‘So what does he propose doing with the items assuming they are found?’
Miss Witherington shrugged. ‘I have no idea: put them on his bedside table next to his false teeth and monkey-gland tablets perhaps … Goodness, I do trust he takes the latter, it is essential he remain extant until the period is up, because at his death the whole deal is scuppered and the prize money goes to the state. That would render my bet null and void and I should forfeit the fun of new hats and the delights of champagne at Longchamp. Thus he must continue alive for that period (not much longer!) and during this time the two items must not be found. So to that negative end, Miss Gilchrist, I trust you will not be too assiduous in your searches!’ She laughed, and discarding her hat and rolling up her sleeves announced she had to prepare some ‘super-duper’ puddings and lagoon-fished trout for the evening meal.
Minutes later from the kitchen could be heard the clatter of dishes and the distant warbling of ‘We’re in the money …’ Feeling slightly dazed it struck Rosy that an early elevenses of Bomba Garibaldi might help to put her thoughts in order. She set off for Tonelli’s.
The Daphne woman had been quite right: the ice cream was totally luscious. And after a chaser of a double espresso Rosy began to toy with the possibility of ordering another. ‘No,’ she told herself sternly, ‘behave yourself and don’t be such a pig; there are pressing matters to consider.’ So forgoing the ice she ordered another coffee and lit a cigarette; and gazing out over the serene water reflected upon Miss Witherington’s rather bizarre words.
Clearly if the book had not materialised over the last four years, the chances of herself alighting on it in the next few days were slim to say the least … as indeed Cedric had pointed out. The task was proving even more pointless than she had originally thought. So much for Dr Stanley’s bright ideas! The prospect of his reaction when she returned to her desk bookless and defeated was grim indeed. She pictured the scene: a chiaroscuro of reproachful melancholy and hectoring angst. The eruptions would eventually die down of course, but for days – weeks even – she would be haunted by hangdog looks and baleful sighs. Charming.
As she brooded it also occurred to her that the probable reason why the book had not already been brandished at Farinelli Berenstein was that the Murano vase remained undiscovered. As Miss Witherington had explained, one without the other was useless. To secure the prize both items had to be produced together … Well she didn’t want the prize: just the damn book on its own, safe in her suitcase. The perishing vase or goblet, or whatever it was, was an irrelevance. She sighed. And then as an antidote to irritation opened her guidebook and became immersed in the finer points of St Mark’s Basilica.
Five minutes later concentration was interrupted by the arrival of a rather smart couple in their early thirties – or at least the woman was, her escort looked younger. They settled at a table behind Rosy and she heard the waitress take an order for biscotti and coffee. ‘Oh and you can bring me a cognac as well,’ said the young man. Rosy was slightly surprised to hear the English words and voice. For some reason – perhaps the sleeked hair and over-pressed trousers – she had assumed him to be Italian.
She resumed her reading, the couple’s presence registered only by a muted burble. But something must have been said to quicken the mood for she heard a gasp of impatience from the woman and the voices sharpened.
‘I’ve told you, he’s definitely got it,’ the woman said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it – on the mantelpiece. It’s been there for ages.’
There was a protracted pause; and Rosy was about to gather her things and ask for the bill when she heard the man say, ‘Well in that case you had better do something about it.’
This was greeted by a caustic laugh. ‘Oh yes – what exactly?’
‘Get hold of it of course, idiot!’
‘And just how do you propose I do that?’
‘How should I know? Sleep with the bugger or something.’
‘Hah! It’ll have to be “or something” – I don’t think he’s up to the other.’ There came another mocking laugh.
Rosy experienced a flare of prurient curiosity and she cocked her ear for more. But at that moment a beaming Tonelli bustled over, full of grateful blandishments and urging her to visit again to sample further confections. ‘My Chocolate Mussolini is vairee good, signora. Diabolo! You will like. Everybody like Tonelli’s Mussolini!’
