The Venetian Venture Page 2

  Bodger was the name, Sir Fenton Bodger. He had met him a few days earlier at a party given by his grandfather at Quaglino’s. They had exchanged cigarettes and small talk and Edward had mentioned having a sister living in Venice.

  ‘Ah Venice,’ Bodger had exclaimed, ‘haven’t been there since before the war but it’s my almost favourite city!’ Edward assumed he was expected to ask what the favourite was but really couldn’t be bothered. New York, Paris? Did it matter? The old cove would only prose on in clichés.

  There was a pause, and the man, evidently realising his cue had fallen flat, asked if he visited his sister often. Edward said that he did from time to time and that as it happened he was due to be with her that very week. (Yes Lucia had been quite generous about this trip, for once offering to pay his travel expenses – an offer that naturally he had graciously accepted.) They had continued chatting about Venice and Edward got the impression that the older man was rather taken by him. He wondered why. It wasn’t as if he had been making any special effort to be engaging. There had been no point. Apart from a stick and a lisp the chap had been unremarkable, merely one of those bland indeterminates that act as wallpaper in such gatherings. Was it perhaps his new silk tie (knotted à la Windsor), impeccable haircut and slick cufflinks? Such sartorial niceties so easily impressed! (Subsequently, after making discreet enquiries, Edward learnt that Sir Fenton was exceedingly rich – a fact that not only made him less indeterminate but automatically conferred immediate distinction.)

  After a few more words they had been joined by other guests and then separated into the surrounding throng. But just as Edward had been wondering if he could procure one last drink before leaving, there was a tap on his arm, and in slightly ingratiating tones the Bodger fellow said, ‘Young man I have a proposition. Your grandfather tells me you are very bright and with strong initiative – in fact from what he was saying I’m a little surprised you’re not part of the firm. Pictures not your thing perhaps?’

  Edward had smiled politely, omitting to explain that while he liked pictures well enough it was he who was not the thing with his grandfather. (The trial period spent in his relation’s art gallery had failed to win favour with the owner, the apprentice’s copybook having been not so much blotted as saturated. The fault, of course, had hardly been Edward’s: as invariably, it was the other bastards. However, that was some years ago and now a more cordial relationship prevailed – just.)

  ‘I’ll oblige if I can,’ he had lied. It was unlikely that the proposition would amount to much; something irksome and unproductive no doubt. Poodle-faking the daughter? God, the last time he had done that he had been the laughing stock of Chelsea – hadn’t even managed to get his leg over. Not that he had wanted to. No fear! Jane Ponsonby-Slim had been noted for her girth, her piety and her ear-splitting bellow. She was still on the circuit and to be avoided at all costs … He returned his attention to the speaker.

  ‘You see,’ Bodger had lisped earnestly, ‘as I was saying, the book belonged to my great-uncle, rather a fine scholar, and I am most eager to retrieve it from Venice and have it permanently on display here. The British Museum has shown an interest and a man called Stanley is being most cooperative – sending out some young woman to see what she can do. But you know what girls are like, they lack staying power.’ (Huh! Not Jane Ponsonby-Slim, thought Edward.) ‘And since reinforcements never come amiss, and since you know Venice and are about to go there I thought you too could do a little research. As said, it doesn’t hurt to have more than one person on the trail. Naturally your time would be well remunerated, successful or otherwise. And of course should you by chance find the thing and bring it back I should be most grateful!’

  How grateful? Edward had wondered. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I daresay I could manage—’

  ‘And naturally were that to happen I think a bonus would be in order don’t you?’ The man put a hand on Edward’s lapel and ran a plump and questing finger down the edge and lightly touched the hip pocket. ‘I think I recognise the cut of your jib – Titchbold & Tomkins isn’t it? Very wise if I may say. A good-looking young man like you ought always to invest in decent suits. Tell you what, get hold of the book and send the bill for the next one to me. Mind you, I should want to see you in it of course!’ He had given a sly chuckle and proceeded to jot down details of where the search should begin.

  Thus, in a reflective mood, Edward ordered another gin and tonic and contemplated his trip to Venice. Like thousands of others he had to admit to liking the city, and of course it was very handy Lucia having a tolerable flat near the centre. At least the measly husband had been useful in that respect!

