CHAPTER TWENTY
Back at the pensione and sitting in the lounge nursing the predictably weak tea, Rosy was debating whether to telephone Dr Stanley again. Unless one counted Edward’s drowning, Carlo’s curious revelation and Pacelli’s murder she had nothing of note to report – certainly nothing of note for Dr Stanley. Such events would be significant to him only in so far as they represented tiresome obstacles to her quest. She wondered idly whether she should invent something, something small but telling which would raise his hopes yet confirm nothing: a harmless lie cheering to him and undisturbing to her.
She was just pondering such a possibility when she was interrupted by two of her fellow guests, Dr Burgess and Daphne Blanchett. They looked windswept and a trifle damp.
‘We’ve been round the lagoon in a speedboat,’ the latter explained, ‘fearfully fast and not to be recommended. I feel quite worn out!’
‘It wasn’t actually a speedboat,’ said Burgess, ‘merely a dinghy with a souped-up engine.’
‘Well whatever it was I shan’t be indulging in that little trip again. Funny once, silly twice!’ She glanced at the tray of tea by Rosy’s chair and gave a disdainful sniff. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff’(neither did Rosy)‘insipid enough at breakfast, far worse in the afternoon. I am surprised our hostess has the gall to produce it. Curious really when she’s such a good cook.’
‘It’s probably a deliberate ploy to make us admire the food even more,’ suggested Burgess.
‘Rather a desperate measure I should think,’ she said dryly. ‘Oh and talking of desperate measures, I read in the paper that that brother of Lucia Borgino fell off a bridge and drowned. I gather he was larking about and slipped. Attention seeking as usual I suppose. Oh well, one display too far this time I fear … Tell me, did Guy say anything about it in the boat? The engine was making such a racket I couldn’t hear a thing.’
Rosy was too surprised to catch Burgess’s response. It hadn’t occurred to her that the two should know Edward and his sister, or indeed Guy Hope-Landers (presumably it was he, and she vaguely recalled his saying he had a boat).
‘Actually,’ she interrupted, ‘the poor boy didn’t slip, he dived.’
‘Hmm. That would follow,’ Burgess said.
‘How do you know?’ exclaimed Daphne Blanchett. ‘You weren’t there were you?’ She regarded Rosy with accusing interest.
‘As it happens I was,’ Rosy said quietly. ‘It was all rather dreadful.’
‘Well yes I am sure it was … ghastly.’ She didn’t sound particularly aghast but Rosy gave her the benefit of the doubt.
‘So you witnessed the whole thing did you?’ Dr Burgess asked.
Rosy nodded.
‘How unsettling,’ he said, and sounded genuinely sympathetic.
‘Very strange,’ Daphne Blanchett remarked. ‘Are you sure Guy didn’t say anything about it in the boat? As a matter of fact given the circumstances I’m surprised he didn’t cancel our trip. If the thing happened so recently you might have expected him to be busy comforting the grieving sister. Surely Lucia would have seen to that all right!’ She gave a caustic laugh.
‘Ah,’ replied Burgess, ‘but perhaps we were the godsend, a means of timely escape.’ They exchanged knowing looks.
Dr Burgess turned to Rosy. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘you must think us rather harsh. But we quite like old Guy. He’s a pleasant fellow; one of nature’s placid bachelors you might say. For some reason Signora Borgino seems to have set her cap at him. There has been a steady pursuit. I think he finds it rather a trial, though is too polite to say so.’
Rosy smiled awkwardly. She was slightly uncomfortable hearing details of Hope-Landers’ private problems but felt a guilty interest all the same. Gossip was so seductive!
‘Hmm,’ murmured Daphne Blanchett darkly, ‘and in view of what was announced last week the pursuit is likely to get all the steadier.’
‘What? Oh you mean the title.’ Burgess chuckled. ‘Yes that should quicken the pace I shouldn’t wonder.’
Rosy was bemused but not wanting to ask a direct question cleared her throat instead. Perhaps that would be a cue for one of them.
