The Venetian Venture

by Suzette A. Hill

  And thus like her deceased brother Lucia too allowed her imagination to ramble – not so much over Ferraris, tailored suits and private planes but rather to playing hostess to venerable members of the Scottish aristocracy. As her canny grandfather might have warned, ‘The best-laid plans of mice and men …’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘I hope you weren’t disturbed by the hammering,’ said Mr Downing as Rosy was about to go up the stairs, ‘a dreadful racket and I do think we might have been warned; it was most distracting. It’s bad enough having to write letters at the best of times, let alone with that sort of noise going on!’

  Rosy shook her head explaining she had been out all morning (fruitlessly searching unlikely bookshops and dodging spectral Oxford librarians) and only just come in. ‘What was it, something to do with the plumbing?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, nothing useful like that. Decorative I am told.’ Whatever it was, clearly Mr Downing was not impressed. ‘You’ll see them on the landing: very large and very modern. I don’t care for them at all.’ He pursed his lips in disapproval.

  ‘Ah, I see. So you are talking about pictures?’

  ‘Some might call them that. I just call them splurges of paint. I am rather surprised Miss Witherington was so accommodating. With luck they are only here temporarily.’

  Rosy was interested and wondered whether her own view would accord with Mr Downing’s. ‘Where do they come from – are they done by a local artist?’

  ‘In so far as he lives in Venice, yes,’ Downing said tartly. ‘But certainly not local in the full sense of the word: he arrived from America five or six years ago. Some of his stuff used to be all right, quite pleasant really albeit a little derivative perhaps … He’s evidently trying something new; a poor move I should say. Apparently they are intended as a pair: Venice in Daybreak, 1 & 2. Personally I would call them “Venice in Two Scrambled Eggs”! He laughed, keenly impressed with his own witticism.

  Rosy continued up the stairs and paused on the landing to inspect the two paintings. As she had guessed they bore the signature of William Hewson. She stood back to get a better view. Downing had likened them to scrambled eggs. Well she wouldn’t go as far as that, but the virulent yellow streaks heaped on tones of grey and blue did not strike her as particularly Venetian nor indeed evocative of daybreak. Still, doubtless the cognoscenti might dub them ‘challenging’. Unchallenged she went to her room.

  On the way back to the pensione she had bought a local paper – out of principle rather than interest. Struggling with news items would in theory help her language skills. Though whether the exercise was truly helpful she wasn’t convinced; probably a book of nursery rhymes was more her level. Perhaps it would have been sensible to buy an Italian whodunnit from the dead Pacelli or even one of those risqué paperbacks she had seen piled on his table; what wasn’t understood could doubtless have been surmised! However, with an hour to go before supper she dutifully persevered with the newspaper.

  Thinking of Pacelli prompted her to scan the pages for any more news of his murder. By now there may have been further revelations – though she just hoped the police were no longer seeking help from the public. With luck they had found all they needed.

  The name plus an accompanying smudgy picture turned up on the third page. Photography did little to enhance the bookseller’s saturnine features, and to Rosy’s eye he looked less like the victim than the assassin. From what she could make out nothing new had emerged although apparently it was now fully established that the killer had been of ‘huge physique’ and ‘frenzied mind’, the journalist going so far as to assert that he (or she) was of fiendish intent and comparable to the Phantom of the Rue Morgue. Well at least I can manage to grasp all that, Rosy thought, but my God what tosh!

  Slinging the paper aside she went to the wardrobe and took out something suitable for supper: a dress with matching handbag. She snapped open the bag’s clasp and started to empty it of the usual detritus of pens, aspirin, hankies and lipsticks. But there was something else there – a small crumpled envelope. With a start she remembered that the bag was the one she had been carrying on the night of Edward’s drowning. The envelope had slipped from the youth’s trouser pocket when he had jumped up from the table and made his dramatic dash from the terrace. She recalled the thing lying on the ground among the coffee cups and smashed wine glasses, and herself stooping to retrieve it. She had stashed it in her handbag meaning to give it to him later. But subsequent events had decreed otherwise.

