‘No. It doesn’t.’
‘How will you explain it to his parents? They’ll be here tomorrow, you know.’
‘Will they?’ I had not thought about the Wingates and what I would say to them. Now, suddenly, their arrival was imminent. And I could hardly tell them my disloyalty to Max was none of their business.
‘I expect you’ll think of something, Mr Horton. You seem to be rather good at it.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, you’ve had the last laugh on me, haven’t you? I promised you at Charnwood’s funeral that I’d bring Wingate to trial and see him hanged for murder. But I was wrong. The case will close without a trial. And your friend will be buried in sanctified ground. So you see, you and Miss Charnwood have done him quite a favour. Haven’t you?’
According to Hornby, the Wingates were booked into the Danieli (which he pronounced to rhyme with Philippi) and were expected about midday. Shortly after six o’clock, therefore, I presented myself at the desk, sober, smartly dressed and as well-prepared as I was ever likely to be. The concièrge, who seemed to recognize me from my overnight stay the previous week but did not say so, telephoned their room. After he had given my name, there was a long and pregnant pause. Then the message came back: Signor Wingate would be down directly.
He looked immensely weary as he descended the staircase, his face lined and drawn. He did not smile, of course, but a mechanical shake of my hand represented a concession of sorts.
‘Shall we go into the bar, sir?’ I asked.
‘No. I’d prefer to talk outside.’
I followed him through the revolving doors and out onto the Riva degli Schiavoni. A cloud-barred sunset was spreading its pink glow across the lagoon and the faces of the passers-by. A magical serenity offered itself freely to every stray human. But neither of us felt able to embrace it.
We started walking slowly east. Aubrey Wingate stared straight ahead, his chin raised, as if he were scanning the horizon for a sight of something – or of someone. As we reached the first bridge, I said, ‘I am so very sorry about all this, sir.’ He did not reply or glance towards me. ‘For you and Mrs Wingate, it must have come as … a terrible shock. I can only express my … deepest regret.’
As we cleared the bridge, he veered away towards the water’s edge. He stopped by a bollard and rested against it, rubbing his forehead for a few moments. Then he folded his arms and looked at me. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Guy. Cecily is distraught. She still thinks of Max as a baby and feels as if her child has been snatched away from her. But I can’t help thinking of what would have happened if he’d been arrested, tried and convicted. The anguish. The shame. The sheer horror of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Max let us down in a great many ways. But we never turned him away. The letter he wrote … I’m not sure I believed it. I simply had to behave as if I did. God damn it, why did you have to prove him right? Why did you have to betray him? To the police I could have understood, even approved. But with this girl?’
‘I’m not sure I can explain – far less excuse – what I did.’
‘She’s beautiful, I’m told.’
‘Yes. She is.’
‘Is that the reason, then? That and nothing else?’
I sighed. ‘Probably.’
‘The war ruined you two. It made you greedy and selfish. But for those years in Macedonia, you’d have grown into fine young men. I’m sure of it. But as it is …’
‘I am sorry.’
‘And is the Charnwood girl sorry?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s still not good enough, though, is it? Tomorrow, they’ll bury my son. Here, in a foreign land. They’ll bury him and forget him. But we won’t.’
‘Neither will I, sir.’
He inhaled sharply and seemed to bite back some response. Then he pushed himself upright and stared out across the lagoon towards the Lido. ‘I don’t want her at the funeral. It would be too much for Cecily. I’ve sent a message to that effect via the Consulate. But they didn’t seem to know your address, so …’
‘You’ve been trying to contact me?’
He nodded. ‘With the same message.’ He turned to look at me, stiffening his jaw. ‘We’ll say goodbye to our son – for all his faults – in our own way. But we don’t want to have to do it in the company of those who betrayed him. We don’t want you there, Guy. Either of you.’
I gaped at him in disbelief. ‘You’re forbidding me to attend Max’s funeral?’
‘I can’t forbid anything. I can only ask.’
‘But … Max was my best and oldest friend.’