‘Oh I am sure I will,’ Rosy replied enthusiastically. It occurred to her to ask if he also did a Vanilla Fascista with nuts on, but thought better of it.
Thus by the time cash and compliments had been exchanged, Rosy’s guidebook dropped and ceremoniously retrieved and felicitations sent to the ‘so sharmink’ Signorina Witherington, the couple’s table had been vacated and they had vanished. Rosy felt a tickle of disappointment. It had been an intriguing little exchange, and she wondered what the fate of the item on the mantelpiece would be and whether its owner proved up to anything after all!
With her head filled with such frivolity she turned her steps in the direction of the Piazza San Marco to be sobered and uplifted by its great basilica. If she had nothing else to report to Stanley at least she could assure him she had seen something wondrous. Besides, who knew, she might even pass an open bookshop along the way.
CHAPTER NINE
The relationship between Lucia Borgino and her brother Edward Jones was fractious. It was always the same: their first few days together were generally good, verging on the congenial in fact. And then the tensions and bickering would begin, the exasperated sighs and mutual jibes. They were good at jibes; always had been, ever since childhood when each had learnt the pain and curious pleasure of rivalry and had honed their weapons accordingly.
At ten years old Lucia had been Queen of the May – amusing, wayward and precociously self-possessed. She had been adored and indulged by parents and grandparents alike, and had been bossily possessive of her brother five years younger. It had been so satisfactory teaching, correcting, and guiding the toddler through the snares and riddles of infancy while at the same time flaunting her own undoubted superiority. The grown-ups were impressed by her solicitude and patted her curls exclaiming what a wise little sister she was. They praised her talents, her wit and her prettiness; frequently. And Lucia had basked in their attention and flattery.
A few months after her tenth birthday things changed. Little Edward had started to show signs of independence and a growing self-assurance that would question Lucia’s dictates. Indeed, not only question but ridicule them. Like herself he developed, even at that early age, a nice line in childish invective which he would practise assiduously not only on other children but also on his sister.
To her fury he also developed the knack of turning cartwheels considerably better than her own. Sometimes too he would raid her money box, helping himself liberally to the sixpences and threepenny-bits and even to the boiled sweets occasionally secreted there; and with a face of cherubic innocence would blame such depredations upon the dog. Two of her mother’s friends kept exclaiming how attractive the little boy was growing (ridiculous, she was the pretty one!) and he would flutter his stupid lashes and give a sickening smirk … There were no two ways about it: dear little Edward was turning into a tiresome little bastard. It was not actually a term she knew at that stage, but the sentiments behind it settled deep in her psyche; and the phrase, once learnt, was applied frequently and with varying degrees of force and embellishment.
Edward too had found his sibling irksome. It was the patronage he couldn’t bear: the put-downs, the snubs, the tone of dismissive mockery when he got his sums right, swam a length at the swimming baths or when, years later, he was found canoodling with the girl next door (shrieks of caustic laughter). She was stingy too. She got twice his amount of pocket money but never offered him a penny; instead would berate him for being extravagant while she spent her own shillings on sherbet and lollipops which she would make a point
of guzzling in front of him. Mean and arrogant that’s what she had been!
And yet, and yet. Despite such hostilities there remained between brother and sister a bond of fragile intimacy, a relationship based less on affection than on a tacit recognition of a shared affinity – an affinity defined by a firm sense of their own worth and a disregard for most things not pertaining to their personal ends. For Edward the end was money; for Lucia status and social prestige. The two ends are not incompatible and often go hand in hand … as indeed, metaphorically, did the siblings when circumstances suited. On the whole the current circumstances did suit and Edward’s stay at Lucia’s flat, initially at least, was congenial to both.
‘So this Sir Fenton,’ Lucia had asked him, ‘is he a knight or a baronet?’
Edward replied that he really hadn’t thought about it and that provided the chap had the dosh, which he obviously had, he couldn’t care less.