  The envelope was sealed and slightly to her surprise on the front bore the name of William Hewson. It was written in bold ink and underlined with a thick flourish.

  Had there been no addressee Rosy would have opened it. But not only was there a name but it was someone’s she knew. It would be only right to give it to him, although it was presumably of little relevance now (and perhaps even slightly discomfiting). However, it had been clearly intended for Hewson and thus she must ensure that he got it. Easy: he had invited her to his studio the following afternoon and she could take it then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘I told Rosy Gilchrist to come round for a lunchtime aperitif,’ Cedric announced. ‘She’s probably still upset about what happened the other night and might want some company. I take it you don’t object?’

  ‘Not unless she is beastly to Caruso I don’t. The last time she was here I thought she showed a marked indifference. Clearly didn’t appreciate his finer points.’

  ‘Does anybody?’ asked Cedric.

  Felix pursed his lips and resumed his embroidery.

  Rosy appreciated Cedric’s invitation. It had been a kindly gesture; and while she had recovered from the horror of Edward’s tragedy, an aperitif with the two friends would be a refreshing distraction.

  At the palazzo Rosy had been about to ring the Hoffman bell but was forestalled by Guy Hope-Landers who was on his way out. ‘Any joy with the Horace yet?’ he asked.

  She grimaced. ‘No not at all. I thought I had it and then I didn’t. Wrong one apparently. My boss isn’t going to be too pleased, he had set his heart on it.’

  ‘Never give up, that’s my motto,’ Hope-Landers said genially. ‘Life is full of surprises.’

  ‘Yes but they never seem to be quite the right ones,’ she had laughed.

  ‘Hmm. You have something there … Ah well, I must go off to my boat. Who knows, I could get one of the better surprises for once – the engine might start first time!’

  Rosy climbed the long staircase and found herself puffing. This won’t do, she thought. Too much pasta and delicious pastries. Perhaps she should lay off for a bit. Lay off? Nonsense, she told herself sternly, plenty of time for that when she returned to the Museum with its sombre fare! She thought of Dr Stanley and the rather functional canteen. Both seemed extraordinarily remote.

  She sipped the Prosecco they had given her, and admiring its sprightly bubbles sank back gratefully against the sofa cushions. ‘Gosh! I’m quite worn out,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s all those stairs. Don’t they tire you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Felix lied casually. ‘What you need is a dog; that would keep you fit.’

  ‘But you don’t keep a dog – well only here and that won’t be for much longer.’

  ‘Ah but you see,’ Cedric cut in, ‘dear Felix has plans: he is now thinking of getting such a creature. In fact I rather gather he is angling to buy Caruso from his cousin and take him back to London.’

  Rosy took a contemplative sip of her wine. ‘Really? It strikes me there could be a number of snags there. First there are the awful quarantine laws – six months if you please. Secondly, is Felix’s apartment really suitable for an animal? I mean his furnishings are so exquisite it would be awful to see them destroyed by canine rampage! And then of course there is the question of its current owner. From what you were saying Cousin Violet is devoted to the dog. I can’t see her parting with it easily.’

  ‘Exactly what I have been trying to tell him,
’ said Cedric triumphantly; and turning to Felix he added, ‘You would do much better to have a cat like mine.’

  ‘Not like yours,’ was the acid retort.

  Tactfully changing the subject Cedric asked Rosy if she had seen anything of Bill Hewson since the tragedy.

  ‘Yes I have. We had lunch together not long after. Actually as it happens I am going to his studio later to look at the paintings, they sound quite interesting.’

  ‘Alone?’ asked Cedric.

  ‘What? Oh no, I don’t think so. He said something about there being one or two others dropping in.’ She hesitated, and then proceeded to tell them about the note fallen from Edward’s pocket.

  ‘Have you got it with you?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘Well yes. I thought I could give it to him when I went there this afternoon.’ She took it from her bag and handed it to him.

