Canal; the busy fleets of gondolas plying the waters, the colourful crowds of people thronging the city . . .
It was a city that might in some lights look like the
set for a vast play. And yet it was living, breathing, heaving with noise and colour and possibility. It daunted and excited Ned in almost equal measure. Here was the life of his dreams, the place where anything might happen. Anything.
A voice behind him made him start. ‘Well, Ned? What do you make of Venice?’ He turned. It was Jacques d’Arcy.
‘Beautiful, sir! Exciting . . . fantastic . . .’
‘All those things and more. Enchanted. A mixture of beauty and menace,’ said the elder d’Arcy gravely. ‘Never forget that, Ned, and you’ll get on well here. I’ve always thought of Venice as a woman,’ he went on. ‘One of those half-women from legend—beautiful woman to the waist, serpent below. I think that should be her symbol—not the lion.’
Ned shivered. ‘That’s a horrid thought, sir.’
‘Oh, not really,’ said the merchant, smiling. ‘It’s exciting. Intriguing. Just so long as you know to beware. Not to blunder into situations you don’t understand.’ He looked at Ned. ‘Do you understand?’
Ned swallowed. Surely Jacques d’Arcy didn’t know about the duel? No, it must be a more general warning. He said, ‘I ... I understand, sir. I’ll be careful.’
‘That’s a sensible resolution, Ned,’ said Master Ashby, bustling up to them with his sister and daughter close behind him. ‘Avoid the fleshpots of Venice, there’s a good lad.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Ned, going scarlet, because Celia had heard and was smiling as though it were very funny. Fleshpots indeed! As if he were some kind of young lout, some randy rowdy who couldn’t be trusted!
Matthew Ashby ignored his embarassment. He’d spotted someone in the crowd thronging the quay. ‘Orlando! My God, look at him. He’s hardly changed at all. He must be using some of his own magic potions, that Venetian reprobate!’ He turned to the French merchant, all smiles. ‘Well, Monsieur d’Arcy, we must say goodbye— and thank you for your company on the ship. It was most pleasant.’
‘It was for us too,’ said Jacques d’Arcy, smiling, ‘and I for one am determined that this is not “goodbye,” but merely “till we meet again,” and very soon. Perhaps after you have settled—say, in three days’ time—you might do us the honour of dining with us? Shall we say six o’clock? I’ll send some post-chaises round for you. I know where your friend Dr Leone’s house is—he is one of the most famous alchemists in Venice. I have met him myself a few times. Do give him my regards.’
As Master Ashby accepted the invitation and exchanged pleasantries with the French merchant, Ned
caught Henri’s eye. He read the same question in his enemy’s eyes. Which one of them would be alive—or in a fit state—to attend the dinner?
»
Dr Orlando Leone did not at all fit the popular picture of an alchemist, which tended to be bespectacled, stooped, elderly, absentminded, and wild-eyed. Although he was about Matthew Ashby’s age, Leone looked years younger: he was a handsome giant of a man, with a mane of golden hair, broad shoulders under fur-trimmed black robes, and a booming voice.
He was unusual amongst alchemists too, because his family had been quite poor. But a quick intelligence and charm, a talent for money, and a lust for learning had soon seen Orlando Leone improve his position. By the time Matthew Ashby had met him he was already a considerable figure in the city, with a tidy fortune he’d made in partnership with a shipping merchant, and a growing reputation as a talented alchemist—a reputation that had risen spectacularly since then. He had written several books about his science, books that sold well even in England.
‘Well, well, and what a most tremendous pleasure!’ boomed Dr Leone. His English was good, if rather heavily accented, his voice deep and resonant. ‘When I received your letter, my dear Mateo,’ he went on, using the Italian form of Matthew’s name, ‘I pressed it to my bosom, so happy was I that we would meet again after
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so many years!’ He suited the action to the word by clasping Matthew Ashby in a great bear hug from which the stout little merchant emerged breathless and pinkcheeked.
‘It’s very good to see you too, Orlando,’ he managed to gasp. ‘May I present my sister, Mistress Bess Quickly, and my daughter, Celia.’
