The Venetian Venture Page 11

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rosy was none too pleased to get Cedric’s phone call. In fact she wasn’t pleased at all. The prospect of admitting defeat to Stanley so soon after reporting the good news was a blow, and already she could hear the torrent of anguished protest echoing down the line.

  She brooded on what Cedric had told her. Apparently the man was an obsessive bibliophile and was clearly anxious to reclaim his lost Horace. Well, she grumbled to herself, if it was so damn important to him why had he been so careless in the first place? Fancy leaving it at the Palazzo Reiss and then forgetting to pick it up! Surely if the thing was so precious he would have returned like a shot the next day. Her mind darted back to childhood and she heard her mother’s exasperated voice: ‘Frankly, Rosemary, if you persist in leaving your toys about like that you don’t deserve to have any.’ Precisely: such negligence didn’t deserve reward. Anyway what about finders keepers? She had found it. (Well not literally perhaps, but as good as.) And it wasn’t as if this Carlo had put his name in the thing; other than Bodger’s own signature there was no stamp of possession. She heaved a sigh staring irritably at the book. One moment she had the damn thing and the next she was expected to give it up. It was a bit much! The cheerful postcards she had been writing suddenly became irrelevant – mocking even – and pushing them aside she gazed resentfully out at the lagoon. Somehow it seemed to have lost its sparkle since she had last looked.

  She reached for her lighter, lit a cigarette and brooded. Cedric hadn’t said when she might expect the man but presumably his approach would be imminent. Perhaps she could make a diplomatic withdrawal, i.e. scram and spend the whole of the next day on the Lido. Such an absence would at least be a delaying tactic. After all, the Carlo person had made no appointment and there seemed no obvious reason why she should give him the chance of making one. Elusive, that’s what she would be. And with luck if she could play the absence game long enough perhaps he would forget about the book altogether just as he had before … Yes that was the answer – decline to be ‘at home’. Wasn’t there a rather fashionable hotel on the Lido which did excellent lunches and where one could swim? Fearfully extravagant of course, but she could put the jaunt on expenses: a necessary means of protecting the literary spoils while confounding overtures from marauding foreigners. She grinned. Yes, put like that Dr Stanley might feel a surge of rare generosity!

  Thus the following morning those were Rosy’s plans: to quit the Witherington residence early and spend the whole day elsewhere.

  Plans of course are made to be thwarted. And so just as Rosy was descending the stairs poised for a quick getaway, she encountered Mr Downing coming up. He held a small white card in his hand. ‘Ah Miss Gilchrist,’ he exclaimed, ‘how fortunate to catch you! There’s an Italian downstairs – very polite I may say – who seems anxious to see you. I can’t find our hostess so he gave me his card and asked if I would be so kind as to present it to you with his compliments. I told him you were bound to be still in and I should deliver it immediately.’ Downing gave her the card, and stood back breathing heavily from his staircase exertions. He had the air of a biddable retriever waiting for a pat. Rosy sighed. Wouldn’t you know – foiled by the marauding foreigner! Withholding the pat she thanked her messenger and continued down the stairs and into the lobby lounge to confront the visitor.

  At her entry the small man in the raincoat swung round to greet her. She recognised him instantly as he did her. ‘Ah the so charming English lady,’ he exclaimed, ‘you may recall our recent meeting near the Pacelli bookshop. From your friends’ description I rather thought it might be you. Life is full of exciting coincidences.’

  Coincidences yes, Rosy thought, but as to exciting she wasn’t too sure. ‘Yes of course I remember,’ she said politely. ‘How nice to see you again.’ (It wasn’t at all nice: the man had come to take her book away!) She gestured to a chair. ‘Please sit down, I gather we have something to discuss.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘Unfortunately yes and I wish the matter were less delicate, but as you now probably realise there has been a slight misunderstanding. Your friends gave you a book which by rights belongs to me, and with the greatest respect I ask that you return it.’ The eyes smiled and the tone was precise.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosy said non-committally. ‘You are referring to the Bodger Horace.’