It was. Burgess glanced across at her. ‘Don’t suppose you would know about that would you? In fact very few people do. Guy’s always kept the connection pretty dark. I suspect he’s a bit embarrassed by it actually. He is related to some peer who lives a reclusive existence in a croft in the Highlands: a funny old boy, name of Benjamin Ritchie-Hope-Landers. He never married and Guy is a second, or possibly a third, cousin. It seems the chap is on his last legs and demise is imminent, and Guy being the nearest relative inherits the title. It’s a vast estate – three fields and a pair of sheep!’
‘Yes,’ chimed Daphne Blanchett, ‘so all style and virtually no substance. Cachet without cash. Not much use to poor old Guy.’
‘But possibly to Lucia?’ Rosy ventured.
‘Most definitely. To be Lady Ritchie-Hope-Landers would suit Madam very well, especially if money were attached – not that there’s much chance of that. Still, one can’t have everything.’
‘Young Edward thought you could,’ Dr Burgess murmured.
‘Yes and he came a cropper,’ was the tart response.
‘Er … what does Guy actually do?’ Rosy asked.
‘Do? Well he lives in Venice.’
‘Yes but that’s not—’
‘Not a job? Well it is as far as he’s concerned. He is in receipt of a small pension and has the occasional modest windfall from shares – had one the other day I believe. His patience make him popular with old ladies and children, and his charm pleases hostesses seeking a spare man – and since there are several of those in Venice he is much in demand. As to what he does in his spare time: he regularly completes The Times crossword, tends his potted begonias and buzzes about in that awful boat. He did once tell me that if he could afford it he would like to sail around the world and visit the Galápagos Islands to view those disgusting newts. But I rather doubt whether funds run to that so presumably it remains a pipe dream.’
She stood up and gathering her bag and jacket announced, ‘Well I’m off for my G&T and some shut-eye. I will leave the pallid tea leaves to you Miss Gilchrist.’
Dr Burgess also got up but at the door paused. ‘Oh by the way, remember our esteemed chef is away tonight so supper will be a cold buffet. I advise you to get down early otherwise our friend Downing will be at the head of the queue and scoff the lot!’ Rosy thanked him for his advice which she suspected was entirely valid.
Dr Burgess had been right: despite Rosy’s efforts to get to the dining room on time Mr Downing had indeed secured the head of the queue and already made substantial inroads into the salad. However, she had managed to secure a decent share for herself and had enjoyed Miss Witherington’s speciality of stuffed eggs and vitello tonnato. Afterwards she joined Mrs Blanchett and another guest for coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard. Although it was dark the little patio was lit by the lights from the house and it was pleasant to sit chatting under the stars and watching the flitting moths. But when a breeze got up her companions elected to move indoors.
Still feeling wide awake and having finished her book, Rosy decided instead to take a stroll along the Zattere before turning in. It was quite late and the quayside virtually deserted, though as on her previous walk the air was lightly tinged with the scent of jasmine. Pleasurable though this was it reminded her of the evening encounter with the murdered Pacelli and the other man. She frowned. Had the latter really been the same one that she had seen talking with Hewson that afternoon? If so it seemed a rather strange connection; the man had seemed so louche! Yet the more she compared her memories of both incidents the more she was certain the two were one and the same.
She wondered whether he had played any part in the police inquiry or had volunteered any information. After all if he had been a friend or an associate of Pacelli then he may have had something useful to reveal –
unless of course he had done the deed himself!
It was a thought that re-stirred uneasy guilt. Perhaps she really ought to have reported that second encounter with the dead man; it may have had more significance than she supposed … Rubbish! Hadn’t one of the newspaper reports said the assassin was of ‘massive frame’? (By which presumably it meant well built.) This chap was a rather weedy specimen. Besides, if he were the murdering type was he really the sort to have much in common with Bill Hewson? The latter might not be the acme of refinement but he was perfectly decent.
