The Venetian Venture Read online

  He brooded, picking over what she had told him. Yes it had sounded pretty dubious. And in any case acquiring the Murano piece would only be relevant if he could get his hands on the Horace. The book was the sine qua non. And if Lucia was wrong about the location of the vase (as she probably was) then at least the book held some value of its own. His acquisition of it would impress Sir Fenton and thus be likely to secure further commissions – and of course it would get him that rather exquisite suit (and maybe others.) Yes, first things first: find the book and then see.

  Edward opened his eyes, and gazing at the ceiling in fact began to see quite a lot. Spread out above him lay a vista of possibility: all the stuff of leisured wealth, e.g. yachts, girls, exotic beaches, a permanently reserved table at the Ritz, weekly flights to the Riviera, dining with film stars and Prince Rainier, a team of Maseratis, the whole of Savile Row fighting for his custom and fawning over his lapels, a cellar of cognac, a larder of caviar … and the prospect of never having to chat up old prunes like Fenton Bodger again! And as for Lucia, well she could be told to stuff her economy-class charity – a million quid would probably get him a share in a private plane!

  It was a happy reverie. But Edward was fly enough to recognise the dangers of such daydreams. Despite what Lucia had said about the location of the vase, the chances of laying hands on both objects were negligible. Nevertheless he had stirred his own imagination, and the idea of the tawdry vase grew more insistent. But it was an insistency tempered by his grandfather’s words: ‘Never succumb to fantasy; you’ll be a fool and miss all the best chances.’ Ironic that one who made his living from the artistic fantasies of others should preach such pragmatism. Still, he was probably right, sniffy old sod. (His grandfather’s success was a perennial source of annoyance to Edward. As far as he could make out the man possessed few discernible talents – except to direct and correct the activities of others, a skill he exercised with tireless persistence: his forte one could say.) Edward scowled, and pushing the vase to the back of his mind returned to the task in hand.

  What was it Lucia had been saying about those two English chaps she and Guy had met recently? Apparently they were staying in the same place as Guy himself, old Violet Hoffman’s palazzo … And yes, that was it: they had a friend visiting Venice, some female attached to the British Museum and also looking for the Horace. Huh! Ten-to-one she was the person Bodger had mentioned back in London. He smiled at the memory. The old boy had made it clear he wasn’t expecting much from her – a rather lightweight emissary for such a serious mission! Still, pretty galling if she found the thing. After all he hadn’t embarked on this caper to be pipped at the post by a woman, or by anyone for that matter … The Horace was going to be his prize dammit!

  In fact Edward did sleep (exhausted by his reveries?), and well rested he went out that evening on sprightly form. The Canellis were always good value. Their supper parties were convivial affairs and this time was no exception. The wife cooked well and the husband had been lavish with the wine. And very good it had been, a vintage Barolo to which Edward had done more than justice. By the time they left, well past midnight, he felt and looked distinctly unsteady. Lucia was unsympathetic. ‘I suggest you take a long walk before coming back to the flat. I don’t want you throwing up over my new rug, you can do that in one of the canals.’

  ‘I have no intention of throwing up anywhere,’ he had told her angrily.

  ‘You said that last time,’ she retorted, ‘one can’t take the risk. Don’t worry about me, Maria and Pietro are going in our direction, I’ll walk back with them … Oh and by the way, try not to bang the door when you come in.’

  Worry? he fumed after Lucia had gone. Why the hell should she think he would worry? God that girl could be so selfish! He sighed and lit a cigarette, but after a few puffs threw it down. Actually he did feel a little sick. Perhaps she was right – a walk might do him good. He hesitated, not sure which way to choose … Ah yes, he could go via the Rialto and take the opportunity to check Pacelli’s opening times. Apparently the bookseller kept erratic hours and was in the habit of posting his schedule on the door. It would be annoying to turn up the next day and find the man not there. He set off slowly – it didn’t do to rush things.

  Gradually the night air and exercise started to take effect and the pangs of nausea subsided. By the time he reached the right spot (having stumbled down two wrong turnings) he was feeling better though still rather muzzy. She was right, he really had had a skinful!