Orlando Leone bowed low over their hands. ‘Charmed! Enchanted! Overwhelmed! Dear ladies, welcome with all my heart to Venice. I will endeavour to do everything in my power to make your stay happy and pleasurable.’
‘Why, thank you, sir,’ said Bess Quickly, a little flustered. As for Celia, she smiled radiantly and said she already loved Venice, just on sight, and she already knew it was all going to be just wonderful.
Ned stood around, feeling superfluous. He had been introduced in a cursory manner as ‘Ned Fletcher, my clerk and a good lad,’ but Dr Leone hadn’t paid him much attention. Not surprising. Clerks didn’t figure much in the orbit of a famous alchemist—any more than they were noticed, he thought bitterly, when handsome, wealthy merchants’ sons hove into the horizon of pretty young girls with an eye to the future.
He was jerked from his unpleasant thoughts by something Dr Leone was saying. ‘Dear ladies, as my house is rather small and devoid of feminine comforts, and as I know Mateo and young Fletcher here will have a good
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deal of tiresome business to attend to, I have taken the liberty of arranging a set of fine quarters for you in a
house a short distance away from mine. It’s a beautiful
house belonging to one of my very good patrons, Ludovico Marinetti, and it is fully provided with servants. I can even arrange for guides to show you the city. I trust that might be to your satisfaction?’ he went on, bowing to Celia and Mistress Quickly.
‘Oh yes, that will be just fine,’ fluttered Mistress Quickly.
‘So very thoughtful of you.’ Celia smiled.
But Ned was horribly dismayed. Not only would he have ‘all that tiresome business’ to attend to, but he wouldn’t even be in the same house as Celia! And tomorrow he might be lying dead in some Venetian alley, or on the run for his life. . . . Oh, things were announcing themselves just fine and wonderful, weren’t they! He didn’t think he was so fond of adventure- no, not any more! Things would have been better if they’d stayed in London.
But Ned’s gloomy thoughts faded as they set off through the city, the porters carrying their luggage. Away from the square, the crowds were thinner, but it was still fairly busy—only with foot and water traffic, though: one of the things Ned noticed straight away was the complete absence of horses and horse-drawn
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vehicles. The canals, big and little, crisscrossed the place, and the little footways beside them were far too narrow, the paving too slippery, for horses. So people walked, or rode in boats, or in post-chaises on the shoulders of porters. Goods were ferried on the water and carried by men up the steps of landing-stages directly into houses fronting onto the canals.
He was all eyes and ears now as they walked deeper into the heart of the city, over little bridges, past churches and fountains and small, paved squares. The spell of the city was already working its way into him little by little, and as he walked along, dreamily hanging back behind the others, looking all around him, imagining stories around people he glimpsed, he felt himself becoming calmer. Things would work out, he told himself hopefully. Now he was here, in magical Venice, things would somehow solve themselves. He’d beat Henri without killing or really hurting him, he’d help Master Ashby with the piracy investigations, and perhaps he might solve the mystery of Sarah Tedeschi’s disappearance single-handed and earn the plaudits of everyone . . . and win Celia’s heart and hand, through his brave and clever actions. . . .
Deep in his dreams, he had lingered behind the others. Now he suddenly looked up and saw that they
had vanished. He was in a square from which several streets radiated. Which one had they taken? He had no
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idea. Then a thought jumped into his mind. The alchemist was famous. So he would ask the way to Dr Leone’s house. Someone was bound to know.
He looked around for help, but there was no one to be seen except for a ragged white-haired figure huddled in the doorway of a church. A beggar of some sort. Well, beggars might be rascals, but they usually knew their way around fairly well. He went over to the beggar, dropped a coin in front of him, and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Er . . . scusi —how do you say “I’m looking for a house”? . . . Oh yes, that’s right, ho cercare casa / he floundered, trying to remember the scraps of Italian he’d learned from the phrase-book Celia had brought with her and which he’d studied at odd moments on the ship.
The beggar looked up. His hair might have been white, but he wasn’t old. It was hard to tell his true age, though, for he was a wreck of a man, painfully thin, the eyes burning, hollow in the gaunt face. Those eyes searched Ned’s. The beggar croaked, ‘Help . . .’