She started to retrace her steps back to the pensione, and then nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden screech from a lovelorn cat. A moment later there was an answering howl and the sound of a can clattering across flagstones – feline impatience? Or were cats just clumsy like human beings? Either way she had had enough of such noises and quickened her pace towards the door in the wall.
She was just taking out her key when she thought she heard a footfall behind and caught the sudden whiff of cigarette smoke. She turned sharply but saw nothing … or nothing except a shadow merging into the gloom. Hell, she thought, surely that’s not Le chat qui fume! She shoved the key into the lock and whipped inside slamming the door – and promptly collided with a pair of garden chairs. They hit the ground with a crash. She picked them up feeling a fool, crept across the courtyard hoping she hadn’t woken the other guests, and let herself in to the house. Apart from stentorian snores coming from the direction of Mr Downing’s door, all was silent. She sneaked up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her own room. Here she switched on the light and sat on the bed feeling quite out of breath. Clearly she was unsuited to such nocturnal ramblings: imagination was far too jittery!
The room felt stuffy; and going to the window she pushed open the shutters and gazed out scanning the stars. The night air was cool and fresh and held no hint of cigarette. She took a few deep breaths and remained standing there enjoying the nearness of the shadowy water with its winking lights. And then as she reached to close the shutters her gaze fell on the track skirting the house and where a few minutes previously she had been walking … Yes it was unmistakable: a figure was standing there staring up at her window.
She caught her breath and darted back. Instinct urged that she shut the window and turn off the light. But in the midst of fear reason took control. Appear oblivious, she told herself, seem unaware of the watcher. Move about a bit, return to the window, brush your hair, and only then switch out the light … and see what you can spy from a darkened interior.
Thus pressed against the outer wall Rosy squinted through the shutter slats trying to detect some form or movement. At first there seemed to be nothing: absolute dark and stillness. But as she peered things became more defined and she could see something: the figure of a man slowly moving away. He paused for an instant and she saw the faint flicker of a match and the glint of a cigarette tip. And then there was nothing.
‘Some bastard Peeping Tom!’She fumed as she lay in bed angry and not a little frightened. In London, of course, one would occasionally encounter the odd creeper but for some reason she had not expected that sort of thing in Venice. Pickpockets yes (they were everywhere the world over), but not this sordid nonsense. She tossed on to her side. How naïve! What had she expected – nothing but opera and romance and carnival cavaliers? Stupid that’s what!
Although Rosy had slept surprisingly well she awoke still angry. It really was too bad! The area had seemed so safe and normal. She must be more alert in future. As she dressed she recalled her conversation with Daphne Blanchett the previous night. The woman had been quite helpful about the Horace, sympathising with her disappointment over the wrong version and suggesting another bookshop which might conceivably be useful.
Thus Rosy decided to give that a try, and then, whatever the outcome, to telephone Stanley again. If she were lucky well and good; if not, she would firmly suggest the search be terminated. Too many blanks had been drawn. And what with the murder, Edward’s dramatic death and the unsavoury experience of the night before she felt she was hardly in the right state to continue the mission or indeed to do justice to the city. She would come another time – with a congenial companion and without some onerous task slung around her shoulders. She glanced irritably at the Horace lying on the dressing table. And a fat lot of use that had turned out to be! She picked it up and thrust it into the drawer with her other Venetian souvenirs, a harlequin figurine, postcards and a set of Burano table mats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Gradually, with shock subsided and police interviews over, life in the Palazzo Reiss resumed its customary calm. Thus on an afternoon not long after the event Cedric sat alone on the veranda sipping his lapsang souchong and enjoying the westering sun. Felix with unexpected zeal had taken Caruso to ‘walk the block’, or rather to perambulate endlessly through tortuous alleys and slumbering squares. In its plodding way the dog seemed to enjoy such outings and its minder too was becoming inured to the daily task, viewing it even with a twinge of tacit pleasure. And today, after the general turbulence, Felix found the walking ritual a calming antidote to the dreadful drama.