  Nevertheless whenever he went there he was conscious of the fact that he was merely the kid brother reliant on his sister’s benevolence – charity really. It would be pleasant to have his own place or indeed to afford one of the better hotels: a fortnight in the Gritti would be acceptable. Ah well, one day perhaps … meanwhile at least something had come his way via this Bodger fellow. Fee and expenses had sounded pretty good (certainly enough to cover the T & T bill), and who knew, if he really could lay hands on the book a superlative suit could be his. (And oh yes he would make sure it was top notch all right. Nothing less than the finest stitching for Edward Jones!) He smiled at the prospect. The chap had been right: good features did indeed deserve the proper accoutrements. And after all, quite apart from being a source for classy tailoring the contact might just turn out to be of some long-term benefit – boring old ponce.

  And thus it was that in a mood of muted optimism Edward Jones set out for Venice and his fate.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The advent of Felix and Cedric to the Palazzo Reiss had been marked by confusion, noise and rain; conditions which made Felix feel weak and his companion angry.

  ‘I understood,’ complained Cedric icily, ‘that your cousin’s residence was blessed by a private landing stage. Why the boatman chose to drop us off at this distance I cannot imagine.’ He gave another heave to his suitcase and stubbed his toe on a cobble.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what he said?’ Felix snapped, oppressed by the rain and piqued by the implied criticism. ‘He said the landing stage was broken and won’t be repaired for at least twenty-four hours. Apparently they are working on it now.’ The claim was endorsed by a nearby hammering. ‘He told me quite clearly and in good English. You evidently weren’t listening.’

  ‘Ah well,’ his companion sniffed, ‘doubtless my ear was more taken with his accent – or its variants.’

  ‘Doubtless.’

  They stumbled on damply, and rounding a corner were confronted by the source of the hammering: the broken jetty and three workmen in oilskins.

  ‘Hmm,’ Cedric observed, ‘anyone would think we were in Padstow. This is not Venice as I recall it.’

  ‘You mean soused in sunlight and its denizens clad in Garibaldi cummerbunds?’

  The professor said nothing; and putting down his case scrutinised a heavy oak door set into the wall a few yards from the water’s edge. He took out his glasses and peered at a brass plate displaying a short list of names: Bellini, Hope-Landers, Hoffman. ‘Who is Hope-Landers,’ he asked, ‘your cousin?’

  Felix shrugged. ‘No idea. Violet’s name is Hoffman.’

  ‘Then this is the place all right. But what about the other names? I thought she lived alone. Perhaps it’s a sort of boarding house …’

  ‘It is not a boarding house,’ said Felix tightly. ‘Now kindly move over.’ He nudged his friend aside and put a tentative finger on the top button. ‘Let us hope the concierge Signora Whatsername is awake.’

  ‘Probably deafened by all that hammering – or the creature.’

  ‘The creature?’

  ‘Can’t you hear it?’

  A deep throaty roar emanated from the interior and Felix groaned. ‘For a dog that’s called Caruso its voice is absurdly basso profundo.’

  ‘Hence basset,’ quipped Cedric, adding, ‘but of course essenti
ally he is going to be your charge; that was the bargain. Perhaps you can practise arias together.’

  Felix scowled, and then hastily adjusted his features to an ingratiating smile as there came the sound of locks being drawn back.

  The door was flung open, and they were faced not by Signora Whatsername but by a tall man of about sixty in a well-cut suit and carpet slippers. He held a pencil and a copy of The Times folded to the crossword. They took him to be English.

  ‘Bit wet out there, isn’t it?’ he observed cheerfully. ‘I’m the lodger, Guy Hope-Landers, and unless you’ve come to read the meters I assume you are Vio’s cousins. Signora Bellini our concierge is off on hols so I’m on duty.’ He smiled extending a hand.

  ‘Actually,’ said Felix a trifle stiffly, ‘I am the cousin; this is Professor Dillworthy, an old friend.’

