Jane pressed her hands to her chest and willed her heart to slow down. For his part, Vincent stood very still with his hands out from his side. Matching him, Jane used her gentlest voice to ask, “What is happening?”
The polizia said nothing, merely kept his guard up. Moments later, the other three policemen they had heard arrived at the door. One of them stepped forward and rudely felt at Vincent’s waist for a knife or sword. Finding nothing, he turned out Vincent’s pockets and removed all the coins, loose ends, and bits of paper that a gentleman might carry. He seemed disappointed to find nothing more dangerous.
A fifth man walked slowly up the stairs, dressed in the severe uniform of a Venetian chief of police. The capo di polizia’s feet made almost no sound in their thin kidskin boots.
He stopped at the top of the stairs and raised an eyebrow. “David Vincent?”
“The same.”
“You are charged with trespass, fraud, intent to commit fraud, forgery, and impersonation of a nobleman.”
Jane gasped. “You are mistaken, sir. We were invited here by Signor Sanuto.”
The man’s gaze turned toward her, but his face remained coolly smooth. “There has not been a Signor Sanuto in over fifty years. The line ended when the last male heir died of syphilis. If you are going to choose an alias, I might suggest one that is not so easy to discover.”
“An alias? But … but, no. Signor Sanuto is the man who lives here. He is a senior partner at Banco de Giro. We went to the bank with him and took out a line of credit. You may ask them.”
“The same bank you are accused of defrauding. Really, madam, I must thank you for incriminating yourself in this manner.” He took out a small pocketbook and a pencil. Wetting the lead on his tongue, he began to write.
“Capo, sir.” The polizia who had searched Vincent held out a folded piece of paper.
The capo took the promissory note that Signor Sanuto had returned to them and raised his eyebrows again as he opened it. “Another forgery? Really. You have been industrious.”
Jane took a step toward him. “But we—”
Vincent turned his head. “Jane.”
The weight in his voice stopped her. His face was still and composed. In his youth, before Vincent had cast off his family name, his father had made him study law. Jane could see her husband pulling that part of his past forward and wrapping it around himself like the strands of a tableau vivant. With this character assumed, Vincent turned to face the capo with his hands still held out from his body. She could not see his face, but she could hear the grave courtesy in his voice.
“Sir. I believe that my wife and I have been the victims of a swindler. Might we have the privilege of showing what evidence we may in our favour?”
The capo stared at Vincent, his pencil held above the page. “This is an interesting manoeuvre. I admit to curiosity.” He folded the note book and tucked it back into his pocket. “Very well. What do you have to offer me?”
“We met a man calling himself Giacomo Sanuto while we were taking a ship to Venice. The ship was set upon by pirates—”
The capo barked a laugh. “There are no pirates on the Gulf of Venice.”
“I have been made aware of this.” Vincent inclined his head in the smallest of bows. His voice grew tighter and more formal. “Be that as it may, we were taken through the customs office at the port, as were the other passengers on the boat. Even if Sanuto has arranged for there to be no record of him, then one of the passengers will be able to confirm that he was aboard.”
The capo gestured to the officers. “Bring them, please. Gently.” He gave Jane a mocking bow. “I have no wish to have you escape, but neither will I be needlessly cruel.”
Jane wished to say something clever, but knew not how.
* * *
Jane and Vincent were loaded into a small boat with the capo facing them for the ride across the lagoon to Venice. Jane kept her hands folded on her lap and tried to maintain a tranquil countenance, though her mind was anything but composed. As soon as Lord Byron pointed out the disparity with the ransom, they should have left Signor Sanuto—she did not even know what name to curse, since that was clearly an assumed one. Whose clothes had Jane been wearing? It was a trivial question, but Jane found herself fixing on it rather than the larger concern. If she let her mind approach too near the question of what would happen to them, she felt close to panic.
Vincent sat by her side, with a space between them so that the officers did not think them about to try anything untoward. His hands, likewise, were clasped in front of him, but his head was bent in thought. A muscle clenched repeatedly at the corner of his jaw.
The boat drew up in front of a tall brick building with a grassy plot in front of it and steps leading down to the water. Porters ran to and fro pushing carts piled with goods. Clerks walked the steps, noting the ships tied up there in their tally books. Jane did not recognise any of it.
“Where are we?”
“The port offices.” The capo raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That is where you said you wished to go, is it not?”
“But this is not … this is not where we were taken.”
Vincent raised his head. He studied the building and then half-turned towards her. “I was not fully conscious, so it is up to you, Muse.”
She felt the sound of her pet name as though it were a steadying hand upon her back. Jane drew herself up and attempted to rally her senses. “We were taken to a warehouse. The exterior was red, and it stank of fish.” Jane closed her eyes, trying to recall their arrival. “When we came in, Piazza San Marco was to our left, and the building faced the lagoon on the far side of the Grand Canal.”