Cedric too, warm in the sun’s declining rays and settled with book and tea, was able to savour the peace and withdraw his mind from recent upheavals. For twenty minutes or so, relaxed and detached, he basked in a comfortable limbo. He could have been any tourist in Venice – tired from earlier sightseeing and now slumped in idle siesta. He laid the book aside and closing his eyes began to doze.
Yet slyly images of the disaster came creeping back; and with eyes still shut he saw again the bridge, the figure, the sudden dive, the wildly waving arms and Hewson’s gallant and abortive rescue.
He frowned and opened his eyes. It had been so grossly unfair – the wretched youth had been making some kind of floundering progress towards the side, a few more yards and he could probably have got his feet on the bottom. Still, he could hardly have known that; his mind doubtless numbed by panic. Must have taken in a lot of water by the time Hewson reached him; probably three-quarters drowned already … and yet he had obviously mustered some sort of energy in those final moments. Hewson said he couldn’t hold him, that he had kept breaking away and going under. Were his struggles so manic that one as muscular as Hewson couldn’t hang on to him? Presumably. From the sound of things there had been an awful lot of plunging and threshing about (and there had been a shout at some point though from whom he couldn’t be sure). Yet Hewson was strong; much older than the boy of course, but tough and clearly a capable swimmer. Had the victim been so intractable, so resistant to his efforts?
The teacup half way to Cedric’s lips stayed suspended in the air and then replaced in its saucer liquid untouched … Resistant to his efforts? What efforts: to pull him up or push him down?
Shocked by his own question Cedric stood up, leant on the railing and fixed his gaze on a distant spire trying to steady his thoughts. Surely he was being absurdly fanciful, perverse even. Just because the chap had been surprisingly ineffectual in his attempt to save the youth did not mean he had deliberately engineered his death! … Ah, wrong word. He certainly hadn’t engineered it; that was obvious. The whole episode had been so unexpected. Nobody could have foreseen Edward losing his rag like that and taking off into the night to play silly beggars on top of a bridge, least of all leaping off it. The charade had been patently random – but then random events could be exploited, opportunities seized. The war had taught one that. And if that had been Hewson’s opportunity then he had certainly grasped it well … No, he could hardly have engineered the circumstances but he could have contributed to their outcome.
Cedric lit a cigarette and pondered, switching his gaze from spire to the nearby jetty and Hope-Landers’ boat. His eye rested on the name painted on its prow: ‘La Speranza’. Yes of course. What else? But what was the skipper hopeful of? Landing a fish perhaps … He blew a meditative smoke ring as his mind slipped back from the realm of laboured pun
s to the more intriguing realm of possible murder.
All very well there being capability, he thought, but presumably such things were not done on a whim: a motive was customary. Clearly there had been animosity between the two, a mutual disdain; and the younger man had obviously gone out of his way to provoke the other. But was that cause enough for murder? It seemed a trifle extreme. Cedric sighed. Doubtless his first reaction had been right – it was he himself who was being extreme: imagination overwrought by too much drama and too little sleep. Still, he might just mention the matter to Felix when he returned …
And at that moment, moving slowly along the tow path, appeared the figures of his friend and the droop-eared dog. Cedric smiled remembering the Shakespearean line, ‘And pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old comedy’, though in this case his own cue would be far from ‘villainous melancholy’ but rather a genial welcome and a shared early cocktail while he apprised Felix of his startling notion. He leant over the balustrade and waved. Felix waved back and Caruso gave a reciprocal bark. Evidently the hound was starting to recognise him. Should he take a hand in its custody? Hmm. Exercise perhaps – but he drew the line at the creature’s grooming.
‘Did anything strike you as odd about that drowning business?’ Cedric asked once they were settled with martinis and the hound snoring gently beneath the harpsichord.
‘Odd?’ exclaimed Felix. ‘The whole thing was bloody odd! Whatever do you mean? My nerves are in shreds!’
‘Yes, but in particular – about Hewson’s efforts to save the boy.’
Felix raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Well they didn’t exactly work did they.’
‘Precisely my point. Why not?’
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