‘Hilary,’ said Selena, ‘please— ’
‘The same phenomenon, of course, occurs in the context of the spoken word. We all know, for example, that Cantrip, being, due to the deficiencies of his education – for which, as I have always said, he is rather to be pitied than censured – unfamiliar with the term “rococo”, is under the impression that there is a style of architecture known as rocky cocoa – after, I suppose, some beverage of popular consumption in Cambridge.’
‘What,’ said Ragwort, ‘has all this to do with Julia?’
‘It has everything to do with Julia. And everything to do with Bruce. For you will remember that the only evidence of Bruce’s existence is a conversation between Eleanor and Kenneth as overheard by Julia.’
‘But there is,’ said Ragwort, ‘no alternative reading. We have no other account of the conversation.’
‘No direct account, no. There is, however, secondary evidence which conflicts with Julia’s, in that both Eleanor and Kenneth deny knowing anyone called Bruce. We must consider, therefore, the possibility of an error in Julia’s account. Reporting the conversation in oratio obliqua, she tells us that Eleanor said that Bruce had stolen an armchair and a rococo mirror which she rather liked. The precise words, presumably, which Julia thought she heard were, “Bruce stole an armchair and a rococo mirror which I rather liked.” ’
‘Well?’ said Selena.
‘One of the most celebrated makers of furniture in Venice in the seventeenth century was Andrea di Brustolon – Benjamin, you may remember, mentioned him the other evening. Julia, however, has probably never heard of him – she is not well up on the baroque and rococo periods.’
I cannot say that they yielded gracefully; but I eventually persuaded them that a mention by Eleanor of a ‘Brustolon armchair’, as an item in the Tiverton Collection which she would like to acquire, was more probable than any reference to some unknown larcenist; that the person against whom she had warned Kenneth in the earlier part of the conversation was almost certainly, in the light of what we had since learnt about him, the Major; and that what had to be kept under lock and key was not some mysterious object of value kept by Kenneth in his room, but the collection itself, Eleanor having inadvertently disclosed to the Major Kenneth’s connection with it.
‘But if Bruce doesn’t exist,’ said Selena, ‘what’s Marylou doing in Venice?’
‘That,’ I answered, ‘I am expecting to learn very shortly. But nothing can happen before eleven o’clock. It’s now only just after half past ten – there’s plenty of time for someone to make some coffee.’
There was, while we drank our coffee, an absence of conversation rare in Lincoln’s Inn. My companions kept looking warily at the telephone, as if it might spontaneously deliver some Delphic utterance.
‘Selena,’ said Ragwort, at about quarter to the hour, ‘did you tell them downstairs that any calls for you should come through to this room?’
‘Yes,’ said Selena. ‘Of course.’ And at ten to rang the Clerks’ Room to remind them.
We drank more coffee. The clocks within earshot of Lincoln’s Inn began to strike the hour.
‘From your statement, Hilary,’ said Ragwort, at five minutes past, ‘that nothing would happen before eleven, we have been assuming that something would happen after that time. You are now going, I suppose, to explain to us the fallacy in our reasoning.’
‘My dear Ragwort, I would not dream of such heartless casuistry. Something will certainly happen – but how long after eleven, I cannot definitely say. Timothy may have difficulty getting in touch with us.’
At twenty past eleven the telephone emitted a buzz. Ragwort stretched out his hand towards the receiver.
The door, at the same moment, was thrown open with such intemperate violence as caused it to bang against the skirting-board and there irrupted into the room a young man of threatening aspect. I recognized, from seeing him at Heathrow, the belligerent thrust of the shoulders and the pugnacious jut of the wide jaw.
‘Which of you,’ asked our visitor, glaring furiously about him, ‘is Desmond Ragwort?’ His accent was similar to Marylou’s, but his tone far less agreeable.
‘I am,’ answered Ragwort, without hesitation. He was, after all, among friends, and divided from the visitor by a substantial oak desk. ‘May I ask who you are and how I can assist you?’