‘So you say. But were you his?’ He ground his teeth. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve said too much. I must go back to the hotel. We’ll be leaving on Saturday. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason for us to meet again before then.’
‘No. I suppose there isn’t.’
‘So, I’ll say goodbye, Guy.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’ I extended my hand towards him, but he either ignored it or failed to notice as he moved swiftly past me and marched off towards the Danieli. I did not watch him go, but turned to gaze, as he had, into the sun-gilded distance. This, I supposed, was the final humiliation my conduct had invited: to be excluded even from Max’s funeral. ‘Very well,’ I whispered to myself – and to my forever absent friend. ‘So be it. I won’t be there when they bury you, Max. But this isn’t going to end with your funeral. I promise.’
I did not, of course, know what time next day Max would be buried. Deliberately, I made no effort to find out. But fate was determined to ensure I should not remain safe in my ignorance. I rose late and badly hungover on a brilliantly clear morning, oppressed more than ever by the knowledge that I could not leave the maze of claustrophobic alleys to which Venice had been reduced in my mind. Bursting out of the Casa di Pellicani in a violently restless mood, I made for Riva Schiavoni, hoping an aimless vaporetto ride might calm me down.
But even as I emerged onto the riva and glanced towards the Danieli, I realized my mistake. There, nosing out of the side-canal serving the hotel, was a black funeral launch, with the sombrely clad figures of Mr and Mrs Wingate recognizable through the window of the cabin. I watched, transfixed, as it moved slowly out into the channel and set off on its journey to the cemetery island of San Michele. As it passed the spot where I stood, I thought of the other vessel, with a coffin aboard, that would be steering for the same destination. I was not allowed to follow either. All I could do was keep my eyes trained on the gleaming black prow of the launch as it slid through the water and utter a silent prayer for—
‘Faraday,’ I murmured, as his smiling face came between me and the distant shape of the launch. He was standing a few yards away, patiently waiting, it seemed, for my gaze to reach him.
‘Good morning, Horton. Not going to the funeral?’
‘No.’
‘Warned off, I take it – like poor Diana?’
‘Something like that.’
He nodded. ‘I thought as much. So, I don’t find you busy?’
‘What do you want, Faraday?’
‘The information you agreed to obtain.’
‘I’ve withdrawn my agreement.’
‘It’s a moot point whether you can. But, look here, I’ll be satisfied for the moment by your company on a short voyage. I have to visit a yacht moored off the Zattere. There’s a boat waiting for me at San Marco. Why don’t you come too? The people aboard would like to meet you.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Persons of influence.’
‘Like you, you mean?’
‘No. Not at all like me.’ He paused, then said: ‘You wouldn’t regret it.’
My instinct was to refuse, but I badly wanted not to be alone. It seemed inconceivable that all Faraday’s acquaintances should be as odious as he was himself. ‘All right,’ I grudgingly said. ‘Why not?’
‘Excellent. Come along, then.’ He led the way towards San Marco and I followed. As we crossed the Ponte della
Paglia, he said: ‘Heard the news from England? There’s to be a general election.’
‘Really?’
‘You don’t sound interested.’
‘Can’t say I am.’
‘You should be. Politics are a matter of life and death. Everyone’s life and death. Even yours.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No? Well, perhaps it’s time you did.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Or perhaps not.’
We reached the jetties facing the Giardinetti Reali. Tied up at one was a small speed-boat with a tall and muscular figure waiting alongside. He nodded to Faraday and helped us aboard, casting one withering blue-eyed glance at me as he did so. His face was stern and pitted with the scars of smallpox, partially obscured by a mane of grey-blond hair. I did not like the look of him. Nor, apparently, did he like the look of me.
Faraday addressed him as Klaus and spoke to him in what sounded like German. We shoved off, manoeuvred into open water, then headed straight out past Customs House Point. As we rounded it and steered in towards the Zattere, I caught sight of an elegant three-masted schooner moored ahead.
‘Is that it?’ I asked, shouting to make myself heard.
‘Yes,’ Faraday bellowed back. ‘The Quadratrice. Handsome, isn’t she?’
