‘Provided one can locate some bricks,’ murmured Carlo.
‘A mere detail.’
‘Not really,’ he persisted. ‘If the body is to sink and to remain submerged for some time I should have thought heavy weights are essential. Wouldn’t you say so?’
Violet conceded the point and addressing Rosy said, ‘Do you have any bricks by any chance?’ Rosy said that she hadn’t and felt rather inadequate. ‘Well somebody must have some,’ exclaimed Violet impatiently.
Faces were blank. And then a twin spoke (Duffy, outranked by Dilly in the punting stakes): ‘We don’t need bricks, we have an anchor. It’s in Guy’s boat.’ The suggestion was met with general approval; and she beamed, clearly feeling her status restored.
‘Good. So that’s agreed,’ Violet declared. ‘Time is pushing on: we must get to work.’
‘Uhm … would it be out of the question to have a drink first?’ Cedric enquired. ‘There’s a heavy schedule ahead and I don’t think it wise to commence on an empty stomach, especially given the nature of the task.’ He gave a delicate cough.
It was another suggestion well received and drinks were duly poured. But Carlo politely declined saying it was essential that someone vet La Speranza, divest the body of its tarpaulin and generally check that there were no telltale signs of anyone (i.e. Rosy) having been present at, or just after, the owner’s unfortunate demise. ‘Let us not offer hostages to capricious Fortune,’ he warned them solemnly. Rosy was grateful for such foresight, yet despite the situation couldn’t help being amused by his continuing espousal of such literary English. That sergeant major must have been quite something!
Years later, as an old lady in her eighties and the other participants all dead, Rosy was to look back on that night with a mixture of horror and incredulity. Had she really been there doing that? It was ridiculous; and yet the events remained so vividly imprinted in her mind that she knew it to be true. What an outrageous secret – but vaguely risible all the same! She wondered whether the other old ladies in the Home had ever been engaged in such disgraceful shenanigans …
Meanwhile, as a young woman, Rosy joined the others in their fortifying brandies while Carlo slipped from the room.
By the time he returned, the pall-bearers, tanked up and wheezing, had managed to lug their awful burden to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Have you got the anchor?’ gasped Felix.
‘Of course,’ Carlo replied, ‘it’s in my pocket.’
Felix tossed his head. Typical Italian sarcasm!
It was agreed that the best procedure was to get Hewson to the jetty, heave the anchor from Hope-Landers’ boat into the gondola, and then once the body was safely ensconced under the canopy attach the anchor with its chain.
‘An excellent idea,’ said Cedric doubtfully. ‘But perhaps in addition to the anchor it might be sensible to stuff some cans of beans into his pockets. Extra ballast you know.’
‘Ah,’ Violet said, ‘do you want to go upstairs and fetch them? There’s a few in the larder.’
Cedric looked up at the winding staircase whence they had just come. ‘Not really,’ he replied.
‘If it’s not a silly question,’ Rosy asked, ‘how are we going to get Hewson to the gondola? It’s one thing hauling him down the stairs but carrying him along the towpath might attract attention.’
‘He must walk,’ chimed the twins firmly.
‘What!’ she yelped.
‘Oh yes,’ one of them said, ‘that’s what they did with Crown Prince Rudolf – the Mayerling scandal you know. He was supported on either side and manoeuvred to his carriage as if he were drunk. Worked quite well I believe.’
‘Good thinking,’ Violet said. ‘Now who is going to support him?’ She looked at her cousin.
‘I say was that Caruso I heard?’ Felix exclaimed. ‘He probably thinks we have gone and left him. I think I had better just go and see—’
Cedric became strangely diverted by a picture on the wall. He began to examine it closely. Carlo looked down at his feet.
Oh my God, thought Rosy, Violet said I looked strong! She shut her eyes.
‘Oh we’ll do it,’ Dilly volunteered (or Duffy). ‘Fortunately we are blessed with height – and in any case we got so used to shunting Pa about when he was tight that it shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Not at all,’ the other agreed. ‘Don’t you remember? He used to become quite corpse-like.’ She gave a fond chuckle.
