She frowned, recalling the second encounter in the Campo Agnese when she had seen him with the other man – quarrelling; or so it had seemed. Oh hell, was that material? No of course not. They hadn’t really been quarrelling … raised voices merely, a minor spat quickly dispelled when she had appeared. True she hadn’t liked their attitude towards her – damn rude it had been! Still, a trivial incident surely and one hardly relevant to the present matter; it would be officious to mention it. No, the last thing she wanted was to spend her precious time in Venice traipsing to police stations and making statements of little worth in fractured Italian or pidgin English. Doubtless there was a host of far more useful witnesses available – local people more knowledgeable than she and keen to do their civic duty. Thus persuaded Rosy retired to bed satisfied that she had no role to play in the inquiry into Giuseppe Pacelli’s unfortunate fate.
It was only much later in the night that she awoke and began to think about the death itself. She hadn’t liked the man, that was for sure; but a violent bludgeoning was a dreadful way for anyone to go, however impolite they had been. She visualised the scene: a caller (Known to him? The two glasses might suggest so), an argument and accusations, perhaps threats of blackmail (probably running a brisk trade in illicit erotica!); a sudden flare-up and tussle, the seizing of the paperweight and the violent attack followed by a swift exit. Clearly the killing hadn’t been premeditated – a spur of the moment thing, the product of blind rage. Was the attacker glad that his victim was conveniently silenced or appalled that a moment’s passion could result in such a nightmare?
She rolled over, adjusted the pillows, and shutting her eyes dismissed both scene and speculations. None of it was to do with her and she was hardly the investigating officer. Why burden the mind with pointless questions? Her task in Venice was to hunt for the wretched Bodger, not play detective in a case of squalid murder.
Yet it was the issue of the book that returned her mind to the dead man. Why had he been so churlish and dismissive? Indeed not just dismissive but positively hostile. Rosy winced, recalling the mocking face and voice at their last encounter. All most unpleasant! She stared into the dark reliving the details and becoming increasingly certain she had been right in her earlier suspicion – that both Pacelli and his companion had been deliberately warning her off. Quite possibly they were after the book themselves, knew where it was and were protective of their interests.
Perhaps Pacelli had been commissioned to acquire it by some other avid book collector … after all, Dr Stanley and Sir Fenton might not be the only ones keen to lay hands on this particular bit of Victorian scholarship. There were supposed to be a couple of unsigned Bodger editions in America. Perhaps an obsessed academic over there also wanted the embellishment of signature and dedication and was willing to pay rather more for it than the British Museum’s measly twenty pounds – or was it guineas? Besides, according to Miss Witherington and her Farinelli Berenstein story, if both book and glass goblet could be produced simultaneously mammoth money was at stake. But in either case why let some officious foreigner muscle in on the act? Send her off with a flea in her ear, that’s what!
A foghorn sounded far out in the lagoon, and not much the wiser the officious foreigner sighed, kicked back the blankets and fell into muddled sleep.
Caruso had been such a tiresome pain. First he had demanded to be let out at four in the morning if you please, then at breakfast he had been most disagreeable with a neighbouring cat. And following that, in an access of maudlin sentimentality he had slobbered all over Felix’s newly pressed shirts. It really was too bad! The custodian glared at the hound who retorted with a slowly wagged tail and mighty belch.
Thus when Cedric looked up from his newspaper and announced that someone had been murdered close to the Rialto Felix felt so much better. ‘Really?’ he exclaimed. ‘Was it a cardinal?’
Cedric lowered the paper and regarded him over the rims of his glasses. ‘Now what on earth has put that idea into your head?’
‘Well according to literature and history that sort of thing goes on all the time in Venice doesn’t it? Or it certainly used to. Prelates and other eminent rascals were always being knifed or seduced. Par for the course.’ Good temper resumed, Felix winked at the dog.
‘I don’t think this chap was seduced,’ Cedric observed mildly, ‘and from what I understand neither was he knifed: the weapon was his own paperweight, a statue of a priapic satyr. Curious tastes some people have. Still, as it happens quite a coincidence: the victim was that bookseller Rosy Gilchrist was so annoyed about – Pacelli his name was.’