Ned goggled at him. ‘What? Dear God, you’re English!’
‘Help . . . ,’ said the beggar again. He stared wildly at Ned. ‘Lost. . . find . . . help . . .’
‘You’re lost? Oh, I can’t help you; I’m a stranger to Venice and in fact I—’
The beggar snatched with a skinny claw at Ned’s sleeve. ‘Beatrice—where is Beatrice?’
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Ned stared. ‘Sorry, my friend. I don’t know anyone called Beatrice.’
The beggar shrieked so suddenly Ned nearly jumped out of his skin. ‘Why do you mock me?’
‘What? I’m not—’
‘Devil! Sent from hell to mock me!’ screeched the man. Without warning, he leaped for Ned’s throat.
Ned yelled, stumbled, tripped, fell. The beggar was on him in an instant.
Ned struggled desperately to fight him off, but the man had the unnatural strength of the raving mad. If someone hadn’t come on the scene at that instant and flown to Ned’s aid, there was no telling what might have happened. In a trice, the man pulled the beggar off Ned and gave him a blow that sent him reeling back into the doorway, where he crouched with his head in his hands, rocking himself and babbling incoherently.
Ned’s rescuer said something to him in Italian, which Ned took to mean ‘Are you all right?’
Panting, his heart racing, he nodded gratefully. ‘Gra- zie, signore /
Trego/ said the man, shrugging. You’re welcome. He pointed to the beggar. Tazzo. Pazzo lunatico/ he said, tapping his head in the universal gesture that signifies ‘crazy.’
‘Yes—I mean, si/ said Ned.
The man smiled. ‘ Inglese?’
‘ Si . I’m English—er, Inglese .’ He pointed at the beggar.
‘He spoke English, but kind of rusty. Do you know who he is?’ Ned saw the man had not understood at all. He said carefully, ‘I mean— chi es ?’
The man shook his head, shrugged, and spread his hands, to indicate he didn’t know. He sighed. Tovera creatura.'
‘Poor creature. Yes.’ Ned glanced at the madman. Pity flooded through him. How could a person come to this? What torturous experience had taken this man’s reason from him and brought him to madness? He’d never know. Sighing, he turned away from the sad sight and back to his rescuer. ‘Scusi — signore—ho cercare—casa Dottore Leone . Orlando Leone, ' he said carefully.
The man’s face cleared. He said brightly, ‘Ah! Dottore Leone!' He pointed to one of the streets across the square, then made a gesture to indicate a left turn. Then he said slowly and clearly, ‘ La prima casa a destra.'
Destra, destra, thought Ned hastily. I think that 3 s right, isn't it? So I have to turn left on that street and then it'll be the first house on the right. Unless I've made a mistake, of course, and it's left. Well, it'll be one or the other, anyway. And they must be wondering where I've got to. He nodded and said, ( Si, signore. Molto grazie.'
Trego,' said the man with a smile.
Arrivederci, signore,' said Ned, proud of himself for having managed it.
Arrivederci,' said the man, raising a hand in farewell as Ned set off at a run across the square.
A Venetian window
Dr Leone’s house was tall and narrow and three storeys high, built of plain, thin red bricks. The front of the house gave onto a peaceful backwater of a little canal, with a landing-stage and a boat tied up to it. The back looked out into a pleasant little courtyard and a quiet street.
Inside, the house was spacious and pleasant, and furnished comfortably but sparsely. No fashionable gilt or carved things, but solid tables, chairs, and beds, and a few fine tapestries. On the first floor were three large
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bedrooms: Ned and Master Ashby would occupy two of these, the third being Dr Leone’s own room. On the second floor were small bedrooms for the servants. But the third floor housed Dr Leone’s work areas: a large laboratory, kept locked when the alchemist wasn’t using it, several storerooms, and a small but well- stocked library. All in all a good, plain, serviceable house.