‘Oh I agree,’ she had laughed, ‘when push comes to shove dosh takes precedence. Still, a decent title doesn’t come amiss. You had better introduce me when I’m next in London. Who knows, I might like him. Is there a wife?’
‘I rather suspect not. And actually, Lucia, I don’t think he would care a fig if you did like him, it’s me he likes. Likes the cut of my jib, as the old bore said. I tell you, if I play my cards right I could become quite useful to him and have him eating out of my hand. There may be other areas of lucrative possibility. So don’t come pushing your nose in, sister dear!’
She laughed again. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, not if he’s like that; my interest has vanished instantly. You’d better be careful about what else he has in mind! Anyway tell me a bit more about this book and what he wants you to do.’
Edward outlined his brief. ‘So you see on the face of things it’s fairly straightforward. He’s given me the name of a bookseller to contact who he thinks might know something and can point me in the right direction. Can’t think of his name at the moment but it begins with a P and—’
‘Pacelli? Not that old rogue!’ she snorted. ‘He’s a greasy piece of work. Still I suppose he may be useful. But he’ll want money – won’t do you any free favours!’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Edward said.
‘Well I trust it all works out for you. But frankly with the size of your debts I can’t see this man’s fee being of stupendous help. And even if you do find the thing and get a hundred-guinea suit thrown in, apart from pleasing your vanity that’s not going to take you far; keep the bank manager sweet for a couple of months maybe. But you really need other strings to your bow I should have thought.’
‘Thanks so much for the sterling encouragement,’ Edward replied. ‘The point is, as I have explained, if successful this little venture could earn me not just coppers but kudos. It’s an investment. You know the proverbs – from little acorns et cetera, and nothing ventured nothing gained. Sir Whatsit’s taken a shine to me and I’m going to—’
‘Exploit the old bugger?’
Her brother raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I am not sure that you are the one to talk of exploitation. Did pretty well out of your ex, didn’t you? Certainly enough to afford this flat and swan around Venice in Dior suits. Rather took him to the cleaners I seem to recall.’
‘I did not take him to the cleaners, he owed me the damned stuff and in any case it was what he deserved! And I have only one Dior suit,’ she snapped. ‘As usual you exaggerate.’
They glowered at each other.
And then Lucia relaxed. ‘I think we might call a truce,’ she said graciously. ‘I expect you’re tired after your flight and personally I’ve had rather a tedious time being charming to grandfather’s clients. They come to Venice not having clue what they’re supposed to be looking at and he expects me to show them the Guggenheim and explain the paintings. He seems to think that in their gratitude they’ll remember to buy more stuff from him when they’re next in London. It’s such a bore.’
‘But he pays you,’ retorted Edward, still nettled by her earlier attitude.
She pouted. ‘A pittance … Look, I suggest you go and unpack and get yourself straight and then we might go out and have a coffee and decide where to lunch. Nothing heavy mind you, we’re dining with the Canellis this evening.’
She settled on the sofa and switched on the wireless. It was the weekly programme ‘Tales of Venice’, a mildly amusing hotchpotch of local anecdotes, personal reminiscence, snippets of history and bits of current gossip. But she paid little attention; her mind was elsewhere, i.e. on Guy Hope-Landers. She really quite liked the man, and in view of what he had let drop the other day felt she could get to like him even more. Quite a bit more in fact. Yes definitely worth a try. She stretched out a graceful hand and regarded the ring with some disdain; a paltry little thing really. Angelo had always been mean; but despite their split she wore it anyway – a signora without a ring on her third finger was unheard of! Still, she didn’t want to be stuck with that one all her life … No, not at all. What was the thing Edward had quoted? ‘Nothing ventured nothing gained’? Well at least he was right there she supposed; and like him she could do with a bit of gain!