  He studied the envelope thoughtfully. ‘Feels pretty flimsy; no more than half a page I should think. Whatever it says I doubt if it will be of much use to Hewson now. We may as well open it.’

  ‘Oh but I really don’t think—’

  But Rosy’s protest came too late. With a deft movement Cedric had picked up the paperknife from the desk and slit opened the envelope. There were only a few lines scrawled and no salutation or signature. He read it aloud to them:

  I need to see you again. On reflection, and given the circumstances, my stated terms were rather meagre. However, throw in the vase too and you will find me accommodating. Ten o’clock tomorrow at Alfredo’s.

  Annoyed by what she saw as Cedric’s high-handedness Rosy had not given her full attention to the words. ‘Obviously some transaction they were engaged in, probably to do with one of Hewson’s pictures,’ she said dismissively. ‘Oh well whatever it was it’s too late now. But really, Cedric, I think that was a bit of a liberty opening it like that. I can tell you I am a bit cross!’

  ‘Have some more Prosecco,’ said Felix soothingly, ‘you’ll feel so much better.’ He leant over and filled her glass to the brim.

  ‘Yes it was,’ Cedric agreed. ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t sound the slightest bit sorry and began to study the note again while Rosy and Felix turned their attention to Caruso, the length of his ears, his military tail, and his insatiable greed for olives and titbits.

  After a while Cedric looked up, and laying the note aside said: ‘You were right about a transaction but I doubt if it was to do with a painting. The style is too curt for that, too abrasive. If Edward was keen to buy one of the paintings and felt he hadn’t offered enough wouldn’t he sound more emollient? Admittedly he says he can be accommodating but the tone hardly suggests that. Besides what are these circumstances he mentions? And since he was always bleating about a lack of funds I doubt that he was in a position to purchase fine art!’

  ‘And what about the vase bit? It sounds a funny sort of thing for Edward Jones to want,’ Felix added.

  ‘Not if it was the one belonging to Farinelli Berenstein it wouldn’t,’ Rosy said quietly.

  They looked at her quizzically. ‘You mean that glass thing?’ asked Felix. ‘But why on earth should Hewson have that?’

  ‘Well he may not of course. But I did overhear Edward and his sister (at least that’s whom I assume she was) discussing a vase in Tonelli’s and Lucia saying that she knew where it was – on somebody’s mantelpiece apparently. Edward seemed very insistent she should get hold of it however inconvenient the means.’ Rosy took another sip of her drink recalling their words, and suddenly to her embarrassment began to giggle. ‘There seemed to be some question regarding the viability of the task … I mean,’ she spluttered, ‘Lucia seemed uncertain whether her efforts would be entirely eff, eff – efficacious!’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ cried Felix, ‘let’s give her something to eat. It must have been that third glass!’

  ‘You should curb your generosity,’ Cedric admonished, ‘though it is always a tonic to witness such high spirits in the young … Now Miss Gilchrist, once you have sobered up let us give further thought to the meaning of this note while Felix prepares some antipasti. I think you will find we have a most choice variety.’

  When Felix returned from the kitchen bearing a tray of assorted canapés certain assumptions had been made regarding both the significance of the note and the conversation overheard by Rosy in Tonelli’s. The speculators looked thoughtful.

  ‘Cedric has decided that Edward’s note is hostile,’ Rosy said, ‘that there was some sort of deal involved in which he was the instigator or dominant partner.’

  Felix passed her a plate of antipasti. ‘You mean like blackmail,’ he said.

  ‘Er … well yes, I suppose it could be that although we hadn’t quite—’

  ‘Defined it? But doubtless that is what Cedric thinks. You know he has the most suspicious mind – don’t you dear boy? In my experience most professors do.’ Felix winked and Cedric looked mildly pained.

  ‘It is as well to be alert to the latent duplicity of human nature,’ he replied, ‘there’s a lot of it about,’ and then looking at Rosy added, ‘Felix is right, that is indeed what I was thinking.’

  ‘But why should Edward have been blackmailing Bill Hewson? He doesn’t seem the shifty type, rather open really.’