  ‘Exactly. And I have to admit that when you told me the other day you were looking for a copy of Horace’s Odes it never occurred to me that it might be this particular version. I had assumed it was one of the many contemporary editions. I don’t know how things are in England, but here in Italy there has been an enormous resurgence of interest in the poetry and every publisher seems to be bringing out a collection.’

  ‘I see. Sort of two a penny you mean.’

  He laughed. ‘And tuppence ha’penny for five. Wouldn’t that be the English phrase?’

  Rosy acknowledged that it probably was the English phrase, while inwardly cursing that at any moment she would have to go upstairs to fetch the book and place it meekly in his hands. Perhaps if she were tougher and of a more entrepreneurial bent she would hold out: suggest something more transactional or request a token fee as a gesture of goodwill or whatever it was business people did. But she was no businesswoman and would simply make a fool of herself. Besides, presumably if the thing were his, he had every right to take it back.

  Thus reluctantly she heard herself saying, ‘Well I expect you would like me to get it. I won’t be a minute.’

  ‘Yes please,’ he said simply.

  Book in hand she started to descend the stairs again and was once more waylaid by Mr Downing. (Really, had that man nothing better to do than loiter aimlessly on staircases?)

  ‘Everything all right?’ he enquired in a sepulchral whisper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your visitor, I trust he’s … ahem, I mean all’s well I take it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied airily, ‘as right as rain.’ (Like hell!) She wondered if Downing expected the front parlour to be a scene of rape and carnage, reflecting bitterly that pillage might be nearer the truth.

  She re-entered the room and with a gracious smile presented Carlo Roberto with his long-lost volume.

  The man was clearly relieved to be reunited with the book, and nodding in satisfaction ran his hands over the binding and began to leaf through its pages. Suddenly he stopped and she heard a faint intake of breath. He bent his head to make closer inspection; and then reaching into his pocket produced a magnifying glass. Vaguely curious, Rosy watched as he squinted through the lens at the writing on the flyleaf.

  Straightening up he pushed the book aside and regarding her intently said, ‘This is not my book. This is a fake.’

  She had gazed at him bemused. ‘But it is the one that was found at the Palazzo Reiss, the one you left there. Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say, signora.’ Rosy noticed a slight change in his demeanour. The smooth genial tone had turned hard. ‘I can assure you that this is not the one that I left there. It is not mine and I believe this one to be a forgery.’

  ‘But I—I don’t understand,’ she stammered.

  ‘No more do I,’ he said dryly.

  There was a silence as he continued to watch her closely. She felt that she was being assessed, judged. What did he imagine – that she had tried to pull a fast one, had tried to palm him off with some crude imitation while she could scuttle back to England bearing his own as her trophy? What nonsense! But as she saw the sharp expression and noted the impatient twitch of his little finger, she realised that was probably exactly what he did think. She sighed in exasperation. ‘How do you know the book isn’t yours? I gather you only had it in your possession for a short time – hardly long enough to spill jam on it!’ She gave a caustic laugh.

  ‘No not to spill jam, but long enough to write my initials on the third page from the end – underneath the ode beginning “Phoebus volentem proelia me loqui” … Per
haps you know it?’

  Rosy felt like saying that no she didn’t bloody know it and why should she, but was determined to keep cool. Thus she said lightly that alas it was not a line familiar to her and added, ‘So you put your initials in all your books do you? A sort of secret stamp of acquisition?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied gravely, ‘the moment I get them.’

  Rosy cleared her throat, and feeling not unlike an inquisitorial schoolmistress said, ‘I don’t suppose there is any possibility that on this occasion you may have forgotten to do so. Memory plays such odd tricks. I mean you may have meant to but were distracted by—’

  ‘I was not distracted, signora. My initials are in the original and this is not it.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Besides there is something else wrong: the inscription. In the original the word “joyous” is used; in this one it is “joyful”. I may also add that anyone at all familiar with the technique of forging will recognise that this ink, although cleverly dulled, is no more than five years old. The foxing too is questionable.’ He paused, and then said: ‘Besides there is no BF.’

