by Hester Rowan
‘I’m afraid I was rude to your friend,’ I admitted.
He chuckled and tightened his hold. ‘Not more than he deserved,’ he said. ‘I’m only sorry that he gave such a bad impression of himself – he seems to be worried about this message he’s come to get, and that partly accounts for his off-handedness. And then, being back in Italy seems to bring out his Italian ideas of conventionality. I rather think that he was wary of you because no well-brought-up Italian girl would dream of walking unescorted in St Mark’s Square of an evening, let alone of sitting at a table by herself. But I’ll tell him how it came about and extract a suitable apology.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ I protested vigorously. ‘Good heavens, it doesn’t matter a scrap to me whether he thinks I was sitting there waiting to be picked up or not! I shall never see him again anyway.’
Owen came to an abrupt halt and turned me to face him. ‘I certainly hope you will,’ he said slowly. ‘Guy’s one of my best friends. I told you, we often see each other – and I want to see you again too, very often.’
The music and lights of the piazza had faded into the background. I could hear the lap of water against stone as a silver-prowed gondola swayed past us on a side canal, the musical cry of the gondolier, the plash of oars, the soft murmur of the pigeons crowded on their nightly ledges, the quickening of Owen’s breath.
‘Seeing each other again might be difficult,’ I said, deliberately keeping my voice light. ‘I live near Durham …’
He found the objection irrelevant. ‘What does that matter? I’ve a fast car – and the fact is that it’s here, just outside Venice. We’re both on holiday, and your cousin has been reunited with her lover, so your duty’s done. Why don’t you abandon your package tour and come with me? I have to go to visit our client, but he lives in a delightful little town and if you don’t mind amusing yourself for a couple of days while I’m busy, we can then make our way back through the Dolomites, Austria, Germany, the Ardennes … we can have a marvellous week travelling through Europe together! Do say you’ll come, please, Clare.’
I hesitated. Not because I needed time to think, but because it would seem rude to give him my immediate answer.
The fact is that I’m not in the least adventurous. I dislike getting into situations which I can’t control, and since I spoke neither Italian nor German and had very little money, I should be humiliatingly dependent on Owen for the rest of the holiday. It was a very attractive offer; I knew that it was tame and timid of me to reject it and opt for the safe package tour but I was afraid to put too great a strain on a brand-new relationship. And so I followed my immediate instinct – after allowing a decent interval for what would look like serious consideration – and declined.
‘It sounds a wonderful idea, Owen, but I really can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to Kay – that’s Jennifer’s mother. She always dreamed of coming to Italy, but thought that I might be better company for Jennifer, and she paid for this trip for me because I’d already had my holiday, ski-ing in Norway in the spring. If I abandon the tour half-way, it would seem like throwing her generosity back in her face, wouldn’t it? No, I’m sorry, but I really must go on to Lake Garda as we’d arranged.’
His face had been lengthening as I spoke, but at the mention of Lake Garda he smiled again.
‘But Guy lives only twenty miles or so from the Lake – or rather his brother does. Guy’s going to stay with them after he has finished his business in Venice, and I was invited to join them for a few days next week, before I return to England. I’ll come over from there and see you. Where will you be staying?’
In the end he made a note of my home address and telephone number, as well as the address for the remainder of my holiday; and then, assuring me blandly that he knew his way round Venice, took me back to my hotel on a route that was twice as long as it need be, involving so much wandering through dark lanes and crossing over high bridges that he seemed to find it necessary to hold my hand for the entire journey.
The rest of our conversation is irrelevant. No doubt the climate has something to do with it but in Venice, as in Shakespeare’s Verona, it really does seem extraordinarily difficult to say good night. When we finally parted I knew without any doubt that I should be seeing Owen again and, I hoped, before very long.
As I turned away from him at the door of my hotel, I was half-aware that a man was standing in the shadow of a building watching us. It was only later when I was packing, that I suddenly realized that there had been something unpleasantly familiar about him – a massive corpulence, a flabby jowl, a heavy black moustache that I had seen before at uncomfortably close quarters.
