – Drury Lane, Haymarket – but Peter didn’t think we would have a chance. He had always been a great reader and he thought he might be able to pass himself off as a scholar and get a job as a bear-leader.”

  “And that would leave you on your own.”

  “Yes,” he said. He was clearly thinking back to that time and from the nervous note in his voice and the serious expression on his face I imagined it had been a moment of crisis. “And then I suggested that if he did find a rich pupil and take him abroad there would always be ways of making more than just the regular wage. After all, these young men often have far more money than is good for them.”

  “Oh, certainly,” I said. “It does them good to be fleeced.”

  He looked sharply at me. “I imagine you’ve never been really poor. Not knowing where your next meal will come from.”

  I gave an apologetic shrug. “I’ve never starved.” There was no point in antagonising him if I wanted to hear the full story.

  “It was just a matter of indulging their caprices. They want to gamble. And often enough they’re fascinated by someone who seems to have occult powers. It’s surprising how many stories you hear of young men involved in such practices. We kept on the look-out for such people.”

  “So your brother would take them abroad and bump into you, in all your splendour.”

  “This was only the third time we had done it,” he said. “It had worked well enough the first couple of times. And we never took all their money.”

  “They were able to get back to England,” I said.

  “Of course. And I’m sure they enjoyed it on the whole.” He added this last with a little less conviction.

  “But this time there was something else,” I said. “There was the matter of the book your brother was bringing out.”

  He looked sharply at me. “How do you know that?”

  “You’ll remember that Mr Boscombe called o
n me after discovering the murder. He told me. But he didn’t know what the book was – or rather he only knew what your brother had told him.”

  “Ah yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, it caused far more trouble than it was worth.” He clearly realised how inadequate this was as a comment on the events of the last few weeks and his face twitched in a sudden wince.

  “So whose idea was it?”

  “Peter found the book in the Boscombes’ library after he had been accepted as tutor. He and I both know some Italian from opera libretti so he was able to read it and see what a – well, what a controversial book it was.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Have you seen the book, then?”

  “Just an English edition that a friend of mine lent me. A bookseller in Calle dei Fabbri. Your brother knew him, in fact.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s no surprise. But of course the English edition was published anonymously. The one the Boscombes had was different. For a start there were the signatures. It was an Italian edition, especially produced for James Boscombe, who had been friendly with a group of Venetians in London. And the three authors had all signed it, three Venetian noblemen. It so happened I was in London when Peter found the book and he sent me a letter asking if I could find out about the three names. I got in touch with a Venetian actor I knew and he was able to tell me who they all were. A certain Zanotto, a certain Garzoni and a certain…” He looked at me, to see if I knew.

  “Go on.”

  “A certain Grimani.”

  I tried not to show my surprise. “The Grimani are a large family,” I said. “You only need to see how many palaces there are with that name.”

  “Yes, well, this one was Pietro Grimani, the present doge.”

  “I see.”

  “When I told Peter this he got very excited. He said I must go to Venice and see what chance there would be of selling this book to one of the families. They would all certainly be embarrassed by it and possibly be willing to pay quite a sum to hush it up.”

  “So why didn’t you bring the book yourself?”

  “Peter couldn’t run the risk of the family’s noticing that it had disappeared before he and the boy left the house. So I came here ahead of them. I found out that Zanotto had no money and so wasn’t worth bothering with. The Grimani family were – well, they were too important, too powerful. It had seemed like a good idea back in London but I didn’t know how to approach them. So I went to Garzoni.”