  ‘BF! What does that mean – Bloody Fool?’

  He gave a wintry smile. ‘Not in this instance. It was a piece of Bodger’s vanity. He did it with three of his publications, this being one of them. The initials mean Bodger fecit, an affectation. It was his way of claiming ownership, a stamp of authenticity; rather like an artist declaring it was his own work and not that of an assistant. He wrote it in tiny letters bottom left of the inside cover. As you can see this has none such.’

  Rosy shot a cursory glance. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘I am afraid I can’t help you there. This is certainly the book I was given by Cedric and Felix and the one they said they had found in Violet Hoffman’s bookcase. I cannot see why they should try to foist a forged copy on to me. I never asked for the damn thing, it came out of the blue! And while you may remember putting your initials in your own copy has it occurred to you – memory being so fallible – that perhaps you didn’t leave it at the Palazzo at all but lost it somewhere else, left it in some bar perhaps and that the one found by Cedric has nothing to do with you or your collection.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ he said and stared at her grimly; while Rosy feared that her truculence had only made matters worse. She had so meant to be cool and detached.

  To her surprise his features suddenly relaxed and he gave a bark of laughter. ‘My dear lady you seem determined to put me in some early stage of dementia. First I forget whether I have put my initials in the book or not, and then I mistake my evening at the Palazzo Reiss for some city bar. At this rate I shall shortly be sectioned on San Servolo!’ He continued to chuckle but Rosy felt uncomfortable and felt herself going pink.

  ‘All right, so what do you think?’ she asked.

  The mirth stopped but the initial cordial tone returned. ‘I should say there are a number of possibilities: a) that you are a woman of supreme guile, ruthless enterprise, and who being in love with her boss at the British Museum will do anything to gain his favour; b) that your colleagues Cedric and Felix are inveterate liars and for some reason want to pass this book off as the genuine article … Who knows, perhaps they are fond of you and want to give you pleasure; such altruism is not unknown. Conversely perhaps they simply wish to cause you embarrassment; c) that my dear friend Violet is in league with a forger, and recognising mine to be the original hastily instructed him to fake a replacement while selling the one I left to the highest bidder. Perhaps she needed a little extra cash to fund her Chicago trip and—’

  ‘Oh this is ridiculous,’ Rosy burst out, ‘these are absurd suggestions!’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘How disappointing. I thought they were rather persuasive, especially the first.’

  ‘That was the silliest of all!’

  ‘Yes I daresay, I daresay … mea culpa Miss Gilchrist. I fear I have a suspicious mind. Clearly you are a stranger to such duplicity.’

  Rosy wasn’t entirely sure whether he was confirming her honesty or implying she was a fool. But assuming the former she said, ‘There must be another possibility, something more likely than your list of nonsensical whimsy.’

  Carlo looked serious again. ‘Oh indeed. There can be only one explanation: someone known to Violet, or in her house, seeing the book there – or being told of it – deliberately made the switch knowing she wouldn’t notice.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Plausible?’

  ‘Perfectly … But you are assuming this happened in the past, shortly after you left the book there. How about the present? Supposing the switch was done much more recently, such as between the time of Cedric discovering the thing and his giving it to me.’

  ‘Hmm. I recall Professor Dillworthy saying they gave you the book a couple of days after it was found. Rather a narrow space in which to perform such an operation, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes but it could be done.’

  He nodded but looked sceptical. ‘In principle yes; in practice I wonder … Still, I think we are both agreed, dear Sherlock – or Miss Christie if you prefer – that at some point in the last year someone, not yourself or Violet or your friends, appropriated the book and substituted another.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially: ‘In time-honoured tradition we should perhaps refer to such person as X.’