Coincidence, of course. I got on with my packing.
Chapter Three
‘What are your plans now, Richard?’
Jennifer had slept late and her fiancé had joined us for a second breakfast just as we were about to start our own. ‘Your immediate plans,’ I added hastily, not wanting to be involved in a discussion about mortgages at that hour of the morning.
They glanced at each other for confirmation. ‘I’m coming with you to Lake Garda,’ Richard said. ‘After all, now I’m in Italy and booked to fly back on the same day as you, I want to make the most of the holiday. The courier here has been very helpful about finding me a seat on your coach to and from the lake, and a room in your hotel there. I hope you don’t mind, Clare?’
I resumed the act of plopping a dab of apricot jam on a piece of warm roll. ‘Mind? Of course not,’ I said, hoping that I sounded convincingly enthusiastic. The prospect of being in the company of an engaged couple was not appealing; I’d taken it for granted that they would want to go off somewhere on their own, away from the other members of the package tour. ‘But look, if you like the idea of going to Garda, why don’t you go without me? After all, I’ve had a week’s unexpected holiday already, and there’s no reason why I should stay in Italy any longer. I can get an early flight home.’
‘We wouldn’t dream of it!’ said Jennifer warmly. ‘Of course you’ll stay in Italy! The point is, though, that we feel we’ve thoroughly spoiled your holiday. First I was a misery, then we selfishly went off and left you on your own last night – I know you like being independent, but it’s one thing to be independent on your own terms and quite another to be suddenly deserted. You’ve been good to me and I’d never be able to forgive myself if I simply abandoned you now.’
I made sounds to indicate, politely, that I’d like nothing better, but Jennifer had recovered all her old poise with her engagement ring. ‘Richard and I discussed this last night,’ she said firmly, ‘and we’ve quite made up our minds. Oh, I know it might be a bit –’ she glanced at her fiancé and went a pretty shade of pink ‘– a bit boring for you to be in our company too much, but we’ll probably hire a car and go off and leave you in peace during the day. The thing is though, that we’ll be there to have breakfast and the evening meal with you, and of course, we’ll travel to the lake together, you and I; Richard can sit by himself!’
Richard looked a little hurt, as though this had not been a part of their arrangement, but he kindly made no protest. And in the light of his self-sacrifice, how could I object?
We had two hours, after leaving the hotel, to make our way to the Piazzale Roma where our coach was parked; time enough for last-minute shopping. Our luggage was taken ahead and Jennifer and Richard insisted on walking with me towards the Rialto, where we could eventually catch a water-bus to take us to the pizalle.
It was not, as I had known, a good idea for the three of us to be together. The narrow lanes were far too crowded for more than two to walk side by side, and although Jennifer made a point of walking beside me she kept turning to look at Richard. Before long I began, in sheer self-defence, to stop and peer into shop windows so that they could walk on ahead and gaze at each other unhindered.
I was, in fact, anxious to find a suitable gift to take back in gratitude to Jennifer’s mother. I had thought about it during the wee
k and had decided that she would like a cameo pendant; now in the arcades of jewellers’ shops on the Rialto Bridge, it was a matter of making up my mind which to buy.
The choice was so wide and my mental arithmetic among the price tags so laborious that it was only when the man spoke behind me that I realized that I had heard his footsteps pass me, waver, halt and return. His words – cool, incredulous, gratuitously rude – identified him even before I turned round.
‘Surely you’re not going to buy any of that rubbish?’
‘Certainly I am,’ I said with dignity. ‘Isn’t that how Venice lives, from tourists?’
Guy Lombardi looked momentarily disconcerted. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘That’s a consideration, I admit. But one doesn’t like to see the friend of a friend being rooked – and that’s what you’d be here, it’s an old-established tourist trap. What were you looking at?’
I pointed out the pendant. He pulled a face over the price tag.