The capo stared at her, a slight frown creasing his otherwise unyielding mask. Nodding slowly, he directed the crew to attempt to find the building that Jane described. They rowed along the canal and she sagged in her seat when the building appeared. A part of her had feared that Sanuto would have somehow spirited it away.
They tied up to the dock in short order. Vincent followed the capo out of the boat and reached back to help Jane up to the dock. His hand was on hers, warm and comforting. Never had she been so glad that her husband eschewed gloves. She took comfort from the pressure of his hand against hers.
Then the officers forced them apart. Her skin tingled where he had held her, as if they were still connected. Jane’s breathing slowed and steadied. As shocking as this was, they would be all right. They had faced greater hardship than this.
The capo opened the door to the red warehouse and ducked inside. Vincent and Jane followed him, with the officers close behind. It took a moment for Jane’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
It still stank of fish, but the crates and boxes were gone. In fact, the space was empty of everything save a broken cart in one corner piled with a torn fishing net.
There was no evidence that it had ever been anything except a warehouse.
Ten
Want and Abundance
The capo took them next to Banco de Giro. It was in the building Signor Sanuto had taken them to, but the bank had no knowledge of him. They did recall the incident when an older gentleman had slipped on the stairs, but he had said that he was an agent of Vincent’s. That was when the forgeries began.
Without comment, the capo had loaded them back into the boat and returned with them to Murano, where the bulk of their creditors remained. The station house he took them to sat off Murano’s Grand Canal and had a full complement of polizia standing outside. The badge of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia was emblazoned on the wall over the hearth. Light from an enclosed courtyard shone merrily through the windows on to a large desk, as though to mock them.
The capo slid a paper across the desk. “Is this from your banker?”
Vincent picked it up and looked more ill than he had since they had been at sea. His skin turned grey, and all the vitality seemed to suck out of his skin. “It is.” The paper in his hand trembled slightly as he handed it to Jane.
It took her a moment to understand the substance of the letter.
My dear Sir David,
I have received your letter of 9 September with some dismay. While it is fully within your rights to withdraw the funds that you have placed with us at any time, I had hoped that we could continue …
“All of it?” Jane stared again at the letter, trying to will the words “placed the whole of your account” to mean anything other than what it did. She looked again at the date of the letter that their banker said he had received. “This is the day we arrived here.”
Vincent’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “The clerk in the—in what we thought was the customs house had me sign and date several papers. I have no doubt that one of them was used to forge a letter to our banker.”
“That letter”—the capo beckoned for Jane to return it to him—“is the thing that makes me believe you might be victims of this as well.”
Jane sat up, feeling the first rush of hope since the police arrived that morning. With each new discovery, Jane had become more stupefied. She felt only shame that she had been so duped by events that were, upon reflection, perfectly evident. “Sir, we are—”
“I said, might be victims.” He gestured to the other papers on his desk. “The line of credit you established with the tailor was a forgery and has your signature. Likewise, you owe money to the dressmaker for Lady Vincent’s wardrobe—again, with another forged line of credit. Signor Querini is owed payment for his work for you. The owner of the house in which you have been staying is also demanding a fee for rent, plus damages for your time there and the clothing you wore—which, I might add, we have witnesses for. You might simply be a swindler who was caught, and this letter is your cover story. I have no proof, after all, that you really are Sir David Vincent.”
How many ways had they been fools? Vincent could be excused because he had been sorely injured, but she? She had been too trusting. Some part of her wondered if this were even a real capo, or real police station, but the material evidence they provided was too strong to be denied, much as she might wish it.
Vincent addressed the floor. “As we have explained, our papers were taken from us aboard the ship.”
“Yes. The ‘pirate’ attack.”
“What of the British consul?” Jane asked. “He can vouch that we are who we say.”
“If he were here. Mr. Hoppner is, in fact, the first person I attempted to contact when these trespasses came to light. He is, alas, out of town.”
“With Lord Byron.” Vincent scrubbed his face with both hands and gave a wretched chuckle. “Of course. May I ask how you were made aware of the crimes?”
The capo tapped his pencil upon his note book. “We received a hint.” He shifted in his chair. “This seems an elaborate scheme for the small amount of money that your banker transferred. Would they have had reason to suspect you had more?”
The small amount of money? They had near five thousand pounds saved. But when Jane reflected on what it must have cost to arrange the pirate attack, it did seem incredible that they had made the attempt. “Perhaps they were after the other passengers’ funds as well?”
The capo said nothing, merely gazed at Jane so coolly that she had the sudden suspicion that there were no other passengers. Vincent suppressed a curse and bent his head again.
“You have thought of something, sir?” The capo raised his eyebrows.
“Merely comprehending the situation.” Vincent knotted his hands together so tightly that his tendons stood out. “What will you do with us?”
The capo sat back in his chair and pressed the pencil to his mouth, as though using it to quiet himself. He sighed and lowered his hands. “That is the question, is it not?” He gestured to the papers on the desk. “I do not think that you are anything but naive victims in this, but you owe upwards of two thousand pounds to various creditors. Have you family you can apply to for aid?”