It would be wrong of course to say that the trio set off at a brisk pace; but the two ladies handled their companion with impressive strength and dexterity. Clearly manoeuvres with Papa had proved an instructive exercise. Slowly and silently he was lurched to the jetty. Felix and Cedric skulked behind them in the shadow of the wall and then helped to heave the burden into the gondola. They thrust him beneath the canopy where he lolled on the cushions like a beached whale, or, as Felix thought, like a sack of giant turnips.
The rearguard were Violet, Rosy and Carlo: the latter pair to grapple with transferring the anchor; and Violet to provide further swigs of sustaining brandy from a flask she had had the foresight to bring. It was an exhausting business and such aid indispensable to its success. That it was successful was something that Rosy could never quite fathom: the drink of course, but also surely a blend of luck and desperation.
According to Felix, before they had levered the corpse into the gondola Cedric had murmured something about putting a penny in its mouth. Felix had said he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about and that in any case this was Italy and they didn’t have any pennies. Cedric had smiled and said perhaps a lira would do and had placed a coin in the dead man’s pocket.
Initially Rosy had been as perplexed as Felix but later she learnt the significance. Meanwhile she watched as the redoubtable Dilly, accompanied by her sister and the two men, smoothly punted the gondola into the moonlit canal and thence into the shadows of some darker stream …
Left on the quay Rosy and Violet breathed a sigh of relief. But there was still the matter of Guy Hope-Landers and La Speranza. Carlo reached into his pocket and drew out a small packet. He opened the top and threw it down next to the body. A few of the contents spilt out. ‘Heart tablets,’ he explained. ‘It will help the police when they pick him up: reduce the number of questions.’ And then dropping to his knees he untied the rope mooring the dinghy, and grasping the pole lying on the duckboard pushed it gently away from the bank. The current took it immediately, and after moving in a faltering circle it started to drift down the channel towards the southern end of the Grand Canal.
Rosy thought of the great Tennyson poem. ‘Do you think he will be crossing the bar?’ she whispered.
‘Oh I think he has done that already,’ Carlo replied.
They walked back slowly along the towpath to the palazzo – or rather Rosy and Carlo were slow; Violet, eager to get back to Caruso and attend to her unpacking, moved ahead with an energy which Rosy found draining. It was four o’clock in the morning and she had narrowly escaped a knife, been nearly strangled and helped dispose of two dead bodies.
‘You can stay the night if you like,’ Violet had offered. ‘I shall be rather busy myself but I am sure Felix can fix you up all right when he gets back.’ She scanned Rosy’s face. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you look rather awful. I suggest you tell him to make you some black coffee, it may help. A bit of lipstick wouldn’t come amiss either. Well now, I must get back to my poor boy!’ And giving them both a vague wave she hastened on towards the staircase.
Rosy and Carlo watched her in silence. And then, as one, slumped on to the ancient settle outside what had been Hope-Landers’ quarters. Carlo took out a cigarette case, offered Rosy an Abdulla, took one himself and flicked open his lighter. In the half-light his features looked drawn – as, according to Violet, were Rosy’s own. For a little while they smoked in silence each immersed in private thoughts … although actually Rosy was not thinking at all. Her mind was stripped of everything, a
state she found remarkably soothing. She rather wished she could stay like that all night or what was left of it. How pleasant to sit in the dark on that hard bench, just puffing slowly and not having to move or speak. Bliss.
But just as it seemed she was on the edge of sleep, a thought did strike her – rather a vital one. ‘My God,’ she said slowly, ‘Guy had those two things he was taking to Farinelli Berenstein, the vase and the book. They’ll still be in the boat with him, in that canvas bag!’ She sighed ruefully. ‘Oh well I suppose that’s the end of my Bodger search. Dr Stanley won’t be very happy … Still, do you realise that if the boat doesn’t capsize before it’s spotted and the police recognise the two items and latch on to their significance I assume somebody could be a millionaire.’