‘I can take you to a jeweller where you can buy one just as attractive for half the price. Or something a good deal better for less than you’d spend here. As a matter of fact he’s an old friend and I’m on my way to see him now – would you like to come?’
I shook my head. Not that I don’t like a bargain, but at that moment I felt that I would prefer to pay too much for the pendant rather than be beholden to him.
‘Thank you, but I’m with some friends.’
I glanced along the arcade. Jennifer and Richard were standing right in the centre of it, eye to eye, oblivious of the passers-by who were forced to detour round their self-contained island.
‘Yes, I can see how eager they are for your company,’ said Guy drily. ‘Owen told me about your cousin – in fact I heard a good deal about you, far into the night. I was given to understand that I behaved like a pompous idiot when I met you, and that if it’s a choice of my friendship or yours in the future, he’ll have no hesitation in ditching me.’
My face felt ridiculously red. I was annoyed by it, and even more annoyed by Guy Lombardi’s evident amusement.
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ I said crossly. ‘I only met Owen last night.’
‘He doesn’t believe in wasting time. Anyway,’ he added quickly, ‘I do apologize for being objectionable when we met.’
‘Thank you. Though I rather think that I gave as good as I got.’
‘Oh, you did! But I’ll forgive you for it if you’ll let me restore my credibility with Owen by taking you to a better jeweller.’
At least it would be a good way of escaping from the lovers. They were still standing in their island, but Jennifer had noticed I was engaged in conversation and was staring at us, her nose twitching with curiosity.
It was childish of me perhaps, but that helped me to make up my mind. The solicitude that Jennifer and Richard were determined to show me was wearing; they had begun to make me feel positively grandmotherly. Walking off with a personable man in a Venetian suit would certainly restore my credibility with them.
I smiled at Jennifer and she came loping back with Richard in tow, eager to be introduced. Guy made himself agreeable, Jennifer’s eyes popped with interest, Richard gave me a grin that replaced me immediately in my own age group. I arranged to meet them at the coach, then let Guy steer me away from the main tourist beat and down a quiet lane towards his friend’s shop.
It was unpretentious outside, tiny and dim within. The jeweller, an elderly man, bent and thin-faced, emerged from behind the heavy curtain that concealed his workshop and greeted Guy with serious, shaky pleasure. He spoke no English but bowed with courtesy when Guy introduced me, switched on a desk light and produced a tray of cameo pendants and brooches for me to examine; as Guy had said, they were priced much more reasonably than the one I had nearly bought.
It was clear that Guy’s visit had been made in order to discuss some serious matter. The jeweller, Signor Crespi, had given me a worried look as they started to speak, and from Guy’s soothing tone I imagined that he was reassuring his friend that I didn’t understand Italian. Their business was no concern of mine, and I was perfectly happy to concentrate on choosing a pendant; it was only when I heard the jeweller’s voice rising in agitation that I glanced towards them.
He had brought out a newspaper. I saw its heading, Il Gazzetino, and remembered hearing the hotel porter tell someone that it was the Venetian daily paper. The old man pointed to a photograph with a shaking hand, and the single word he uttered registered clearly in my mind: ‘Morto!‘
It wasn’t difficult to understand. Someone was dead. The newspaper was spread on the counter only a couple of feet from me, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to glance at the photograph.
Incredibly, it was someone I knew.
He had been younger when it was taken, with rather more hair and with fewer lines on his face, but the likeness was unmistakable. He had clearly been poor then, poor, thin-faced, hunted; the photograph looked in fact like something that had been produced from police archives, and that didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me was that the man was dead. Only yesterday evening he had talked to me urgently in St Mark’s Square, begging me to try to understand what he was saying. His sudden death shocked me; I felt a dreadful guilt, as though in some way I had failed him by my failure to understand.
And then I remembered the abrupt way the man had left me; remembered too the fear in his eyes, the way he had been followed. I knew, instinctively, that he hadn’t died a natural death.