The interruption had stayed his hand in its movement towards the telephone. Selena, sitting on the floor beside the kettle, contrived to amalgamate in a single movement of great rapidity the act of rising to her feet and that of crossing the room: most graceful and attractive if one had leisure to observe it. She lifted the receiver.
‘My name,’ said our visitor, ‘is Stanford Bredon and I want to know where my wife is. I want to know what the hell’s going on round here. I want to know— ’
‘Yes, Henry, of course I’m here,’ said Selena. ‘Do please put Mr Shepherd through as quickly as possible. No, Henry, I know you don’t know what it’s about. But I do, and it’s a matter of some urgency. Please, Henry.’
‘I want to know,’ continued Stanford, ‘why when I got home last night I found a note from my wife saying she’d had to go stay with her mother’s cousin Alice, because Alice was very sick. And when I called my wife’s mother in New York, because Alice is not on the telephone but I figured if something was wrong with her my wife’s mother would know about it – ’
The resonance of his indignation prevented me, though I was now standing next to Selena and within twelve inches of the telephone, from hearing the other end of her conversation.
‘She told me that her cousin Alice was right there with her in New York on a visit and had never felt better in her life.’
‘Mr Bredon,’ said Ragwort, ‘the good health of your wife’s relative is a matter for rejoicing rather than condolence. If, however, it displeases you, you should surely address your complaint to her doctor, rather than myself.’
‘Hilary,’ said Selena, ‘there seems to be some difficulty with the police. Timothy says he must talk to you.’ She handed me the receiver, relieving my frustration at being unable to hear what Timothy was saying – only partially, however, for Timothy also seemed to be speaking against a background of considerable noise, including, in particular, a baritone voice, which I took to be that of the Vice-Quaestor, complaining indignantly about the English.
‘For heaven’s sake, Hilary,’ said Timothy, ‘will you please explain to me what to tell the Vice-Quaestor?’
‘Timothy,’ I said, ‘what exactly has happened?’
‘The English,’ said the background baritone. ‘Always the English, always they make trouble. We are quiet, peaceful people in Venice, we do not have crimes, we do not have scandals. And then the English come – ’
Stanford was now leaning across Ragwort’s desk, disposed, it seemed, if he could reach him, to throttle Ragwort with his bare hands.
‘Ah,’ said Selena, in her most placatory manner, ‘you must be Marylou’s husband. We’ve heard so much about you.’
‘My dear Hilary,’ said Timothy, ‘what has happened is that on your instructions I have diverted half the police force of Venice from its proper duties— ’
‘We have no murders,’ continued the baritone, ‘and then the English come here and murder each other— ’
‘And why,’ said Stanford, ‘when I look in our address book, which is a joint address book, because Marylou and I believe that marriage is a relationship of absolute trust— ’
‘And that the Vice-Quaestor,’ continued Timothy, ‘has noticed an alarming rise in the number of violent deaths within his jurisdiction— ’
‘And corrupt the morals of our young,’ said the baritone.
‘I find in that address book,’ said Stanford, ‘a name and address which were not there before, of a person whom I do not know— ’
‘And the Vice-Quaestor,’ said Timothy, ‘would, quite naturally, like to know how I knew what was going to happen. And since, as
I have explained to the Vice-Quaestor, I have been acting entirely on your instructions, Hilary, and have no idea— ’
‘And eat sandwiches,’ said the baritone, in tragic crescendo, ‘in the Piazza San Marco.’
‘And that name,’ said Stanford, ‘is Desmond Ragwort and his address is 62 New Square.’
‘I say,’ said Cantrip, ‘if you don’t take your hands off my learned friend Mr Ragwort— ’
‘And the Vice-Quaestor is not prepared to let any of us leave Venice— ’
‘And I am not leaving this room— ’
‘Until he has a complete explanation.’
‘Until I have a full explanation.’
‘Hoocha!’ cried Cantrip – poor boy, he had been longing for days for an opportunity to demonstrate his karate.