  He made his way up the darkened passage. The shop was in the cul-de-sac at the far end, and as he drew nearer he was surprised to see a dim light from inside. Was the bookseller a night owl? It was nearly two o’clock, quite late for Venice. Perhaps the thing had been left on by mistake. He took a few more steps. And then the light went out, and moments later the shop door banged and the figure of a man came running out, clearly in a hurry. In fact so much in a hurry that he collided with Edward who, still in a fragile state, had to cling to the wall for support. The man said nothing but rushed on oblivious of the staggering form he had left behind.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Edward exclaimed rubbing his arm. He stared angrily after the figure, the noise of pounding feet echoing in his ears. The collision must have stirred things up for he started to feel unwell again. A wave of nausea swept over him and he was violently sick.

  His head ached, he felt cold and it had started to rain. To hell with the book and Pacelli. All he craved was the benison of bed and a packet of aspirin! He turned and slouched back down the now silent alley.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was six o’clock and Felix had just returned from his shopping spree in the Mercerie: three Fortuny silk shirts, a cravat, a pair of braces with embroidered gondolas (vulgar but irresistible!), some monogrammed lawn handkerchiefs for Cedric, a Commedia dell’Arte carnival mask and an enormous treasure trove of handmade chocolates. Eager to dazzle his friend with his purchases he went straight into the salon, where the wares were exhibited, discussed, gloated over and four of the chocolates consumed.

  ‘Well you’ve certainly been busy,’ Cedric remarked, ‘but what you propose doing with that mask I cannot for the life of me imagine – hang it in the spare loo to frighten the clients?’

  Felix pouted and then winked. ‘Actually I thought I could wear it on Walpurgis Night – it might give Sloane Street a stir.’

  Cedric smiled and then said, ‘As a matter of fact while you’ve been buying up half of Venice I’ve had quite an eventful time myself; made a discovery in fact. Odd really.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Felix pouring the drinks, ‘why odd?’

  ‘It’s something I found wedged behind Alice in Wonderland on one of your cousin’s shelves. She keeps her books in such disarray and it seemed to have slipped down.’ He took the proffered martini. ‘Somewhat curious.’

  ‘What, like Alice?’

  ‘No. Like Rosy Gilchrist – or rather her researches. You see it appears to be the Horace thing she’s after.’

  ‘Here? How odd!’

  ‘Precisely, just as I’ve said. Take a look, if you can tear yourself away from those shirts.’ He passed a small leather-bound volume to Felix, its dark cover worn and shabby.

  The latter flipped through the pages and then scrutinising the outside, observed, ‘Well it may be a first edition but it’s hardly pristine. I doubt if the dealers will be impressed.’

  ‘Immaterial. It’s not for the dealers but for that Stanley man at the British Museum. Rosy implied he was mad keen to get it. And so is she – angling for promotion I daresay. She was terribly cut up when the Rialto bookseller tried to fob her off with the wrong one; whereas this seems definitely the right one – a first edition and with the required signature and inscription.’

  Felix bent over the title page examining Dr Bodger’s sepia flourish and the faded words underneath. ‘Like all academics,’ he said pointedly, ‘handwriting totally indecipherable; it could be anything.’

  Ignoring
the jibe, the professor replied, ‘It could be something were you to wear your glasses. Perhaps you would like me to be your amanuensis?’

  ‘Be anything you like old stick, I’m for another drink.’

  ‘No doubt, but listen to this first. It says: “To Bella B. Ah what joyful days!”’

  ‘How very original,’ observed Felix dryly. ‘And who was Bella B – the wife?’

  ‘From what little I’ve read the good doctor was unmarried, led a bachelor existence in Christchurch.’

  ‘Presumably somebody else’s wife then.’

  ‘Presumably … unless of course it was that chorus girl Bella Biloxi. She was all the rage in the 1890s. Men would go up to London in trainloads to see her, young and old alike, mad keen to get a glimpse of a swelling bosom or gartered knee: you could say she was the Marilyn Monroe of her day.’

