The Venetian Venture

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Er, not as such,’ Cedric murmured, ‘but she is eminently respectable.’

  Lucia grimaced. ‘How sad,’ she sighed. ‘No Italian and eminently respectable. What on earth is she doing in Venice?’

  ‘As explained,’ Cedric replied stiffly, ‘seeking the Horace – and like thousands of others with or without Italian, admiring its beauty.’ The acerbic note was familiar to Felix and he felt pleased with his friend. That should settle her hash, he thought.

  It didn’t of course. Lucia Borgino emitted an indulgent laugh, and patting her companion’s arm said, ‘Oh well I expect I can fix something – anything for you, Guy darling. Now let’s get going, we’ve so much to do. Come on!’ Without another word she started to walk away.

  Her escort gave an apologetic smile. ‘She’s right, we are rather pressed. Her brother is coming to stay. But don’t worry. She’ll fix it with Carlo all right.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Rather influential you know.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Cedric coolly.

  ‘Worry?’ Felix expostulated after they had gone. ‘Who said anything about being worried? Frankly I couldn’t care a damn about that beastly book. If Rosy Gilchrist imagines I have come to Venice to be patronised by the likes of Lucretia Borgia or whatever her name is, she has got another thing coming. Really, it is too—’

  ‘Be fair. Miss Gilchrist has never met the woman and she didn’t exactly arrange this encounter.’

  ‘No,’ Felix retorted, ‘and I don’t exactly take the dog to the flower market every morning. We have been once, that’s all!’

  Cedric smiled. ‘Ah but doubtless you will cultivate the habit … Now, let us pursue our plans that were so tiresomely interrupted: a peek at the Frari followed by a delicious late luncheon at Alfredo’s; and then, who knows, perhaps a fragrant visit to the two Marx Brothers. What could be nicer?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Her hostess had been right. Unlike breakfast, supper at the Casa Witherington proved to be, if not garrulous, at least moderately animated. In their amiable gentility Rosy’s fellow guests made easy company and she listened with interest to their talk of Venice and its quirks and pleasures. Most were middle-aged and evidently habitués of the establishment, though there were a couple of young Germans who spent most of their time gazing at each other in rapt absorption. Clearly honeymooners.

  ‘Is this just a pleasure trip or are you here on dreary business?’ Mr Downing asked. ‘Last week we had a chap staying whose firm had something to do with London drains. Apparently he had been sent on a fact-finding mission connected with the Venice sewerage system. He said it was for purposes of comparison. I don’t think he saw a thing of the city above ground – a somewhat subterranean sojourn I should think; or, as the punsters might say, a bit of a waste!’

  Rosy laughed. ‘Yes I am on business in a way, but my pursuits are entirely above ground. I’m trying to trace a book of Latin verse for my boss at the British Museum.’

  ‘Ah, a literary mission; certainly more edifying than drains one would imagine.’ Mr Downing sniffed and helped himself to the last of the zucchini and shovelled up the penultimate tomato. Rosy felt sorry for his prep-school charges: poor little brats, probably all starving.

  ‘You don’t mean the Bodger book do you?’ Miss Witherington asked.

  Rosy was surprised. ‘Yes, do you know it?’

  ‘I know of it, most people do – well a few at any rate. But it’s all such nonsense.’

  ‘What, the poetry? Oh but I should have thought … Though of course I gather the translation is unremarkable.’

  ‘No, no. Not the content; the price on its head. Well over a million I believe. Is that your interest?’

  Rosy nearly dropped her fork. A million pounds for that book? She was astounded. Whatever was the woman talking about?

  ‘Er, well no,’ she stammered. ‘It’s Dr Stanley, my head of department. He’s mounting an exhibition of rare nineteenth-century first editions and wants to include it. He told me to offer twenty pounds for it – well guineas actually. I doubt that he had anything much higher in mind.’ She giggled. ‘So where is it and why does it cost a million?’

  ‘Its whereabouts are not known and much disputed. As to its value, that is not the price-tag but the amount of reward offered to the lucky finder.’

  ‘How extraordinary. So who on earth is offering such a sum?’