She powdered her nose and was about to switch off the wireless when her ear was caught by the last part of the programme’s final item and the jocular tones of the announcer:
And so, listeners, to claim the million pounds from Signor Farinelli Berenstein his solicitors declare that finders of the genuine Bodger Horace must also produce that distinctive antique vase we were describing earlier: the mauve-and-yellow Murano piece with the scrolled lettering and flawed handle. But remember, ladies and gentlemen, one without the other is like a vintage wine without a corkscrew: useless!’ The compère gave a mocking laugh. ‘Tune in this time next week, my eager friends. And meanwhile enjoy your wanderings in cloud-cuckoo land – or as the English might say, don’t stab your fingers with that needle in a haystack!
His concluding chuckle was drowned in a blast of dance music.
Lucia switched off the set. How absurd she thought. But an extraordinary coincidence all the same. She must tell Edward – when he had finished preening himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘Do hurry up,’ she called, ‘I’m dying for some coffee!’
They strolled arm in arm towards the Zattere and Tonelli’s café in a rare mood of sibling amity. (Doubtless the warming effects of the sun and the water’s azure indolence.)
‘You know your commission for this damn book?’ Lucia said.
‘Hmm.’
‘Well oddly enough, while you were unpacking I heard the most ridiculous item on the wireless. It involved the Bodger thing, and do you know …’ And she proceeded to tell him the outlandish tale.
‘Huh, fat chance of that I should think. It’s one thing searching for the book – now that is a practical proposition – but to expect to find the vase as well is a fool’s errand. Like looking for the proverbial needle.’
She laughed. ‘Exactly what was said on the radio. One of those popular fantasies put about by Murano glass-blowers to promote sales I shouldn’t wonder!’
‘Except from what you said this one isn’t contemporary; it’s meant to be an antique isn’t it? And from the sound of it not a very valuable one either. If the handle is skewed it was probably a reject. Colour sounds a bit dodgy too … what did you say, mauve and yellow? Ugh! Anyone with taste would have thrown it out years ago!’
‘Ah but not everyone has our taste.’
‘You can say that again! Do you know, on the plane coming over there was a woman wearing the most …’
But Lucia was not listening. She had suddenly stopped and was gazing fixedly across the water to the Giudecca.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied faintly. ‘I’m thinking.’
‘Yes well don’t think too long, I want a drink.’
Detaching her arm she turned towards him. ‘Do you know I think I may have seen the thing. Good Lord,’ she said slowly, ‘I think
I know where it could be …’
CHAPTER TEN
Edward lay sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed. Though he had only had a single glass of wine at lunch he felt tired. Presumably the effects of the early flight followed by the large cognac at Tonelli’s. They were going out that evening and perhaps he should take a nap … Take a nap? Christ that’s what old men did. He wasn’t going down that road yet! But he kept his eyes closed all the same. And stretching long legs he kicked off a shoe and put a softer cushion under his head. It was pleasant in the sun. At this time of year London had started to get so damn draughty. He reflected on what Lucia had said in the café. It had been an intriguing idea but hardly likely, although she had seemed very certain. Still, it didn’t do to take too much notice of what Lucia said: her mind had always been vivid.
She had gone off somewhere; no doubt to hobnob with some American or German client of their grandfather. Probably showing off as usual, being oh so droll and witty. She liked doing that – attracting sly admiration from the men and intimidating their wives. She found the process gratifying regardless of any monetary gain (though was invariably quick to grasp such bonus). Personally he preferred to save his energy for something tangible: what was the point of being charming if there was nothing concrete to be gained? It was exactly the same when they were children. Lucia would pirouette in her taffeta frock in front of the grown-ups lapping up their praise and laughter; the attention was reward itself. Whereas his own antics had been largely aimed at the acquisition of a shiny half-crown or new Dinky car – something heavy in the pocket. He mused: a general difference between the sexes? Or a specific difference between himself and Lucia? It hardly mattered; the essential concern was the heavy pocket. Blow the psychology.
The Venetian Venture Page 6