  ‘So you think Bodger was one of the smitten and thus dedicated a set of ancient Latin poems to her? It seems a trifle unlikely.’

  ‘Ah but you never know with academics. Not only is their handwriting indecipherable but their minds too are hard to fathom.’

  Felix raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘You can say that again! Now what will it be, with or without an olive?’

  They dined in that evening. And after a light supper of antipasti, cold roast mullet and late strawberries in kirsch and cream (all fastidiously prepared by Felix) they settled to coffee and the topic of Cedric’s find.

  ‘It seems very likely that it is the one Rosy Gilchrist has been making all the fuss about,’ the professor remarked, ‘but what a singular coincidence it should turn up here in your cousin’s palazzo. You didn’t mention she had classical tastes.’

  Felix shrugged. ‘Don’t know what her tastes are except dogs and music; haven’t clapped eyes on the old trout since I was an adolescent. But presumably if she likes Latin poetry there would be similar stuff somewhere. Have you looked?’

  ‘Nothing on the shelves that I can see. Mainly books on Venice, its history and architecture and so on. The rest is a hotchpotch – Bulldog Drummond cuddling up to Proust, but nothing that might be termed classical.’

  ‘In that case we might as well hand the thing over to Rosy … perhaps her gratitude will rise to a bottle of bubbly.’

  ‘It might,’ Cedric agreed. ‘But don’t you think you should square it with your cousin in Chicago first? After all we don’t want her to think we had pilfered the thing, might not get asked back again. Besides I am quite intrigued to know its provenance – how did it get here and why?’

  Felix lit a cigarette and consulted his pocketbook. ‘Really,’ he muttered, ‘the things one does for Rosy Gilchrist … Ah here’s the number. But, from what I recall my mother saying of Violet, she is as likely to be on the town with a group of Negro blues players as resting quietly in her hotel suite; but worth a try I suppose.’ He stood up and left the room. Ten minutes later he returned grinning broadly.

  ‘So you got her?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘You bet. Having her nails done in readiness for a date with Louis Armstrong. So I wasn’t so wide off the mark was I?’ He proceeded to give a detailed account of his elderly cousin’s projected evening, which apparently was to commence with cocktails at the La Salle, followed by dinner at the Drake and culminating in some exclusive jazz dive where her companion would serenade her with one of his own compositions.

  ‘Not bad,’ conceded Cedric, ‘not bad at all … And amidst all this jollity did you by any chance get on to the subject of the book?’

  ‘Briefly. She remembers it vaguely and thinks someone called Carlo may have left it here by mistake but can’t be sure. Anyway she didn’t sound very interested, more concerned with Caruso; wanted to speak with him.’

  Cedric was startled. ‘Speak with him?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a ritual they have whenever she is away apparently. The dog is hauled to the telephone and she coos down the line and he grunts. Touching really.’

  ‘Good God! … So did you facilitate this, er, conversation?’

  ‘No. The dog’s out with Hope-Landers. I bumped into him downstairs and said I was too fatigued after my shopping expedition to walk the hound and would he mind doing it instead. Quite an obliging fellow really, wouldn’t you say?’

  But Cedric’s thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Carlo,’ he murmured, ‘wasn’t that the name of the chap who Lucia Borgino thought might have the Horace?’

  ‘Well if it’s the same one then he’s obviously lost it; though I daresay there is more than one Carlo in Venice. Still, now that we’ve got the book and Violet doesn’t seem concerned it really doesn’t matter. We can give it to Rosy and cancel the meeting with this Carlo, whoever he is. Can’t say I have any yearnings to see the Borgia woman again.’ Felix’s features puckered into an expression of pained distaste.

  ‘Hmm we may have to. I meant to tell you, Hope-Landers has invited us to a small gathering at Harry’s Bar tomorrow lunchtime. She’s likely to be there but it might be mildly amusing all the same.’

  ‘If he’s paying – yes.’