‘No they couldn’t,’ said Carlo. ‘They will find only one item and that’s the trashy vase. I’ve got the other here.’ He tapped the inner pocket of his raincoat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rosy took the cigarette from her mouth and with her heel absently ground the butt on the stone floor. She cleared her throat, and turning to him said, ‘I see. So when did you get hold of that?’
‘When you were all throwing down the drink. You may recall that it was then that I went down to inspect the boat: to remove the tarpaulin and to ensure all was shipshape. As you say, the holdall was of course with him and naturally I removed the book.’
‘Yet ignored the vase.’
Carlo gave a light laugh. ‘You think I ought to brandish the pair at the idiot in Padua and claim the prize? The man’s in his dotage – always was really, and flaky with it as you English would say. He has his pet lawyers naturally, but I very much doubt if the arrangement has much legal validity. He would wriggle out of his commitment somehow, if only by saying he didn’t recognise the objects. Besides it would mean I lost the Bodger Horace.’
‘So you wouldn’t trade the Horace for that amount of money? Is it really so special to you?’ Rosy asked in some wonder.
‘If I were a poor man I would indeed consider yielding it for that sum. Probably jump at the chance. But mercifully I am not poor. Not rich, you understand, but sufficiently comfortable not to have to worry too much about life’s necessities – or indeed about its little pleasures. I have the wherewithal for my books, my domestic comforts, my music, my friends; and I live happily in this beneficent city. Why should I so desperately require a million pounds? As we used to say in the Sussex POW camp, it’s not worth the flipping haddock!’
Rosy considered his words and then said wryly, ‘Well you will have made somebody happy: Miss Witherington, my landlady. She has a bet on that the two things won’t be produced by the prescribed date and is terrified they might turn up.’ She grinned to herself, and added, ‘Although I suppose it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the vase is recovered from the boat when they find it and that I simultaneously suggest someone burgle your apartment.’
‘Ah I thought of that,’ he replied gravely. ‘I gave it a tap with a mallet. There was one lying in the stern; most handy. Belt and blooming braces as—’
‘Your sergeant major would say?’
‘Exactly. And now Miss Gilchrist, if you will forgive me I must go home. Your friends the professor and Mr Smythe will be back at any minute, and delightful though they are I do not feel I am in a fit state to renew their acquaintance just yet. Sleep summons. But one thing I ask: please do not forget my invitation for tea and toast before you embark for England. It would be a great honour. I will contact you shortly, i.e. once I have regained my equilibrium.’ Carlo rose from the bench, walked to the palazzo door and slipped out into the mist of a Venetian dawn.
Ah well, out goes the Bodger I suppose, Rosy mused ruefully … And two minutes later, dank and whey-faced, in came Felix and Cedric, mission accomplished.
When she returned to the pensione after midday it was to be greeted by Miss Witherington full of sly giggles. ‘I suppose you’ve been on the tiles have you? I hope he was nice!’
‘Er … well I, I uhm …’ Rosy was flustered, having given little thought to an explanation and being ill-prepared.
‘Oh don’t worry, my dear; I was awful at your age. Awful!’ Miss Witherington clapped her hands in nostalgic mirth. ‘But I tell you what,’ she said conspiratorially, ‘I told Mr Downing that you were struck down with a migraine.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Oh when he saw you were not at dinner last night or here later this morning he was most concerned.’ She lowered her voice further: ‘Between you and me I think he has a bit of a pash on you!’ There were more knowing giggles.
Rosy closed her eyes. That was all she needed! ‘I am perfectly well,’ she said, ‘but I am quite tired. I think I will go and rest in my room.’
‘Very sensible. One always needs to be soothed afterwards.’ Afterwards? Rosy was startled, but escaped thankfully to her room where she got into bed and slept for five hours. It was obviously a very persistent migraine.
When she emerged she found a note waiting for her in the vestibule. It was from Carlo inviting her to meet him at Quadri’s the following day. Evidently he had found his equilibrium more quickly than she had found hers.