‘There you are then,’ Felix declared triumphantly, ‘I told you it was to do with the church.’
Cedric smiled. ‘But quite intriguing you must admit. Perhaps the Italians get more het up about matters literary than we do in England. I don’t imagine such hostilities are enacted in the boardroom of Foyles … although who knows, maybe they are. The public is always the last to hear of such things.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Felix thoughtfully, ‘I daresay when Rosy gets to hear of it she’ll be bursting with curiosity and Schadenfreude and eager to share her excitement with us. She does have our phone number. I wouldn’t object except that after Caruso’s boorish behaviour and my broken sleep I am feeling a trifle jaded. Might it be politic if we were to forfeit the drama and leave Venice for a day and visit Vicenza? I’ve always had a hankering to see that splendid Villa Rotunda and I gather there is quite a good train.’
‘I think you exaggerate Rosy Gilchrist’s yen for drama. But since it says here that the police want to interview anyone having had contact with the victim recently she may be considering her position and want our advice on the matter. So perhaps—’
‘Exactly! I haven’t recovered from our last engagement with Rosy Gilchrist in a police matter. So don’t let us take the risk. A quiet day and a low profile is the answer. I’ll look up the train times.’ Felix bustled to the door and then stopped and tittered. ‘You never know, since she was so furious with the bookseller perhaps this is her revenge. All the more reason to keep out of harm’s way!’
‘Hold on,’ Cedric exclaimed, ‘I’ve just remembered: it’s today that Hope-Landers is holding the little gathering at Harry’s Bar. I told you – he invited us a couple of days ago. We can’t duck out now; Vicenza will have to wait.’
Felix pulled a face. ‘Honestly, the sacrifices one makes!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Now, I’m in the chair,’ declared Hope-Landers expansively. ‘What will it be – Bellinis? This is the place you know.’
He turned to Cedric who said he did know and would prefer a negroni.
‘Wise choice,’ said the host. ‘Outside New York this is the best place for them.’ He lowered his voice leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘And I can assure you they have the edge on the Gritti’s – less Campari more gin.’
Felix opted for the same and glanced round appreciatively at the understated surroundings: the bare floorboards, high windows and plain wooden tables. In fact the only item of any note was the bar itself – an Aladdin’s cave of gleaming spirits and vivid concoctions. Amid the room’s austerity it led the eye like a magnet. The bartender, shaker in hand and svelte in a cream jacket, smiled discreetly as Caruso detached himself from Felix and waddled to the far end and settled himself beneath a bench in the corner. Evidently his customary place.
‘You see,’ chuckled Hope-Landers, ‘the dog selects the spot. So that’s where we had better sit, the others won’t be long.’ He ushered them to a table where their drinks were delivered and a saucer and biscuits brought for Caruso.
‘So who else is coming?’ Cedric asked. ‘I think you mentioned Mrs Borgino … Is there a—uhm—a Signor Borgino?’
‘Not any longer, she sent him packing years ago. But she keeps the name – Lucia Borgino sounds rather better in Venice than Lucia Jones.’ He laughed, and turning to Felix said, ‘Don’t you think?’
As one who had s
ubstituted a y for an i in his own name, Felix was inclined to agree but he had no intention of siding with the likes of Lucia Jones, whoever her grandfather might be. Old snubs died hard with Felix.
‘As a matter of fact though,’ Hope-Landers continued, ‘she won’t be coming unescorted. Her brother is staying with her. He visits periodically from London. I quite like the chap but he’s not to everyone’s taste.’
‘Really? What does he do?’ Felix asked.
‘Well … it seems to vary. A versatile cove you might say, though I get the impression without much staying power. He went into his grandfather’s art gallery when he left school but that didn’t last long. Annoyed the customers, too cocksure. Apparently Montgomery went in one day looking for a Cecil Aldin dog picture; and young Edward, thinking he was being clever, had the gall to ask the Field Marshal if he had seen any war service.’ Hope-Landers chuckled. ‘That didn’t go down very well, I can tell you. Not well at all! Still he’s always perfectly civil to me. But frankly just entre nous, I rather think there are some hefty debts in the background, but it’s a topic I studiously avoid. After all hard enough keeping one’s own purse in the black without having to be concerned for others’!’