  ‘Oh he’s paying all right. It’s to celebrate some windfall from shares. Not a large sum but enough to keep him in fags and booze for a while and presumably to keep paying rent to your esteemed cousin.’

  They turned to other matters, i.e. where they might go for a postprandial digestif. ‘How about that bar where we met Paolo and Pucci?’ Felix suggested.

  ‘Couldn’t be nicer,’ beamed Cedric.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was nearly time for dinner and Rosy had joined the other guests in the little lounge next to the dining room. Two of the women were discussing their purchases of lace tablecloths from Burano.

  ‘It’s all very well their being so exquisite,’ one said, ‘but you do have to clean the damn things. I mean, can one boil them in Tide for example or would you suggest Dreft?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ replied the other indifferently. ‘Fortunately it’s not something I have to bother about. Our char does all that sort of thing.’

  There was a silence and Rosy suspected that any burgeoning friendship had been smartly nipped in the bud. She smiled at Mr Downing who promptly began to speculate about the imminent menu. ‘I think that our talented hostess has something special for us tonight,’ he announced conspiratorially. ‘She has been in that kitchen for much of the afternoon, and if I am not mistaken there is something very fishy brewing, very fishy. If it’s the Venetian version of bouillabaisse I shall be in seventh heaven!’ To Rosy’s distaste he made slurping noises and smacked his lips.

  ‘In that case,’ said the Daphne woman putting down her Italian newspaper, ‘you will be going in the same direction as Signor Pacelli – although with him it’s more likely to be the eighth circle of hell. Not one of nature’s gentlemen I should say.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Don’t quite follow,’ Downing murmured, his mind evidently still absorbed in culinary nirvana.

  ‘According to this he expired in the early hours of this morning,’ she said, tapping the paper.

  ‘Pacelli!’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘Do you mean that bookseller near the Rialto? Goodness gracious!’

  Dr Burgess gave a brisk laugh. ‘Presumably a heart attack from all that racy reading. I must say some of his books did look a bit close to the knuckle!’

  The Daphne woman shrugged. ‘Oh no, not a heart attack. He was bashed on the head by the proverbial blunt instrument – that tasteless metal paperweight he kept on the counter; you know the one, the rampant satyr. Death virtually instant one gathers but brains all over the place.’ She turned to Downing. ‘Do you really think we might be having fish stew? Now that would be a treat …’

  As they trooped into the dining room Rosy picked up the discarded newspaper, deftly tore out the page and stuffed it into her handbag. Something to peruse after the bouillabaisse.

  Back in her room she tried to make sense of the newspaper article and, as on a number of occasions since her arrival, wished she had opted to do Ita
lian at school. But at least she had no difficulty in spotting the item itself – ‘Giuseppe Pacelli, libraio famoso, trovato assassinato,’ was the stark headline. Reading slowly and with frequent recourse to a dictionary she was able to establish the essential facts.

  These seemed to be that the bookseller had been discovered by a neighbour at eight o’clock that morning. The body, fully clothed, had been glimpsed through the glass door, sprawled on the floor in front of the counter. Seeing a bottle and a couple of glasses upturned beside him, the neighbour assumed the victim to be in a drunken stupor. However, after hammering on the door for some time and seeing no movement, she tried the handle and found the door unlocked. On entering she was horrified to see that the man was dead with his head battered in. The police were called and in the course of their examination of the premises removed a large paperweight which had clearly been the weapon. Some sort of scuffle was assumed to have occurred as a chair was knocked over and a number of books and papers lay strewn on the floor … The report ended by saying that the police were anxious to interview anyone who had seen or spoken to the victim on the previous night or in the days leading up to the murder.

  Naturally Rosy was shocked by the account, but it was the request for witnesses that she found perturbing. She read it again carefully. The previous night or days prior to the discovery. Yes, in theory that would certainly include herself. But in practice? Well she was merely a visitor, an ephemeral tourist whose grasp of Italian was shaky to say the least. Surely she didn’t count; what could she possibly offer of interest? After all it wasn’t as if she knew the man – she had only spoken with him for ten minutes, less than that probably, and the topic had been exclusively professional.