I did not catch the name as he pronounced it, but, as we drew alongside, there it was, blazoned in gold copper-plate beneath the bow. Quadratrice. A curious word, with a French ring to it, that sounded as if it might be either an algebraic expression or a mythological creature – a quadratic equation, perhaps, or a four-headed serpent. I was about to ask what it meant when Faraday tapped me on the arm.
‘The captain’s waiting to welcome us aboard. You know him better as a general.’
It was Vasaritch, looking even huger than I remembered in an outfit of billowing white. He was grinning down at us from the rail like Zeus from Olympus, extending a god-sized arm to haul us up. Faraday went first, then Klaus ushered me forward as if anxious to ensure I did not turn back. Already, I was beginning to question the wisdom of accepting this invitation. But there was nothing for it now but to put on a brave face.
‘Good morning, General,’ I said, as my host administered a crushing handshake. ‘I heard you give the eulogy at Fabian Charnwood’s funeral. I didn’t have the chance to speak to you then, but—’
‘We speak now, eh?’ He clapped me on the shoulder, knocking me off balance in the process. ‘We all speak now. We and my friends.’
His friends were gathered round a table beneath the mizenmast: Faraday and two others. One, who would have counted as tall and burly in any other company but Vasaritch’s, was a good-looking fellow of about fifty, wearing a blazer and flannels. Beside him, standing ramrod-straight, was an old man in a cream suit and white képi. His head-gear and white mutton-chop whiskers gave him a faintly Ruritanian air. Beyond the group, sun-bathing on the poop-deck, was a bronzed-limbed brunette in an abbreviated yellow swim-suit. She was spreadeagled on a towel, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings behind enormous dark glasses.
‘This is the Horton you have heard so much about,’ declared Vasaritch. ‘Noel’s latest recruit.’ By Noel he clearly meant Faraday. With a shock, I realized I had never heard his Christian name used before. ‘Well, Pierre, Karl, what do you think?’
Pierre was the younger of the two and evidently French. Karl I took definitely to be of Germanic origin. Their accents subsequently confirmed both suppositions. Pierre looked me up and down for a moment, then said: ‘Looks the part. But can he act?’
‘I chose him specifically for his acting abilities,’ said Faraday, with a smile in my direction.
Vasaritch laughed. ‘Very good. But does the leading lady approve?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Faraday.
‘We need more than approval,’ said the unsmiling Pierre. ‘We need her secrets.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, tiring of the charade, ‘but I’m afraid you’re all labouring under some—’
‘Horton’s a little reluctant,’ said Faraday through gritted teeth. ‘He has made a new discovery in his life: scruples.’
‘Are you a rich man?’ asked Pierre.
‘No.’
‘Then you cannot afford scruples. They are more expensive than a virtuous woman. And even rarer.’
Vasaritch laughed again, but nobody joined in. Pierre looked as if he laughed only when alone, Karl as if he had set the weakness aside about fifty years ago. ‘A drink for you, Horton?’ said Vasaritch, encircling my arm in a manacle-like grip. ‘We have everybody’s poison here.’
‘Er … No thanks.’
‘Sobriety is an asset,’ Pierre remarked.
‘But, alas, not usually one of Horton’s,’ said Faraday. ‘I think he must be nervous.’
‘What is there to be nervous of?’
‘The consequences of his newly discovered scruples.’
‘When will you obtain what we want?’ asked Karl, speaking for the first time.
‘As I’ve been trying to—’
‘We cannot wait beyond the end of this month.’
‘Quite true, I’m afraid,’ said Faraday. ‘We really must have some results by then.’
‘Well, you won’t be getting them from me.’
‘A pity,’ said Pierre. ‘It would be better for her if we did it this way.’
‘Something soon,’ Vasaritch growled in my ear. ‘For the girl’s sake.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ah,’ said Pierre. ‘A flicker of concern. Do you care about her, Horton?’
‘If you mean Diana Charnwood,’ I replied, glaring at Faraday, ‘then, yes, I care about her. And I don’t believe she’s hiding anything.’
‘Not good enough,’ said Vasaritch.