  ‘Sorry, my mistake. I knew Vio said there were two of you coming and I assumed you were both relatives. She talks so fast I don’t listen half the time but one generally gets the gist.’ He started to help them in with their luggage and then paused, and looking at Cedric, said, ‘You’re not one of the Seaford Dillworthys are you? I knew a couple of those once – my God what a crew, wild isn’t the word! Especially that Angela, she’d lead anyone a double dance. I wonder if—’

  ‘No,’ Cedric said firmly, ‘absolutely not. We are an entirely different branch – from Yorkshire you know.’ For a second he closed his eyes recalling the dreaded Angela and the fracas in the hayloft. He just hoped this wretched man wasn’t going to address the niceties of consanguinity let alone the contours of the Dillworthy nose, of which his own was a prime example.

  However, the wretched man seemed otherwise engaged, for having attended to their bags and closed the door, his attention reverted to the discarded Times and its crossword. ‘I say,’ he said, as they hovered awkwardly in the gloom, ‘I don’t suppose you would hazard a guess at this would you? It’s the last one and it’s been plaguing me all afternoon. “Nine letters: She sells these to pilgrims.” Any suggestions?’ He tapped the page and looked hopefully at Felix who stared back blankly, unused to such threshold conundrums.

  ‘Seashells, I imagine,’ responded Cedric coolly, ‘though the pilgrim hint seems a little obvious for The Times. Perhaps they do a simplified version for the foreign market …’

  Any intended barb was lost on their greeter who entered the letters with a triumphant flourish. He beamed. ‘Fits exactly. Just the job! Now, I expect you would like to see the dog. I’ll bring him out.’

  ‘Not just at the moment,’ said Felix hastily, ‘perhaps we might see our rooms first. And, uhm, actually I’d quite like to …’ He glanced enquiringly towards the nether regions.

  ‘Have a slash? Of course, of course. It’s en route, follow me.’ Picking up one of the bags the man led the way down a dark, uneven passage to a curved stone staircase lit bleakly by a single grilled window. The air was grey, dank and dusty, and Felix’s unease was now rather less physical than mental. Some palazzo! an inner voice grumbled.

  ‘You could use that one if you’re desperate,’ said Guy Hope-Landers, gesturing towards a door at the foot of the staircase, ‘but the plumbing is dicey and it is full of the dog’s bones; it’s his lair. Bloody cold too. You’d do better to use the one in your own quarters.’

  Felix assured him he was not desperate; and following their leader the visitors continued up the winding steps to a landing of large proportions and small appeal. The chequerboard tiles were cracked and faded, a tarnished chandelier with uncertain pendants hung in lopsided solitude; and a tired chaise longue sprawled redundant in a corner, its days of hurly-burly long since passed. Other than such features all was bare – and drear. As a prelude to their ‘quarters’, or indeed their holiday, the landing held little enticement. Felix could see Cedric’s lips beginning to purse and wished to God they had gone to Brighton.

  ‘So that’s it,’ declared their guide, indicating a pair of flaking double doors. ‘I would show you round but time and tide wait for no man and I’ve got to dash – meeting a couple of chums at Harry’s. You can expect a visitation from Caruso in about ten minutes, it’s his pottering hour. See you later I daresay,’ he added vaguely, and the next moment had turned and disappeared down the staircase, leaving them alone confronting the double doors.

  ‘Have you a key?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A key,’ he repeated, ‘they might be locked.’

  Felix sighed. ‘No I do not have a key, and we shall have to find out won’t we.’ He approached the doors and turned one of the handles. Nothing happened. He turned the other with no effect.

  ‘Doubtless your cousin has taken the key with her. Probably completely forgot you were coming,’ his friend observed helpfully.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Felix replied, turning pink. ‘Of course she didn’t forget. Bound to have left it with that Hope person. Suppose I shall have to hike down to find him before he capers off to Harry’s.’ He paused. ‘Who is Harry anyway, some crossword boffin?’

  ‘Unlikely. Most probably the rather superior bartender – owner actually – in the Calle Vallaresso. I will introduce you there at some point if you behave, and assuming we survive this rather unsavoury tenement.’ An insistent bladder stopped Felix venting his fury, and containing both, he hastened to descend the stairs.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Cedric called, ‘one could try brute force, a good kick for instance.’ He extended a well-shod foot and lunged briskly at the doors. They creaked open immediately, leaving the assailant wrong-footed and teetering.