  ‘Ah well now, that is a question. It could have been for anything: defrauding the Inland Revenue or its Italian equivalent; stealing another’s paintings and passing them off as his own; bigamy in Boston; espionage; dressing up in ladies’ clothes … anything you care to mention really.’

  ‘Bound to be that one,’ Felix tittered.

  Cedric looked at him sternly. ‘Do not go down that path otherwise we shall have Miss Gilchrist doing the nose-trick with her coffee as she did with the Prosecco!’

  Rosy contrived to look contrite and said, ‘Well at least we are certain about the vase. From what I saw of Edward and from what you have described of Lucia it seems extremely unlikely that they were searching for a piece of glass simply for its aesthetic appeal. It must be of some financial interest, and with this Farinelli business it could well be that. Possibly Edward thought that if he could nose out the Horace he could pair it with the vase. Anyway somebody must be harbouring the thing, and given the reference in Edward’s note I bet it is Bill Hewson.’

  Cedric beamed. ‘Well then, Rosy, since you are visiting his studio this afternoon you can test your bet can’t you? Cast an eye over his mantelpiece, assuming he has one. Who knows, perhaps he props his social invitations against the thing. Make a point of admiring it and watch his reaction.’

  ‘All right. But what about the note? How can I give it to him now that you’ve so conveniently slit the envelope? With his name scrawled across the thing I can hardly say I thought it was for me.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to see it. You said yourself that it was too late to be relevant.’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘Miss Gilchrist, one can overdo the adherence to scruples: it’s all a case of nice judgement, and in this case showing him the note serves no useful purpose. There’s simply no point.’ Cedric folded the scrap of paper and slipped it into his breast pocket. ‘Now would you like to powder your nose before setting out on your reconnaissance? The palazzo has the most capacious guest bathroom. Felix will show you the way.’ He smiled graciously. It was clearly her cue to leave.

  After she had gone, Cedric said, ‘That was quite interesting. I wonder if the vase really is with Hewson. Though if he does have it I very much doubt if it’s still on the mantelpiece. Still, one never knows; he doesn’t strike me as having the brightest brain.’

  ‘Hmm. I notice that you refrained from mentioning your suspicion that he may have drowned Edward.’

  ‘Most certainly. No point in spreading unnecessary alarm; and besides it might have deterred Miss Gilchrist from going to his studio. After all, one doesn’t want to spoil her afternoon!’

  ‘It’s intriguing about the note though,’ Felix mused, ‘if it is really part of a blackmailing threa
t then that certainly supports your theory that he shoved him under.’

  ‘Yes, and if he did then we can assume that young Edward was dunning him for serious money, i.e. based on something fairly crucial.’

  Felix winked. ‘Not like women’s clothes then.’

  ‘Not unless he had been wearing them when committing robbery or murder.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  After their siesta the two friends took Caruso for a ramble. Pausing to lean against the balustrade of the Accademia Bridge they gazed mesmerised at the vista of sepia and ochre and fusion of water and sky that stretched before them. The late afternoon light was particularly dulcet and gave the scene an air of magical theatre.

  ‘Pretty damn good,’ Felix murmured.

  ‘Hmm,’ agreed Cedric. ‘Extraordinary.’

  They stood quietly enraptured. And then Felix felt around in his pocket and drew out a lira. ‘Do you think it’s like the Trevi Fountain in Rome: throw in a coin and you will be sure to return?’

  ‘Worth a try,’ Cedric smiled.

  His friend lobbed the coin and it fell not into the water but into a passing gondola, narrowly missing the boatman.

  ‘Quick – look the other way,’ Cedric urged. ‘They won’t like that!’

  But it was too late. The grey-haired occupants had seen them and the next moment there were shrieks and wild gesticulations.

  ‘Oh dear, that’s torn it,’ Felix giggled, ‘we’ll probably be had up for endangering canal traffic.’

  ‘Yes but look – they’re not complaining, they’re beckoning.’