Palazzo Artemisio.
Friday afternoon.
Dear Hilary,
Since my telephone call this morning was made in rather difficult conditions and apparently coincided with the outbreak in Chambers of some sort of riot, I was unable to give you as full an account of the morning’s events as you would no doubt have liked. Well, I suppose you are entitled to one, and I have ample time for the task: the Vice-Quaestor declines to let any of us leave Venice until the whole affair is clarified to his satisfaction; and he does not expect this before Monday.
I called at the Consulate, as usual, a little after ten o’clock, to see if there were any messages for me and to discuss with Signor Vespari, in view of the unfavourable forensic report, what arrangements should be made for Julia to be represented by an Italian lawyer experienced in criminal matters. I found him waiting for me with great impatience, being curious to know the contents of your telegram, which he handed to me as soon as I arrived. I read it, I must confess, with considerable irritation. Though not noticeably brief, it gave me, of course, no indication of what you were hoping to prove; I thought it highly probable that you were introducing unnecessary complications to gratify your taste for amateur theatricals. On the other hand, not knowing what other arrangements you might have made, I could not be sure what the consequences might be if I failed to comply.
My first impulse was to telephone and demand an explanation. I was not sure, however, where to find you at that time, and you had left me with less than an hour and a half in which to secure the cooperation of the Vice-Quaestor. I resigned myself with the utmost reluctance to acting blindly on your instructions. I decided, moreover, since you had gone into such detail, that I had better follow them to the letter – though the only thing that really seemed to matter was that Marylou and I should be outside the Basilica San Marco at twelve o’clock and that we should then be under discreet observation by the police.
You do not seem to realize, Hilary, that it is unusual for a senior police officer to be peremptorily summoned by a foreign lawyer to attend with two of his men at a particular time and place at an hour’s notice and without explanation. I am still not sure how we managed it – or rather, how Signor Vespari managed it, since he did all the talking. He told the Vice-Quaestor that my ‘investigations in London’ had been conducted by three members of the English Bar, under the personal supervision of a scholar of international repute – meaning, God help us, yourself – and added, rather grandly, that if your instructions were not carried out he could not be answerable for the consequences. Whether because he was really impressed by all this nonsense, or out of mere curiosity, the Vice-Quaestor eventually agreed to do as we asked.
Leaving the Consulate at twenty past eleven and walking towards the Accademia Bridge, I saw that Marylou was already sitting at one of the tables outside the café. It seemed absurd to delay approaching her; but since you had insisted that I should not do so until exactly half past, I spent the next ten minutes pretending to choose postcards from the newspaper stall outside the Accademia Gallery. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Vice-Quaestor and two other policemen standing near the door of the gallery, making rather a success of looking as if they had nothing to do.
At exactly half past, I went up to Marylou and asked if she was Mrs Bredon. Although I had recognized her easily from seeing her at Heathrow, I assumed that you would not have mentioned that occasion to her. She acknowledged that she was, but invited me to call her Marylou. After I had briefly explained to her what you wanted us to do, we set forth across the Accademia Bridge. She suggested that it would be more convenient to go by vaporetto across the canal straight to St Mark’s. I told her, however, that you had specifically directed me to go on foot, and that I did not think it prudent to depart from your instructions.
Your insistence that once we had met I should on no account leave her side until speaking to you on the telephone made me extremely nervous. It was not clear to me whether I was there to prevent her escape or to guard her against attack. But having come to Venice of her own free will, I could not imagine why she should suddenly run away. I concluded that my function was protective. All the way to the Piazza, I kept looking over my shoulder for some lurking assailant: the narrowness of the crowded streets seemed dangerously restrictive of movement in any emergency. I was a little, but not much, comforted by our retinue of policemen.