  At first they could see nothing, all swathed in darkness; but a darkness sweetly redolent of lavender and lily.

  ‘Delicious,’ breathed Felix, ‘but where’s the damned light?’

  They fumbled and stumbled and eventually found a set of switches which did the trick. Brightness blazed upon them, and with the brightness revelation.

  They were in a very large room, not grand exactly but imposing: its walls covered in Venetian fabric, a high ceiling figured with a delicate trompe l’oeil and furniture of an austere elegance – suggesting French provenance rather than Italian. But the curtains were clearly Venetian: thick lavish brocade, boldly patterned in intricate swirls of greens and coppery pinks, their heavy folds trailing carelessly on the floor. In one corner stood an open harpsichord, in another a large and assertively modern drinks cabinet parading a regiment of variously hued bottles. Everywhere were large vases of pale lilies and dark lavender whose scent, now that its source was revealed, seemed doubly intense.

  ‘Hmm. All very fragrant,’ Cedric observed.

  ‘Yes,’ added Felix eagerly, ‘and well equipped.’ He gestured towards the bottles.

  Cedric nodded. ‘Let us trust the contents are fresh.’

  ‘Well the flowers certainly are, so I think you can assume the drink is,’ replied Felix defensively. ‘Anyway we’ll soon find out, but first I simply must …’ He scanned the room looking for another exit, and then disappeared through a door at the far end.

  Returning some minutes later much relieved he found the room empty and the curtains drawn back. French windows stood open revealing a veranda and Cedric’s back.

  He joined his companion and surveyed the view – the ornate balconies opposite, elegant patrician façades cheek by jowl with time-worn crumbling garrets, the plethora of jumbled rooftops and sporadic bell towers, a narrowly glimpsed stretch of the Grand Canal, its waters choppy and fuscous green; and immediately below them their own small tributary with its defective jetty and hammering workmen. The rain had ceased, sun was slyly gleaming through the clouds and the men had removed their oilskins. Felix gazed down, took out his cigarettes, and as one of the hammerers glanced up on impulse gave a languid wave. Rather to his surprise it was returned. He smiled, inhaled his cigarette and turning to Cedric murmured, ‘Rather a nice view don’t you think?’

  ‘Most agreeable,’ the other assented. ‘Now, presumably in the course of your quest
you have made a general reconnaissance. I take it there is a habitable bedroom or two?’

  ‘Several,’ Felix replied carelessly, ‘plus two bathrooms, a dining hall, a kitchen plus breakfast room, storeroom, a small study with a balcony and staircase adjoining the main one … Oh yes, and there’s a sizeable billiards room should you require it.’ Noting Cedric’s look of surprise he began to feel so much better. ‘I’ll give you a tour,’ he said graciously.

  Tour complete, with Felix smug and Cedric reassured, they attended to the task of unpacking and adjusting to their new abode, which, while not opulent, was indeed spacious and aesthetic.

  Cedric nodded approvingly at the choice of Turner prints and original Canalettos, raised a quizzical eyebrow at their hostess’s choice of literature (Proust, Raymond Chandler and Winnie the Pooh) and took pleasure in toying with the Kirkman harpsichord before lightly pronouncing it hopelessly out of tune.

  ‘Doubtless the damp from the canal – one has to be so careful with these things, they can’t be neglected,’ he remarked; before adding hastily, ‘but the flowers are lovely of course. Presumably the concierge’s parting touch; we must remember to leave her a full envelope. I must say your cousin certainly shares your floral instincts!’ He gave Felix a genial smile, relaxed now that matters appeared more hopeful.

  ‘Yes, they are lovely,’ Felix agreed. ‘Perhaps she had learnt of my recent good fortune and it’s her way of offering congratulations. Amazing how word gets around.’

  ‘You mean learnt of the Royal Appointment plaque? But surely you must have told her that yourself.’

  ‘Well no actually. I had been so busy arranging things for this little jaunt that it quite slipped my mind.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ Cedric exclaimed, ‘you must have been busy!’