  ‘A man called Berenstein. Rather eccentric – as also, given the association, is his first name. It is a bold parent who christens his son Farinelli, but his did and he seems happy enough with it. The boy is now an elderly recluse living in Padua with warped tastes and childish humour. Hence the nonsense of a million pounds.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Farinelli?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘Nothing at all, in fact a very illustrious name – though as a schoolboy in the playground the bearer stands the risk of being dubbed Il Castrato. Evidently you are not a follower of opera, Miss Gilchrist.’

  Rosy acknowledged that she wasn’t; and was about to ask why Farinelli Berenstein was so ready to dispense a million pounds for a poorly translated volume of Latin poems, when Miss Witherington exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, I must flee: the orange soufflés will have hit the ceiling!’ She leapt to her feet and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘She’s good at those soufflés,’ observed Downing musingly, ‘but frankly I prefer the tortiglione … although of course her great triumph is the Monte Bianco. Now that really does take the biscuit! Unfortunately they don’t make it in England, it’s a speciality of …’

  But Rosy was as indifferent to Mr Downing’s culinary preferences as she was to Signor Farinelli’s deficiencies. What mattered was the Horace and the man’s involvement with it. She must find out more. Perhaps after supper with the drama of the soufflés subsided she could pin her hostess down to further revelation.

  And then of course she remembered. No she couldn’t buttonhole Miss Witherington after supper, she was due at Florian’s to meet Felix and Cedric. Still, with luck she could corner her after breakfast. Meanwhile the prospect of a wander to the Piazza San Marco and a nightcap in stylish surroundings was rather appealing. She could wear the filigree silver earrings bought earlier in the day. Felix, at least, might appreciate them.

  With time in hand she had taken the opportunity to stroll along the Zattere before striking inwards towards San Marco. The mid-October night was mild, warm even, and the Giudecca straits so smooth that the moored boats scarcely moved, only rarely the rhythmic slap of wood on water breaking the silence. One or two people were still about, dog-walkers and the occasional strolling couple, but in their quiet meanderings these somehow deepened rather than dispelled the tranquillity. Rosy gazed around at the dark waters and the distant gleams from the Giudecca, smelling the hints of late jasmine wafted from an unseen garden. She wished she could stay longer; but to the east the twinkling lights beckoned, and obediently she quickened her pace to reach the Gesuati church and take the left turn which would lead her to the Ponte Accademia and onwards to the Piazza.

  She walked past the Campo Sant’Agnese lit only by stars and a gas lamp, and would have continued straight on but was stalled by a cat who seemed intent on making her acquaintance. Doubtless it was full of fleas, but it was rather a cute, fluffy little thing and she couldn’t resist stooping to tickle its ears.

  As she bent down whispering coaxing words she heard voices a little further ahead, and looking up saw a couple of men standing by a bench. They were engaged in lively conversation – heated really, as she could hear one of them insisting, ‘Rivedi il tuo prezzo! Fai pagare di più l’Americano, molto di più,’ while the other gave what sounded like an oath and threw his cigarette to the ground.

  ‘Impossibile,’ he retorted.

  ‘Si, si,’ the other urged.

  They broke off at her approach and muttered a peremptory ‘Buonasera.’ Rosy responded politely and was about to walk on briskly, when the shorter of the two suddenly cried, ‘Ah, it i
s the English signora who come to my shop! You wanted book, you want Horatius. You remember me?’ She most certainly did, and he was no more appealing in the dark than he had been in daylight. She gave a cool smile of recognition.

  ‘Madam has found her book?’ he enquired slyly.

  ‘Er, no not yet,’ Rosy replied. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘Excuse me, I am in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Perhaps the lovely lady has a date?’ the other man had the cheek to ask; and added, ‘Dates more fun than silly poems. Forget it, pretty girl!’ He leered.

  Rosy said nothing, sidestepped smartly and walked off. The air behind remained mute but she could feel them staring after her. She marched on – or as much as one could march in high heels. She had worn them to spend an elegant evening in Florian’s, not to hobnob with frightful men in dark corners! Suddenly the prospect of seeing Cedric and Felix became oddly reassuring.

  ‘Presumably she will come,’ Cedric said, ‘one never quite knows with Rosy Gilchrist: one of those contrary types whose intentions are difficult to assess.’

  ‘You mean like me?’ his companion asked coyly.