We reached the Piazza at about ten to twelve. I found it at first a relief to be in an open space; but halfway across I began to think that the centre of the Piazza was a singularly exposed and vulnerable place, and to wish that I had kept Marylou in the shelter, however illusory, of one of the colonnades at the side. Still, we arrived without misadventure at the entrance to the Basilica. We stood there, among the tourists and the pigeons, wondering what was going to happen, Marylou looking round for a face she might recognize, I still apprehensive of some attack on her.
The mechanically operated bronze figures at the top of the Orologio, which mark the hour by striking on the bell, began to emerge from their places, raising their hammers. The other tourists in the Piazza looked up to watch the little spectacle; the street photographers and sellers of souvenirs continued about their business; Marylou and I went on searching for a familiar face or a threatening gesture, but counted, as we did so, the alternate strokes of the hammers against the bell. The last stroke sounded and was lost in the blue sky above the Piazza; and nothing happened.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Marylou.
‘According to our instructions,’ I said, ‘we go straight home – that is to say, to the Palazzo Artemisio, where I am staying – and telephone Professor Tamar to report progress. We control as best we can our irritation at being involved in this fiasco.’
I had been, as you very well know, reluctant to make any telephone calls from the Palazzo, not wishing Richard Tiverton to be aware that I had been concerned, while in Venice, with other affairs than his own. I felt, however, a residual unwillingness to depart from your instructions; besides, it was easier to telephone from there than to trail back to the Consulate. I hoped, in any case, that I would be able to make the telephone call without attracting Richard’s attention, since he was still not feeling well enough to leave his room much. I would, I thought, express as succinctly as possible my opinion of the little pantomime you had organized; I would then tell the policemen, with grovelling apologies, that I no longer required their attendance; I would then take Marylou to lunch at Montin’s.
I was a little embarrassed, therefore, on entering the Palazzo, to find my client already in the entrance hall, himself engaged in a telephone conversation. The more so since it seemed to be acrimonious – he was saying, irritably, ‘But you must have done – who else would have sent it?’ As we came in, however, he looked up and broke off the conversation.
‘I’m so sorry, Richard,’ I said, ‘please don’t let us disturb you.’
He did not, however, resume his conversation. I saw, as my eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness of the interior, that he was paying no attention to me, but was staring at the girl beside me.
Looking again at her, I saw that she was staring back at him, with an expression of
great amazement.
‘Why, Ned,’ said Marylou, ‘I thought you were— ’ for reasons of euphony or otherwise, she did not complete the sentence, but began to scream.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the young man, speaking calmly into the telephone receiver. ‘It’s the American girl. She’s recognized me. And there are some policemen.’ The Vice-Quaestor’s subordinates, drawn by the scream, had come to the door, still open, of the Palazzo. ‘I’m afraid that’s the end of it. Goodbye.’
He left the receiver hanging and ran for the marble staircase. The two policemen ran in and after him. I followed, with some notion, I think, that he was still my client and I should be on hand to protect him.
In spite of his delicate appearance, he must have been quite athletic. With only a few yards’ start he reached the fourth floor, the top floor of the Palazzo, a flight and a half ahead of the policemen.
There is a window on the landing: he leapt for the sill and pushed the shutters open. He stood there, suddenly golden in the sunlight: I saw for a moment what Julia meant about Praxiteles and Michelangelo; and the two policemen – sensible, solid men, no doubt, with wives and families – the two policemen were checked in their pursuit.
‘Oh no,’ he said, smiling down at us, ‘no, I don’t think so, thank you.’ And turned and jumped.
‘The canal,’ said one of the policemen, turning to run back. ‘He’s escaping by the canal.’
‘No,’ said his colleague, ‘not the canal.’ Getting his bearings more quickly than the other, he had realized that that window did not face on to a canal, but on to a stone-flagged campiello: it is thus a surer escape than by water from the hands of any police force.
When I eventually managed to give the Vice-Quaestor some kind of explanation, he got in touch, of course, with the police in London, to ask them to go and talk to Kenneth Dunfermline. By the time they got there, though, it was too late – he had stabbed himself through the heart.
Thus Was Adonis Murdered Page 22