‘Well, it’ll have to do, because I shall be leaving Venice soon and—’
‘Not very soon,’ put in Faraday. ‘I happened to speak to Martelli this morning. He tells me the inquest is provisionally scheduled for the twenty-sixth.’
‘The twenty-sixth? But … that’s more than two weeks away.’
‘Quite so. Two weeks in which you could extract the truth from Diana Charnwood. After all, what else is there for you to do?’
‘I’ve already told you—’
‘Tell us nothing,’ said Vasaritch. ‘Until you can tell us what we want to hear.’
‘I happen to know she plans to visit the Isola di San Michele this afternoon,’ said Faraday. ‘Offering you an excellent opportunity to effect a graveside reconciliation. With a few well-chosen words, you could find yourself restored as a guest at the Villa Primavera.’
‘I’m not going back there.’
‘Think of the girl, Horton,’ said Vasaritch. He moved past us and leaned against the rail of the poop-deck, reaching out to rest his hand on the brunette’s shapely rump while still looking at me. She turned her head and gave a little purr of pleasure as he tickled the soft flesh at the top of her thigh. ‘Think of her and enjoy her. But strip her mind as well as her body.’
‘We must know by the end of the month,’ said Karl.
‘And if you don’t?’
‘We shall use other methods,’ Vasaritch replied, the geniality gone from his voice. He grabbed suddenly at the brunette’s hair, yanking her head up violently. She gave a cry of pain, then another as his grip tightened. ‘Other men and other methods.’
‘You wouldn’t like either,’ said Faraday. ‘Believe me.’
I did believe him. As Vasaritch released the girl, my gaze moved to Karl and Pierre, who seemed not to have noticed the incident at all, then round the deck to the accommodation ladder, where Klaus was leaning against the rail, arms folded, staring straight at me. Other men and other methods. Who those men might be and what methods they might employ I did not care to imagine. But the threat was genuine. My involvement in Diana’s future was no longer a matter of choice. It had become a matter of necessity – for her as well as for me.
‘Kla
us could take you to San Michele,’ said Faraday.
‘I’d prefer to make my own way.’
‘But you will go?’ asked Pierre.
‘Yes,’ I replied, looking at each of them in turn, pausing to be sure they understood me. ‘I will go.’
As soon as I was sure the funeral would be over – and the Wingates long gone – I walked to Fondamenta Nuove and caught the next vaporetto out across the sparkling lagoon to the Isola di San Michele. The cemetery was, as I had hoped, empty of all save the dead, sheltered from wind and eye by high walls and cypress trees. There, in one of the overgrown corners reserved for foreigners, Protestants and sundry apostates, was a mound of freshly dug earth and a single wreath of white lilies. To our dear son Max, read the card. You strayed far and often, but never left our thoughts. I, who had brought no flowers and sung no hymns, stood reproached by blind parental love.
How long I remained there, staring at my friend’s last resting place, helpless to hold back the cavalcade of memories in my mind, I do not know. It might have been five minutes or fifty. But, suddenly, I was not alone.
‘Hello, Guy.’ She was dressed all in white and was staring at me with a strange and desolate intensity. ‘So,’ she said softly, ‘you couldn’t stay away either.’ Stretching forward, she dropped a small wreath of blood-red roses at the foot of the grave. There was no card attached. Words, it seemed, had failed her – as they threatened to fail me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I began. ‘Sorry they wouldn’t let you attend the service.’
‘It’s not your fault. Nor mine, I hope, that they wouldn’t let you.’
‘It’s nobody’s fault. Not theirs. Not ours. Not Max’s.’
She stood beside me in silence for a moment, head bowed. Then, glancing round at me, she said: ‘How have you been, Guy – these past few days?’
‘Pretty low. And you?’
‘The same.’
‘I didn’t mean us to part as we did, Diana. I’ve wished a dozen times I could have those few minutes after Vita left the room over again – to use differently.’ Would I be saying this, I wondered, if I had not agreed to do as Faraday asked? Did I really mean it? Or did necessity enable me to imagine I meant it?
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