‘Most wise,’ Felix agreed. ‘And anyone else?’
‘Yes a rather nice American. He paints. Obsessed with the Grand Canal and indeed with Venice generally. You’ll like him. A couple of others may look in. And of course Dilly and Duffy are coming but they are always late, bred in the bone you might say.’
‘Dilly and Duffy? Who are they – friends of Caruso?’ Cedric enquired.
Hope-Landers laughed. ‘Oh no, perfectly human I can assure you. They are twins of the inseparable kind, though I must say at sixty-plus just a trifle old to dress in the same frocks but I gather it’s something you can’t avoid, psychological I suppose. Anyway they are very civil and jolly – that is, until they’ve had a few and then they’re fiendish.’
‘I see. And are they likely to become so today?’
‘Shouldn’t think so; the cabaret is most spectacular on Sunday evenings. At other times they are largely docile. Although they’re not too keen on Lucia’s brother – take rather a dim view, so you may detect an element of froideur.’
‘Really? What don’t they like in particular?’
Hope-Landers paused. ‘Well …’ he began.
‘Not in particular just general,’ an American voice said close to his elbow. Cedric looked up and was confronted by a big man with a beard, forage cap and smiling blue eyes. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Ernest Hemingway in his better days, and the context certainly seemed apt. (Yet another twin perhaps?) He was introduced as Bill Hewson, a painter from Boston. ‘Yes I came here some time back to do a watercolour of the lagoon. Sargent had done it so why shouldn’t I? As it is, I stayed six years and I’m still here.’ He grinned.
‘And is the watercolour finished?’
‘Nope. Never begun. Too much other stuff to catch the eye. Can’t get enough of it; you should come to my studio some time, the place is full of the garbage.’
‘Oh no garbage there I assure you,’ Hope-Landers said, ‘all damn good stuff.’
Cedric smiled politely and said they would be delighted to pay a visit.
‘Weren’t you saying something about Mrs Borgino’s brother,’ Felix asked inquisitively, ‘what’s the difficulty?’
But he had to wait to find out, for at that moment the door at the far end was pushed open and in came Lucia accompanied by a tall young man with sleeked hair and sunglasses – an addition which, given the greyness of the day, seemed a trifle redundant. Clad in dazzling white Lucia too seemed indifferent to the weather. For a few moments the siblings stood poised on the threshold surveying the room. They were a handsome pair and made a striking tableau. And then with a light laugh and a wave to the barman, Lucia advanced towards their host whom she kissed lavishly.
‘Ah, I think you’ve already met Cedric and Felix,’ he began, ‘though we were all in such a rush the other day, didn’t have time to …’
‘Have I?’ Lucia threw them a smile of little interest; and then added vaguely, ‘Oh yes, I think I remember, on the bridge wasn’t it?’ She turned to Hewson and exclaimed, ‘Lovely to see you Bill. I took Edward to your spring exhibition last time he was here. He adored it, didn’t you Eddie!’
‘Of course,’ her brother said, ‘as I always do. Bill’s pictures are charming – and so reassuring. The familiar never palls; it induces such feelings of confidence.’ He whipped off his sunglasses and gave the older man a challenging grin.
‘Confidence in what,’ enquired Cedric who had overheard the comment, ‘your judgement?’
‘Sorry? Oh … well in life I imagine.’ The young man shrugged, and turning away called, ‘I say Guy, Lucia said something about some fizz. Any hope? I thought we had come to toast your windfall. Don’t be slow in coming forward!’
‘Any minute now old chap, Marco’s just bringing it over,’ replied his host. ‘But we might just hang on for Dilly and Duffy, they’ll be here soon.’
As indeed they were; for just as the young waiter had put the bottles on the table two grey ghosts came gliding through the door: ghosts in identical mackintoshes and smiling benignly. They greeted Hope-Landers and Hewson warmly, were less warm towards the brother and sister, and appraised Cedric and Felix with mild eyes.