  ‘Dear boy, your intentions are invariably transparent and just occasionally charming.’

  Felix smirked, lit a cigarette and settled into his chair. Perhaps Rosy Gilchrist’s presence might be a trifle otiose after all …

  ‘Ah,’ Cedric announced, ‘here she is.’ He waved towards one of the glass doors where Rosy stood diffidently, surveying the maze of velvet alcoves. It was a few months since Cedric had seen her and he felt that on the whole she passed muster. Rather smart in fact. He stood up, ushered her to their table and signalled the waiter.

  Felix executed a neat bow and said, ‘We rather like sidecars after dinner but have anything you choose – lemonade if you must.’

  Rosy laughed, relaxed by the warm lights and convivial ambience. ‘I think I can manage without the lemonade thank you. A sidecar would be delicious.’

  Like all visitors to Venice inevitably they talked of the city: their impressions, experiences and favourite places. Or at least Cedric and Felix did. Rosy, newly arrived and diverted by her task, had less to contribute but she listened eagerly to their views and anecdotes. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed, ‘I haven’t even been inside St Mark’s yet, so goodness knows when I’ll be able to fit in anything else. Dr Stanley wants me back by the end of the week complete with the wretched book!’

  ‘Oh ditch the book and admit defeat,’ counselled Felix, ‘Torcello at dusk and San Giorgio at sunset are surely worth more than some Victorian hash of the Horace person! Spend your time wisely Miss Gilchrist.’

  ‘Actually – you won’t believe this and I hardly do myself – but that Victorian hash as you call it may be worth a great deal of money. Stupendous in fact.’

  ‘Stupendous?’ queried Cedric sceptically. ‘And what might that mean – five hundred?’

  Rosy shook her head. ‘A million.’

  Cedric was not easily shocked (or at least generally contrived to conceal such reaction) but at Rosy’s words he almost did the nose trick into his cocktail. Felix too gave a gasp of incredulity, and then turning to Cedric rather thoughtlessly blurted, ‘She’s got it wrong!’

  ‘No she has not got it wrong,’ Rosy retorted, stung by his dismissal. ‘I am merely passing on what my landlady told me this evening. Apparently there’s some crank tycoon in Padua who …’ And she proceeded to give them the few details she knew.

  Felix tittered. ‘Well that does put a different complexion on things. I think for a million one might consider missing both Torcello and San Giorgio!’

  ‘So typical,’ Cedric sighed. ‘I always knew you were a philistine at heart.’

  ‘Ah, but think of the exquisite paintings that could be purchased for one’s own private delectation – to gaze upon daily if one chose and without the hordes getting in the way.’

  There ensued an animated discussion as to which paintings might be selected and indeed whether such possession would justify the transaction. The issue remained unresolved and the topic concluded by another round of sidecars.

  ‘Just think,’ Felix said to Rosy, ‘when you find the thing you and your boss will be able to retire early and live in clover – though I am sure you won’t forget old friends in such good fortune.’ He winked.

  Rosy suspected that the wink contained a pinch of seriousness. Old friends? That was a new term all right!

  ‘Yes but she won’t find it,’ said Cedric coolly. ‘If what the landlady says is true others will have already looked; and if nothing has so far emerged then I can’t see why it suddenly should now. It’s a dead duck.’ He looked at Rosy: ‘Felix is right. Forget the thing and enjoy Venice – or as the ineffable Horace would say, carpe diem!’

  ‘Well I’d like to carpe diem with some zabagliones and coffee,’ his friend declared.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Cedric. ‘And then we’ll escort the millionairess back to her lodging and a good night’s rest. Pursuit of Art and Mammon is always fatiguing, don’t you find Miss Gilchrist?’ He gave a benign smile.

  Rosy was grateful for the suggestion. Normally she wouldn’t have thought twice about walking back on her own, but despite the distraction of Florian’s and her companions’ good humour, she still retained the image of Giuseppe Pacelli and his sidekick being mocking in the darkened square.

  ‘Well that’s a fine tale,’ Felix laughed as he and Cedric made their way back to the palazzo. ‘Do you think there’s anything in it?’

