I agreed that Julia’s dexterity would be tested to its limit by such a task.
‘I have tried,’ said Graziella, ‘to explain this to the Vice-Quaestor. But he will take no notice, because he wants everyone to say how clever he is when there is a murder to catch the murderer ten minutes afterwards. So he has continued to question the little Signorina half the night, hoping she will say something foolish. Finally I have explained to him that we are not living in a police state, thank God, and that it is not permissible for him to do this. So at last he has agreed that I shall arrange for the Signorina to stay in Chioggia, but he will not let her go home to London.’
‘Julia told me,’ I said, ‘how kind you had been.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Graziella. ‘But you will understand, Signor Shepherd, that perhaps the Vice-Quaestor will not be so very pleased to see me again.’
The Vice-Quaestor, a man of sad and operatic appearance, did indeed give the impression, when we were shown into his office, of being a police officer who had his troubles and did not find them alleviated by the reappearance of Graziella. ‘My own English is poor,’ he said – with, as it turned out, undue modesty – ‘but I have two officers both very competent to interpret. The Signora need not have troubled herself.’
‘It is no trouble, Signor Vice-Quaestor,’ said Graziella serenely. ‘I am most happy to assist Signor Shepherd in anything he can do to help the little Signorina Julia.’ Looking round his office, she evidently found it wanting in neatness and elegance. Before accepting the chair offered to her, she carefully dusted it with a paper handkerchief. Then, seeing that I was about to sit down without any similar precaution, she jumped up again, saying ‘Excuse me, Signor Shepherd, just a moment – ’ and dusted my chair as well. The Vice-Quaestor began to look harassed.
But in spite of the psychological advantage of making the Vice-Quaestor feel that his office was a pigsty, it was in the course of this interview that I first began to feel seriously worried about Julia’s position. It became clear, you see, that he really does think she did the murder.
It seemed at first that what impressed him was simply the sequence of events: Julia had been with the young man in his room; she had left alone; two hours later he had been found dead there – if there were an innocent explanation, it was for her to offer it.
‘With respect,’ I said, ‘that is a little unreasonable. It is precisely on the assumption that she is innocent that she will not be able to offer an explanation.’ Graziella translated this with approval; but the Vice-Quaestor looked as if he thought it a piece of sophistry. ‘If she had any motive,’ I continued, ‘then the circumstances might appear suspicious. But what conceivable reason could she have for doing such a thing?’
‘Ah, Signor Shepherd,’ he answered in English, without waiting for a translation, ‘who knows what a woman will do for the sake of love?’ The man not only looks operatic – he thinks operatically as well.
‘We are not speaking,’ I said, ‘of a grand passion, but of a very brief and casual liaison.’
‘Ah, for him, perhaps,’ said the police officer. ‘But for her – consider, Signor, she has loved this man, she has given herself to him. And afterwards, if he tells her that he does not love her, that she has been a mere amusement to him – who knows what she might do then?’
‘Miss Larwood,’ I said, ‘is not a schoolgirl, but an intelligent and sophisticated woman who has been for several years in practice at the Bar.’ This statement is perfectly true – I cannot really see what there is about it to make it seem so peculiarly misleading.
The Vice-Quaestor found English inadequate to express his answer. There was a rather sharp exchange of Italian before Graziella translated it.
‘The Vice-Quaestor is of the opinion,’ she said, ‘that it is just such a woman, a woman who has known nothing of love but has lived the cold life of the intellect, such a woman, when she believes that at last she has found happiness, who would respond with particular violence when she found she had been deceived. You must understand, Signor Shepherd,’ she added, looking coldly at the police officer, ‘that when the Vice-Quaestor refers to happiness he means marriage – that, in the opinion of the Vice-Quaestor, is the greatest happiness that any woman could hope for.’
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘And was there something further?’
‘The Vice-Quaestor has also invited me to tell you that if the little Signorina Julia were to admit quite frankly, as he says, that that was what happened the Court would no doubt be very sympathetic. I have explained, however, to the Vice-Quaestor that the little Signorina Julia is a very nice girl, a very kind-hearted girl, who likes to please people, but she is not so foolish as to admit to a crime she has not committed in order to play even a most sympathetic part in the drama which he has invented.’
I nodded. It did not seem prudent to offer a different account of Julia’s character from that at present entertained by the Vice-Quaestor. A man who sees life in operatic terms no doubt divides women into the virtuous, who will commit murder for the sake of their honour, and the wicked, who will do so for no reason at all. I suggested instead that if the crime were thought to be one of passion it was surely more probable that Kenneth Dunfermline, whose relationship with the victim seemed to have been more intimate than that of a mere travelling companion –
No, Signor Shepherd,’ said the police officer. And even Graziella shook her head.
It was at this stage that I learnt for the first time the exact circumstances in which the crime was discovered. Since Marylou has already given you a full account, there is no point in my repeating it – what she told you seems to be exactly the same as she told the police and it was confirmed, of course, by her husband and Kenneth Dunfermline. Well, it established, as you know, that Dunfermline is out of it.