Jane’s throat was dry as she answered. “They are travelling. They were bound for the Dalmatian coast when we parted.”
“And you, sir?”
“My family and I are estranged.” Vincent made his small noise of protest, near inaudible even to Jane. It was as though he had imperfectly held his breath and a small stream of air leaked out as he thought. He straightened. “I can write to the Prince Regent and request an advance on a project we will be creating for him. And meanwhile, I am—we are both—professional glamourists. Tomorrow I shall seek employment to pay our debts.”
“From whom?”
“I—I have not yet had the opportunity to explore that.”
“And have you any credentials? Letters of recommendation?” The capo remained placid, yet Jane could feel his disapprobation as clearly as if he had stated it. “I think you will find it rather more difficult than you might expect.”
“Difficult or not, what choice do we have?” Jane said.
The capo grunted, but betrayed nothing else of his thoughts. He then removed some sheets of paper from his desk and slid them across to Jane and Vincent. “I expect you will want to write some letters.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vincent rose to take the paper and looked at it, frowning.
Jane shared his concern. Letters within England were often expensive, but the cost was paid by the recipient. To send a letter between countries required either asking an acquaintance who was travelling to that country or paying for the service. They had no resources in either regard.
“Have you recommendations for a courier?” Jane was not certain why she asked, since they could not afford such a thing. And yet, what other choice did they have?
“Write your letters and instruct the replies to return here. I will send them for you.” It was an exceptional kindness. Or was it meant to grant control over their correspondence? The capo leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Meanwhile, though I would be fully justified in putting you into debtors’ prison, I shall not hold you. However, because you might still prove to be swindlers, you may not leave Murano until your debts are cleared. It is too easy to catch a ship from Venice. I will circulate your descriptions to our gondoliers, to ensure that you remain here. I shall also require you to report daily until such time as your debts are repaid.” He gestured to the officer who had searched Vincent’s pockets. “Gendarme Gallo will receive your report.”
It was more fair than Jane had any right to expect. They thanked him profusely, but all the while Jane wondered how they would manage. They had no funds and no friends at all. The only resources they had were the clothes upon their backs, and even those they owed money for.
* * *
Jane and Vincent stood on the street in front of the station house for a moment, both of them too stunned to do much more. They had been released, but released to where? They were not allowed to leave the island of Murano. Even if they could gain entrance to Lord Byron’s apartments, those were in Venice. Jane took Vincent’s hand, for her own comfort as much as for his.
He looked down with some surprise from wherever he had been lost in thought. His skin still had an unnatural pallor. He squeezed her hand. Jane began to walk. She knew not where she was going, only that she did not wish to remain in front of the station house any longer, lest the capo decide that he had made a mistake and imprison then after all.
“Why did you curse when he asked us if the swindlers might have thought we had more money than we did?”
“Because our glass would have … It could be sold to a military bidder.”
A chill spread from the base of Jane’s stomach. “How? I mean, how could they have known?”
“Sanuto. Pretending to be a spy. It played exactly upon my sympathies. He had to have known about my work for the Crown.”
“That is common knowledge, though, after the trial. Or rather, it is known that you were an agent for the Crown, but not what you did, and certainly nothing about the Verre Obscurci. Unless—do you think … Mathieu?”
Vincent shook his
head. She could just hear his hiss of distress over their footfalls. “I think it was me.”
“But you—when Napoleon’s men had you … you said nothing.” He had been flogged. She had watched from a hill, unable to do anything, as they tried to beat the information out of him.
“My desk. Recall?”
Jane gasped with the recollection. When Lieutenant Segal came for Vincent in Binché, he took the travel desk that her husband had carried. It had contained their notes about the glass and their efforts with it. Scanty, to be sure, but enough to see what they were considering. She let her breath out slowly. “And I wrote out more notes just this morning, which they must also have.”
Vincent cursed again. “We should never have stayed with Sanuto.”
His vehemence stung, reminding her that she had been the one to urge that they remain at the palazzo. She protested, “How could we have known?”
“But we did, the moment that Byron pointed out the inconsistencies in the pirate attack. I should have known—I did know—and should have urged us to leave.”
“Is the fault mine, then? Oh yes—yes, I can see that.” The sarcastic words rose in response to his implication, and her own sense of guilt. “I urged you to be forgiving. So it is then my fault that we are in this state.”
“I would not have said so, no.”
Jane stopped, pulling her hand out of his. Just barely did she manage to check the angry words that flew to her lips, and lock her jaws tight around her response. Vincent halted a few paces further and bent his head. He held his hands out from his sides in a gesture that spoke eloquently of his helplessness.
When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Jane, I am sorry. That was uncalled for, and not true. I trusted him, too. By his design.”
With care, she said, “Allow me to suggest that attempting to discover which of us is more at fault will not help us with our present situation.”
Valour and Vanity Page 12