But the Marinetti house where Celia and Mistress Quickly were to stay was very different. It was much bigger and more imposing, for a start. It boasted several pillars and arches, and its brickwork had been rendered with whitewash to make a background for some magnificent frescoes of classical scenes. Inside, the house was most richly furnished in the fashionable Italian manner: the ceilings elaborately painted with scenes from myth; the floor in the main reception room made of lovely black and white mosaic; a good deal of gilt on the carved furniture; silk hangings; and large, elaborate paintings. The Marinettis were very wealthy merchants, and clearly they believed, unlike Dr Leone, that if you had money, it should hit your visitors right in the eye.
The women were delighted with their new quarters. ‘It’s like a palace,’ said Celia, twirling around the room as Ned brought her luggage in. ‘Like a palace—and we’re the queens.’
‘Don’t get too queenly,’ said Ned tartly. ‘Or your subjects might rebel.’
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‘Will they?’ said Celia, giving him a look from under her lashes that made his heart lurch. Did she know . . . did she know what he felt? She’d never say, would she? She would let him stew. Let him stew, while she teased and twinkled and dimpled.
‘What are you looking so fierce about?’ said Celia. ‘Aren’t you happy to be in Venice? I thought you’d love it here. You could use it as a setting for one of those poems you’re always scribbling. What do you scribble about, Ned?’
He swallowed. She was looking at him in the usual way: friendly, familiar, laughing. Why should she know what he really felt? He’d never told her. Never shown her. just acted like a gruff older brother.
‘Just things,’ he said quietly. ‘And yes, of course I’m happy to be in Venice. Aren’t you?’
‘I’m thrilled,’ she said simply, her smile radiant. She went to the window and flung open the shutters. ‘Oh, Ned, come and look, do!’
He went over. It was certainly worth looking at. Celia’s window gave out onto a view of the canal. It was a beautiful sunny day, and gondolas and other boats plied up and down the waterway, many of them flying colourful flags. The canal was lined on both sides with lovely houses as far as the eye could see. Suddenly feeling light and joyful, Ned looked and looked, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being at a Venetian window with Celia, watching the world go by.
‘It’s like a dream,’ he said. ‘I never imagined I’d be here, one day, looking out at this.’
‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Oh, Ned—don’t you think it’s even better, and more beautiful, than we could have imagined?’
He glanced sideways at her, his heart beating fast. ‘Yes,’ he murmured.
She said in a different tone of voice, ‘Ned, I’ve been thinking about our problem. Sarah Tedeschi, I mean. I think the most likely person to hav
e helped her leave the Ghetto is someone who cares deeply about her and would risk a good deal for her sake—-most likely a lover.’
‘Dr Tedeschi didn’t mention any lover in his letter to Mistress Lanier, did he?’ said Ned, his eyes on Celia’s face. How lovely she was, he thought, lovely, intelligent, spirited; there was more life in her little finger than in ten thousand Helen of Troys. ... If only he could say it, and not just write it... if only he had the courage.
‘Fathers don’t always know everything about their daughters,’ said Celia, shrugging.
Ned shot a sharp glance at her. Had there been a personal undertone to her words? ‘She is a few months over sixteen,’ Celia went on. ‘And Mistress Lanier said she was very pretty. It is most unlikely that such a girl would want for suitors. Now, she is a Jewish girl. And Dr Tedeschi thinks someone outside the Ghetto must
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have helped her—therefore, it follows that her lover must be not a fellow Jew, but a Christian.’
‘Like Jessica and Lorenzo in The Merchant of Venice,' said Ned.
‘Who? Oh, not another play. Ned, this is real life. The real world. Don’t keep harping on about made-up things. Now, listen. I believe we should try to discover who her lover may be. I do not think it is the kind of thing Father would be very good at, so it’s up to me— and you, of course, I’d never do it without you,’ she added hastily, seeing Ned’s expression.
‘How do you think we should do it?’ he said carefully.
‘If Sarah fled the Ghetto with the help of a Christian, I think it must be someone who either has business in the Ghetto or lives near it. He must be someone who has contact with the Jews. Ergo, we must go to the Christian areas nearest the Ghetto and make some discreet enquiries.’
‘You’ve worked it all out, haven’t you?’ said Ned.
The Madman of Venice Page 3