‘You’re new here aren’t you?’ said one of the ghosts.
‘Where are you staying,’ fired the other, ‘the Sandwirth? Or slumming it at the Metropole?’
Cedric coughed and said that actually they were in a private residence.
‘Which one?’ demanded the first.
‘The, uhm, Palazzo Reiss,’ Cedric replied politely.
‘Oh, Vio’s place!’ they chimed in unison; and approving looks were exchanged.
‘Isn’t there a cousin of some sorts?’ Dilly or Duffy enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Felix, ‘I am it.’
‘Really?’ was the collective response. One of them clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Felix the Florist – we’ve heard all about you!’
Her sister nodded vigorously. ‘We have indeed.’
Cedric was amused, Felix taken aback. What on earth had Cousin Violet known to impart to these two? He barely knew her. But he was flattered all the same and experienced a flush of pleasure.
‘Oh yes, you were a very naughty little boy,’ said one, ‘always stealing jam and destroying your mother’s flowers.’
‘But,’ cut in the other, ‘redeemed yourself recently we hear. Secured the Queen Mother’s approval – one of those By Royal Appointment warrants no less; most commendable.’
‘Yes it’s amazing how well some turn out isn’t it,’ observed Dilly or Duffy, ‘but by no means all.’ She cast a pointed look at Edward. The latter was on to his second glass of champagne and affected not to notice. She waved her own glass at Hope-Landers. ‘Good news about the lolly, Guy; always nice to have a little spare. Here’s to plenty more where that came from. You never know your luck! Happy days everybody!’
Glasses were raised, clinked, and an air of merriment ensued; in the course of which Edward, seated next to Felix, whispered, ‘Such tiresome old bats, but one has to indulge them I suppose.’
Felix pursed his lips. ‘One has to indulge a lot of people in this life, it’s something one learns.’
He had the impression that the response was not appreciated – which was exactly as he had intended. Yet slightly to his surprise Edward continued: ‘Oh by the way, I gather from my sister that you have a friend who’s after that set of Horace translations. I can tell you she’s backing the wrong horse. Waste of time; she won’t find it. I know for a fact the thing’s no longer in Venice.’ He spoke with an air of careless confidence. But then pausing fractionally he laughed and added, ‘Or at least I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Maybe I am hopelessly out of date and she’s managed to find it after all. Living in London one is never entirely abreast of Venetian
affairs. Sniffing it out is she?’ He gave an enquiring smile.
‘Well funny you should say that because if it’s the one you mean I rather suspect it is still—’ Felix began, but stopped abruptly having received a sharp kick on the ankle from Cedric opposite. Pain not compliance silenced him, and to alleviate the former he took a large gulp of champagne and hobbled off to the Gents.
‘So what the hell was that about?’ Felix protested as the three weaved their way back to the palazzo.
‘Not sure really,’ mused Cedric, ‘a hunch I suppose … Do you think that dog will need any more food or will the bar biscuits be enough for it?’
‘Dog be damned!’ cried Felix. ‘What about my ankle? Any more hunches like that and I shall be in a wheelchair before long!’
‘Sorry. Foot slipped.’
‘I should think it did. So what were you playing at?’
Cedric frowned. ‘Well … actually I also wonder what that Edward person was playing at. The sister too for that matter.’
Felix snorted. ‘Beyond me I’m afraid. Must have been that second grappa: wits aren’t quite what they should be.’
‘Well I heard what Master Jones was saying to you – that his sister had told him about Rosy searching for the Horace. Yet five minutes earlier when I had been trying to make polite conversation with the girl she affected supreme indifference to the whole topic and said it was highly unlikely that this Carlo chap would know anything, and that in any case he was currently in New York.’
‘But he’s not. The American mentioned that he had been at his studio only yesterday.’
‘There you are then. It is slightly odd too that when we met her and Hope-Landers on the way to the Accademia she said something to the effect that the one person who might know something would be Carlo and that she would organise a meeting. But in the bar just now she was conspicuously dismissive of the whole subject, and yet—’
The Venetian Venture Page 8