It was rather a setback: I had been quite optimistic about persuading the police that he was the most likely person to have committed the crime. Still, though he and the Americans were excluded from suspicion, there were any number of other people who would have had the opportunity.
‘No, Signor Shepherd,’ said the Vice-Quaestor again.
It was at this point that things began to be difficult. What made them so was the evidence of the chambermaids. There are, apparently, four chambermaids. Their rooms are on the second floor of the annexe; but in the afternoons, instead of resting there, they prefer to sit in the entrance-way, talking and enjoying the sunshine. On Friday afternoon, they settled down as usual just after lunch – that is to say, about quarter past two – and remained there until dusk, when they dispersed to turn down the beds. From time to time one or another of them would have been briefly absent, making coffee and so forth; but there were always at least three of them there.
Questioned on Saturday morning by the Vice-Quaestor, they were all prepared to swear that the only people who had entered or left the annexe during that time were the following: Julia and Ned, going into the annexe together a few minutes after they themselves had settled down there; Julia, leaving again at about quarter past six; Mrs Frostfield, who returned at about seven; and Major Linnaker, who arrived shortly afterwards. They had not actually seen the return of the other Art Lovers; but it was only a minute or two after they had dispersed that one of them was asked by Marylou to unlock the door to the room shared by Ned and Kenneth and so became a witness to the discovery of the crime.
I have no doubt that they are all charming girls; but I did rather wish there had not been so many of them. I pointed out, however, that they had been taking, by their own account, something in the nature of a siesta. In the heat of the afternoon, it would have been natural for them to become drowsy. There would surely have been several occasions when someone waiting for an opportunity to slip unnoticed into the annexe –
‘No, Signor Shepherd,’ said the Vice-Quaestor, becoming, I felt, repetitive. He had questioned them closely about this possibility and they had been sure that none of them had slept – they had been taking it in
turns to read aloud from a book which they found most interesting.
Ah well,’ I said indulgently, ‘if they were deeply absorbed in some romantic novel – ’
The book which had engaged their attention was not, as it turned out, a romantic novel: it was The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State by Friedrich Engels.
‘Two of them are graduates,’ said the Vice-Quaestor, spreading his hands in a gesture of despondency. ‘What can one expect?’ He went on to make one or two further comments, which I thought injudicious, on the higher education of women. They provoked a rather heated response, in Italian, from Graziella – for the next ten minutes I was quite unable to follow the conversation, which appeared to cover a wide range of political and economic issues. At the end of it the Vice-Quaestor looked more despondent than ever.
‘I am sorry, Signor Shepherd,’ said Graziella, ‘you have not come here to talk about the difficulties of our poor country – you were saying?’
‘I was saying,’ I said, ‘that if these girls were deeply absorbed in a work of political philosophy – ’
But it was no use. Interested as they were in their reading, they might not have noticed anyone who simply came on to the bridge and returned to the terrace; but they were physically so disposed about the entrance-way to the annexe that no one could have entered it without disturbing them.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘we have been considering only the orthodox means of access. It would have been possible, I suppose, for someone travelling by boat along the canal to climb up to one of the balconies and to leave by the same route? The bedrooms of such a hotel as the Cytherea must present an attractive target for robbery.’
Physically, the Vice-Quaestor agreed, it was a possibility: but only, of course, under cover of darkness – and the murder had been discovered a mere five minutes or so after night had fallen. There were thieves in Venice, he did not deny it, as in other great cities. But they would not be so foolish as to break in when darkness had only just fallen and people were still in their rooms changing for dinner: they would wait until the early hours of the morning, when everyone was asleep and the English and Americans had left their windows open.
‘So you see, Signor Shepherd, the only persons who had any opportunity to commit the crime, apart from your friend the Signorina Larwood, are the Signora Frostfield and Major Linnaker. They are both persons of the highest respectability. Moreover, they were only slightly acquainted with the murdered man and had no reason to wish him harm.’ The Vice-Quaestor’s increasing confidence in his command of English seemed ominous. I decided I had better begin looking pleased and grateful.
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘Thank you, that’s most helpful. The preliminary enquiries made in London on Miss Larwood’s behalf do, as it happens, suggest that Major Linnaker may be rather less respectable than he seems and that Mrs Frostfield’s connection with the murdered man may be less slight than she would like you to suppose.’ I eased my conscience by remembering that business with the holdall at Heathrow and the conversation which Julia overheard between Eleanor and Kenneth. ‘But such enquiries do, of course, involve a certain amount of time and expense. If there had been a large number of other potential suspects, I should have felt hesitant about allowing them to continue. But I now feel justified, in the light of what you have told me, in authorizing them to proceed.’
You will gather, from the absurdity of these remarks, how entirely I was at a loss. Still, the Vice-Quaestor did seem a little impressed by the notion of enquiries being made in London on Julia’s behalf: at any rate, he has asked me to pass on to him any information which they may elicit.
He has also agreed to take no action so far as Julia is concerned until the forensic report is available – he is expecting this to reach him some time on Thursday morning. He is hoping, evidently, that it will shed some light on the precise nature of the weapon used: no weapon has been found – he believes that it is at the bottom of the canal and it would be useless to search for it. Still, this is, I think, one point which troubles him about his case against Julia: even he does not imagine that she would keep a stiletto in her underwear.