She met him at one o’clock. Thankfully there was no tea; but they did indeed eat toast – spread liberally with a luscious duck pâté and accompanied by oysters from the lagoon and a bottle of pink Billecart-Salmon. Considering the ordeal of less than twenty-four hours previously Carlo looked exceedingly well and spruce … doubtless the result of getting his hands on the Bodger again, Rosy thought rather sourly.
By tacit agreement they made no mention of the night’s activities but talked easily of more agreeable things, wandering over a range of topics from literature (specifically English comics which he had so loved as a prisoner of war) to Venetian baroque music and the newly released Fellini film La Strada.
But as they neared the end of the wine Rosy broached the subject of his library collection. ‘Have you finished the cataloguing yet?’ she enquired. ‘You must be pleased to be able to include the Bodger in your inventory,’ and added teasingly, ‘I trust you haven’t left it on somebody’s table this time. That would be too bad!’
He assured her it was perfectly safe and that he had taken much pleasure in examining and handling the thing. ‘As we know, the translations themselves are unremarkable, a trifle stilted I would say but the notes are perceptive and it has been interesting to see the actual signature and dwell on the inscription. A pompous man, but it was a work of love all the same: a privilege to have owned it for a while.’ He smiled and called for coffee.
As they were leaving he said how much he had enjoyed Rosy’s company and that were she ever in Venice again, free and at leisure, he would be delighted to be her guide. ‘But this time,’ he added wryly, ‘you can be assured I would deflect you away from any dubious bookshops.’
He gave a little bow and presented her with a crumpled paper bag … containing, of course, the Bodger.
‘So you see, Dr Stanley,’ Rosy explained down an unusually clear line, ‘all being well I shall be in on Monday with the Horace.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘How much did it cost?’
‘Cost? Er – oh nothing really. Or at least, nothing of any consequence.’
‘Hah! That’s a mercy. I shan’t have to do battle with the accounts department. You’ve no idea how difficult they are. Now tell me Rosy, you are absolutely sure it is the right one? It would be most unfortunate if you had blundered … Oh and by the way, did that bastard from the Bodleian ever show up?’
She assured him she had not blundered and that the bastard had never appeared.
There was a dark chuckle. ‘Probably still wandering around the back streets looking for the damn thing. Bad luck for some!’
Rosy agreed that it was indeed bad luck for some. And she thought of William Hewson, Guy Hope-Landers and Edward Jones.
‘Well,’ he said graciously, ‘on the whole I think you’ve done ra
ther well. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Tell you what, when I’m in hospital with my hip you can have my lunch vouchers, a pity to waste them.’
She thanked him for his generosity and was about to put the receiver down, when he added, ‘You see – I told you it wouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you did tell me.’
Bolstered by champagne and First Class cushions on the Simplon-Orient, Cedric and Felix reflected upon their Venetian venture. They agreed that it had been singularly diverting but not something that they would care to repeat, or certainly not for a considerable time.
‘Rather fatiguing, wouldn’t you say?’ Cedric remarked.
‘Taxing I would say,’ Felix replied, ‘and then some!’
There was silence as each dwelt upon the various aspects of the experience. ‘I was a tremendous hit with Caruso you know,’ mused Felix. ‘I am clearly the sort of person he has a natural affinity with.’
‘Oh clearly,’ Cedric agreed. ‘Tell me: did you prefer him to the corgis?’
Felix closed his eyes and shuddered. ‘Much.’
A further silence ensued as they gazed out of the window admiring the darkening Swiss scenery with its neatness, order, and reassuring safety.
‘Do you know,’ Cedric mused, ‘I dealt with that matter most adroitly. A little heavy but it slipped into the water without a hitch, hardly a bubble.’
There was the merest hesitation and then Felix said, ‘Well … the gondola did nearly capsize, but other than that I think you showed remarkable deftness. The ladies were very impressed too. I heard one of them say that even their father couldn’t have done better. High praise I think coming from that pair. Oh by the way, they said something about coming to London in the spring.’
The Venetian Venture Page 21