The little shop had gone suddenly quiet. Both men were watching me, Signor Crespi with polite bewilderment, Guy Lombardi with eyes that assessed and speculated, as grey and unfriendly as the North Sea.
I felt embarrassed, exposed. I turned towards the door, some instinct of self-preservation making me want to run from unpleasantness that I didn’t understand. But what I saw through the plate glass made me step back involuntarily.
A few feet away across the lane, absently picking his teeth as he stared in the window of an antique shop, was the fat man with the ample moustache.
Guy had seen him too. He pointed him out discreetly to the jeweller, whose reaction was to switch off the light, run fearfully to lock the door and then collapse on a chair, racked by coughing.
Guy pushed through the curtain into the workshop, returned with a glass of water for his friend and began to talk to him softly. The jeweller gasped out an agitated explanation and after a few minutes Guy straightened and turned to me.
‘Someone you know?’ he asked coldly, jerking his head towards the lane.
Even though the light was off, I kept well back from the window. Was it coincidence again, or was the man following me? I felt a shiver of alarm. Whatever might be going on, I wanted no part of it.
‘No! I’ve no idea who he is!’
He gave me a look of steely disbelief. ‘Oh, but you recognized him, didn’t you? Just as you recognized –’ he gestured towards the newspaper, ‘– Alberto Crespi. Alberto is – was – Signor Crespi’s nephew. He was fished out of a canal last night with a knife wound in his back. But then, I expect you know that already?’
‘Oh no!’ I protested, horrified. ‘I had no reason to –’
‘No? Then I wonder why you looked so guilty when you saw his photograph?’
‘But that was because he asked me for help. He spoke to me last night in St Mark’s Square –’
Guy pounced, angrily triumphant. ‘So that’s it! He did go to Florian’s as he’d arranged, but you intercepted the message that he was going to give to Anna to pass on to me. And that means that you do speak Italian. I thought that you were making a big point last night about not speaking or understanding the language, but now I know that you were lying.’
I was staggered by his allegation, but determined not to lose my head. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even. ‘I most certainly am not lying,’ I said icily. ‘I don’t speak Italian. I’m sorry about Alberto, please tell Signor Crespi that, but I know abs
olutely nothing about him or his death. He tried to talk to me last night and I realized that he was frightened, that he wanted help, but I couldn’t understand a word he said. Owen saw it all, he knows what happened.’
‘Yes, Owen told me about the long conversation you had with an Italian. He believed your explanation, of course, but then he would – he loses his head when he meets a girl.’
This was no time for me to worry about defending Owen, or even the veracity of my own sex. I was confused and alarmed. Alberto’s murder had darkened the beauty of Venice; all I wanted was to get away from this city of sinister green watery streets, peeling walls and slimy stone.
But outside, idly manicuring his nails with a toothpick, conceivably waiting for my next move, was the man with the moustache.
‘That man,’ I began, hearing my voice rise with tension and trying hard to bring it under control, ‘is the one who knows about Alberto’s death – I’m certain of it.’
‘So Signor Crespi tells me.’ The jeweller was sitting hunched in his chair, dabbing nervously at his lips with a crumpled handkerchief. He had begun to look as Alberto had: hunted.
‘Then why don’t you go to the police?’ I demanded.
Guy looked at me sardonically. ‘And what do you suggest I have him charged with – picking his teeth in public? Since you know him, presumably you know perfectly well that Zecchini is never personally concerned with crime – he just employs others for it. Among other enterprises, he runs a protection racket. Honest men like Signor Crespi do their best to avoid attracting his attention, and that’s why he’s distressed now. Alberto may have been a bad lad, a petty thief, but he always took great care to protect his uncle from the heavy men by keeping away from his shop. But now that you’ve led Zecchini here, his men will start demanding money. They’ll lean on Signor Crespi until he’s ruined.’
His belief in my complicity was so outrageous that I nearly choked on my words. ‘But I didn’t lead him here! You know that as well as I do. It wasn’t my idea to come to this shop, you suggested it yourself!’