  ‘And what is X’s motive?’

  ‘Nefarious gain naturally. Doubtless it has something to do with that pathetic piece of hokum purveyed by the poltroon Berenstein. That’s it, I’ll be bound!’

  Rosy suddenly found herself giggling. ‘Tell me, Signor Roberto, where did you learn your English – not I imagine in that Sussex prisoner of war camp?’

  He looked indignant. ‘I most assuredly did! What’s wrong with it? The sergeant major was a most assiduous reader. He would read anything from Gibbon to James Joyce to Wodehouse and Chandler, and then relay it to us. “You ’orrible little wops,” he would roar, “I’ll teach you bleeders to speak the King’s perishing English if it kills me!”’ Carlo grinned. ‘I don’t know about him but it nearly killed us, that I do know!’

  Rosy laughed and then grew serious. ‘So if you haven’t got the book and I apparently haven’t, who has?’

  ‘Frankly I have no idea and to tell the truth I am not entirely sure that I care. Admittedly it would be nice to get it back again, but it wasn’t one of my essentials. I have other more precious items. Nevertheless were it to come my way I would grab it. As presumably would you, Miss Gilchrist; because as things stand it looks as if you will have to commence your searches all over again. Back to square-bloody-one, as the sergeant major used to say.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rosy wearily. ‘Yes I suppose I shall …’ And then a thought struck her: ‘But I don’t understand why it was just recently that you became so keen to get the book back. Cedric said it was something to do with your annual inventory, but was that all?’

  He hesitated. ‘No not entirely. It was something the girl said, Lucia Borgino. She seemed eager to find out what I knew about the Bodger, i.e. did I know who might have it. Well of course I knew – or thought I knew – that I had it. But that was not something I cared to divulge. On the whole it is best to divulge very little to Lucia; to do otherwise is not always in one’s interests.’

  His tone had taken on an acid note and Rosy let the matter drop. But something else had also occurred to her. ‘This forgery you refer to – who would do that?’

  He was silent for a moment and then said, ‘Venice has always had her forgers, we are renowned for it. Some are most versatile and will turn their hand to anything from books to porcelain; others are more specialised and very exacting in their clientele. A lot of it goes on, though there are two names in particular that come to mind, or there were: one died … But I can assure you Miss Gilchrist it doesn’t do to sprinkle names around – it never did and it doesn’t now. Venetians are above all things discreet.’ He lowered his left eyelid, and despite the easy tone she knew he wouldn’t be drawn.

 
She gestured towards the book. ‘So what about this – do you want to take it?’

  He shook his head. ‘It has no relevance to me now. Keep it. You can refresh your knowledge of Horace. Check that last ode, you will find it charming.’

  Murmuring some formal pleasantries he was about to leave, when he stopped and said casually, ‘Signora you have my card. Before you leave Venice please alert me and we will take tea and toast together, I should like that … Oh, and by the way, are you in love with your boss?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she snapped.

  Left alone Rosy glared at the discarded book. ‘Tea and toast?’ she muttered. ‘What I need is gin and ice cream. The cheek of the fellow!’ She set off for Tonelli’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As Felix had correctly predicted, Bill Hewson had been optimistic in proposing supper so soon after his evening at the Palazzo Reiss. Nevertheless, true to his word, he did indeed book a table for a few days hence at one of the newer establishments near the Ponte delle Ostreghe, a charming trattoria fast becoming a favourite with Venetians and tourists alike.

  They had sat under a canopy by a canal, the small terrace dotted with candles and lanterns. Rosy had been placed next to Edward Jones who explained that his sister could not be with them owing to a previous engagement at the opera, ‘Being seductive with some poor sap in a private box no doubt,’ he had said dryly; and then with a muffled hoot added, ‘She can’t stand music you know!’ As a means of breaking social ice Rosy thought the remark a trifle crass. However, she smiled politely and enquired how long he was staying. ‘Until my sister boots me out,’ had been the curt reply.