  ‘Not a jot. The landlady is probably batty and spinning her a line. Or it’s one of those old canards that periodically flourish when nothing much else is going on, something to lighten the damp evenings when the tourists have left. The Venetians are noted for their inventiveness …’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tired from her evening at Florian’s and taking her cue from other residents, Rosy decided to skip breakfast and to remain a little longer in bed. She stretched and reviewed her progress. There had of course been none; none plus a slightly upsetting incident. However, one thing was useful: with nothing to report she was at least spared the tiresome job of telephoning Stanley. An undoubted bonus.

  But one could hardly be content with so negative a gain; and she pondered her next move. To do as Felix and Cedric had recommended, i.e. abandon the whole project and take the opportunity to explore and enjoy Venice instead? It was certainly tempting. But was it ethical? After all as an employee of the Museum she was being paid to carry out an assignment. If that assignment proved unviable surely it was her bounden duty to admit defeat, curtail the expenses and return to London empty-handed but virtuous. The alternative was to return empty-handed having exploited her trip for all it was worth! The latter seemed cavalier, the former feeble … Indeed it was the thought of being feeble that galvanised Rosy. Surely it was pathetic to give up so quickly – and if she was going to indulge herself in Venice then such pleasures must be earnt, she told herself sternly.

  Thus resolved she got out of bed and dressed hastily, intent on pursuing Miss Witherington to learn more of the Berenstein fellow and his connection with the Horace book. If nothing else it would at least show willing and be a positive enquiry, however unproductive.

  ‘What a wonderful supper last night,’ she enthused, carefully avoiding all mention of the meagre breakfast, ‘that risotto was superb!’

  ‘Oh well one doesn’t live in Venice for years on end without learning something handy,’ Miss Witherington replied modestly. She adjusted her hat and her eyes twinkled. It was obvious she had been gratified by Rosy’s words.

  ‘Uhm … you were talking about Mr Berenstein yesterday and his desire to get his hands on the Bodger edition of the Horace odes. Is he really offering so much money?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Miss Witherington laughed, ‘and I have a stake in it myself.’

  ‘You have?’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow—’

  ‘The offer of the reward has a time lim
it. It was set for four years and has only another few days to run. The project itself is absurd – an obsessive fantasy typical of Farinelli. The odds on fulfilling the offer’s conditions are very long indeed, though the chances are still there of course. And thus being a realist I have placed a modest bet with a dear friend of mine that the four-year period will pass without anyone coming up with the goods. So far it’s all been very promising and I’m clearly on to a winner. Just think, very shortly I shall have won my bet and gained enough funds for two new hats and a week in Paris at the Longchamp racecourse! Now how’s that for excitement?’ She clapped her hands in gleeful anticipation, and then wagging a finger added, ‘Now my dear I trust you are not going to queer my pitch by finding the wretched thing after all this time. That would be really too bad!’ There were further squeaks of mirth.

  Rosy laughed too and said that she rather assumed that the Longchamp racecourse could indeed expect the pleasure of Miss Witherington’s company before too long. ‘But,’ she queried, ‘are you seriously saying that were I by some remote chance able to find this book that I could claim the million pounds?’

  ‘Well not unless you have the other thing of course.’

  ‘Other thing? Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Oh how silly of me – didn’t I tell you? The Murano vase. The two go together, like love and marriage as the song says. Without the glass thing the book’s price is considerably reduced, a mere few hundred lire or so. Same with the vase.’

  Rosy was perplexed. ‘I am sorry – I don’t really understand.’

  ‘Not many would,’ Miss Witherington remarked dryly, ‘you would need the addled mind of Farinelli Berenstein. He wants the book on account of its dedication – something to do with his dead mother I gather. Apparently in the old family home years ago this book was kept on a table in the study and served as a sort of plinth for the glass goblet – a rather gaudy little gewgaw by all accounts but apparently of some sentimental value and also treasured by the mother; though whether for the same reason as the book I don’t know and don’t care particularly. Anyway, the point is that as mothers do she died. The house was sold and much of its contents disposed of or lost. Son Farinelli came to Italy, led a dissolute life with various mistresses of both sexes, made a lot of money selling dubious antiques at outlandish prices to the Nazis, and now in his dotage and prompted by amusement and sentiment has issued this ridiculous challenge.’