That, I think, is all there is to tell you about the interview. Afterwards I offered Graziella lunch – it seemed the least I could do. She declined, however, being pressed for time: she is leaving Venice this evening to spend a week in Rome. She had been wondering, it seems, if she should defer her holiday, in case Julia required her assistance; but she expresses herself satisfied, now I am here, that the matter is in safe hands – I wish I felt equally confident.
And so, after telephoning you from the Consulate and giving Signor Vespari a brief account of my interview with the Vice-Quaestor, I came, as I told you, to have lunch at the Cytherea, hoping, I suppose, for some sudden inspiration. I have had an excellent lunch, but no inspiration.
I am finishing this on the terrace, in the same corner, I think, where Julia used to write to you. The four chambermaids are still sitting in the entrance-way to the annexe. I suppose they are the same ones whose evidence is so troublesome, though today they are not reading anything, but conducting a flirtation with one of the waiters. At least, that is what it looks like – I suppose, for all I know, that it may be a seminar on political economy. I have been wondering whether it is possible that they are not telling the truth: if there were only one or two of them, it would be feasible – but four?
As a lunchtime customer, I could think of no excuse for going into the annexe; but I went and stood for a while on the bridge, from which, I am told by the waiter, one can see Byron’s house. I stood looking at the view down the canal, still vaguely hoping for inspiration; but none came.
It is possible, I suppose, that someone was already in the annexe when the chambermaids took up their position and afterwards escaped by way of the canal. But if there were such a person his purpose cannot have been murder – no one could have known that Ned would go back to his room And if his object was merely theft, why commit murder? He could have slipped out easily enough while Ned and Julia were sleeping.
So it really does look as if it must be Eleanor or the Major. If you can find out anything to their discredit, it will be, I need hardly say, most helpful in my dealings with the Vice-Quaestor. As I said on the telephone, I would prefer any messages to go to the Consulate – I shall be calling in there every morning and Signor Vespari will make sure that any news is passed on to me.
I am sorry not to write more optimistically.
Yours affectionately,
Timothy.
13
‘Properly regarded,’ said Selena, having replaced the telephone receiver, ‘it’s most encouraging to find that it must be either Eleanor or the Major. We shall pursue our enquiries with every confidence that we are not chasing red herrings.’ She resumed her place in the second-hand armchair.
‘My dear Selena,’ said Ragwort, ‘you speak airily of pursuing our enquiries. What, precisely, do you propose that we should do?’
‘Easy,’ said Cantrip. ‘We’ll go and question them – we’ve got their addresses.’
However things may be done in Cambridge, in the metropolis it is unfortunately not possible for one private citizen to arrive unannounced on the doorstep of another and to submit that other to a rigorous interrogation, using, if necessary, rack and thumbscrew. I asked if any of them might know anyone sufficiently acquainted with either suspect to enable us to make a more sophisticated approach.
‘I suppose,’ said Selena, ‘that we must know someone.’
‘Certainly you must,’ I said. ‘The whole object of an Oxford education is to ensure that when you want to know someone you know someone who knows them.’
‘I expect,’ said Ragwort, ‘that Benjamin Dobble would know something about them.’
Both Selena and myself are acquainted with Benjamin Dobble; but neither of us sufficiently well to be able at sudden notice to summon him to our assistance.
‘I suppose if I asked him,’ s
aid Ragwort, with an expression of rather complacent self-sacrifice, ‘he’d probably agree to have dinner with us. At Oxford, he used to think . . .’ Ragwort did not specify what opinion Benjamin had held of him at Oxford; but a brief consultation of the looking-glass over the mantelpiece seemed to reassure him that it was likely to be still entertained.
Benjamin joined us in the Corkscrew promptly at six o’clock. He is a large young man, whose smooth brown hair appears to be cut by the pudding-basin method: this combines with a certain roundness of feature to give the impression of a farmhand of the less intellectual type. It may, indeed, be not altogether misleading: I have heard it said that he had to work quite hard for his First in Economics – well, that may be mere malice; but there is no doubt that in the year he obtained his Fellowship of the College of All Souls the competition was unusually weak. Still, whatever reservations one may have about his intellectual capacity, if one wants to know anything about the world of art and objects, Benjamin is the man to ask. He combines the duties of his Fellowship with the post of Saleroom Correspondent to an investment periodical: there is little he does not know of such matters.
‘My dear Benjamin,’ said Ragwort, ‘how charming of you to join us.’
‘My dear Desmond,’ said Benjamin, ‘how sweet of you to invite me.’
Ragwort pulled an extra chair into the convivial radius of light created by the candle on our table, filled another glass with Nierstein and effected introductions between Benjamin and Cantrip.
‘I gather,’ said Benjamin, ‘that I am expected to make myself useful. Are you proposing to invest in antiques?’
‘No,’ said Ragwort, ‘not at the moment, Benjamin.’
‘Silver?’
‘Not just at present,’ said Ragwort.
Thus Was Adonis Murdered Page 15