The Venetian Venture E-Book

Suzette A. Hill

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 347

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Rosy Gilchrist is sent to Venice to find a rare, signed translation of Horace's Odes by Dr Bodger. Rosy jumps at the chance to fit some sightseeing around work, but the holiday plans go on hold when she learns that there is a significant bounty prize for anyone who finds this valuable text. Finding herself in the midst of a cat-and-mouse chase, Rosy's rivals will stop at nothing, not even murder, to get their hands on the book.

Leseprobe

The Venetian Venture

SUZETTE A. HILL

To my god-daughter Angela van der Stap

Contents

Title PageDedicationPROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXAbout the AuthorBy Suzette A. HillCopyright

PROLOGUE

‘Tell me,’ said Cedric Dillworthy, ‘does your cousin really inhabit a palazzo on the Grand Canal? You have never mentioned it before.’ The professor’s thin voice held the merest hint of scepticism.

‘Well not quite on the Grand Canal,’ his friend Felix answered, ‘though as near as dammit – a little tributary you might say.’

‘You mean some backwater?’

‘No, I do not mean some backwater. I mean exactly what I say, a particularly charming canal in sight of the Grand one. The place is by a small bridge and has its own landing stage, thus one does not have to hike suitcases all over the place. Were we to go there you would find that a great blessing.’

‘Doubtless. But I still do not understand why you have never spoken of this cousin or indeed ever mentioned Venice. Rome yes, but never Venice.’ The scepticism had sharpened.

Felix gave a pained sigh. ‘I have never mentioned Cousin Violet because she is ancient, testy, and I barely know her. Neither do I know Venice; a large lacuna in my education no doubt, but which I trust will be shortly filled.’

‘Yet you seem very familiar with the location of the palazzo.’

‘Because it was in the bloody photograph she sent! Now, do you want to come or not?’

Cedric took a reflective sip of a very dry martini and contemplated the cat sprawled at his feet. ‘Are you sure she won’t be there? I can’t say I relish being at the beck and call of an ancient irascible even if she does live in decaying splendour; bad enough having to play lackey to the basset hound.’

‘No of course she won’t be there! That’s the whole point of our being invited. I keep telling you – to guard the basset while she gads about in Chicago. The person she usually parks it with has had a fall or something and the backstop has bowed out at the last minute. Hence recourse to yours truly: any port in a storm I suppose … A bit of luck really. Just think, three weeks in the heart of Venice and all for free!’

‘You forget the penalty,’ Cedric observed mildly.

‘What penalty?’

‘The dog of course.’

‘Oh that won’t be any trouble. A daily stroll and the occasional bone should do the trick. Minimum of exercise, they have short legs that type.’

‘Supposing it doesn’t understand English?’

‘Bound to be bilingual. Just like the gondoliers I expect. Oh, and speaking of whom, I rather gather …’ Felix began to smirk.

Thus it was that Professor Cedric Dillworthy and his friend Felix Smythe of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms, Knightsbridge, embarked for Venice on 10th October 1954. Some months earlier they had been embroiled in an embarrassing fiasco in St John’s Wood concerning a murdered woman and a coal scuttle. Since then, however, with the help of good weather and the sustained afterglow of the young Queen’s coronation (not to mention Felix’s newly bestowed Royal Appointment warrant) London life had proceeded with an amiable smoothness and that particular period of their lives was mercifully entering the realm of myth and legend.

Yet courtesy of Felix’s cousin, the gadding Violet, here they were shortly to be entangled in a fresh legend: Venice, in all its beguiling charm and brazen beauty.

CHAPTER ONE

It was the autumn of 1954. And Rosy Gilchrist, now recovered from the painful turbulence wrought by her late and dubious aunt Marcia, walked briskly along Great Russell Street to the British Museum. She had worked there for three years, and despite the quirks and tantrums of her immediate boss, the notable Dr Stanley, had grown to love being a denizen of the place; and, in a masochistic way, to being academic handmaid to the capricious Stanley. Eight months previously the scandal of her aunt’s peculiar and sinister death with all its personal ramifications had seemed a threat to her job – or so she had feared at the time. But now, with everything ostensibly accounted for and the case sewn up (or at least indefinitely shelved) her life had returned to an even keel. Too even perhaps.

Too even? Yes, for excruciating though the events of that time had been, her now smooth and pleasant days had begun to feel just the merest bit bland. In late wartime, as a mere girl in the ATS manning the searchlights on the south coast and preparing the anti-aircraft guns, she had certainly known excitement … and fear. (Dreadful griefs too, with loss of parents and of her pilot fiancé.) And in the war’s aftermath Cambridge had also been a challenge, albeit of a different sort. But neither of those periods had been quite so fraught as the six months she had spent enmeshed in the imbroglio of her aunt’s murder. To be out of it now was a blessed relief … And yet despite the lifting of personal fears, and peace (in every sense) restored, the ‘New Elizabethan Age’ with its heady hopes and burgeoning freedoms seemed to bring a flatness she couldn’t quite define.

‘Typical,’ she told herself impatiently, ‘there you were scared witless and desperate for calm and safety, and now that you’ve got it you begin to look about for something else to muddle your placid days. Perverse, that’s what you are!’ She grinned ruefully and started to run to the Museum to be at her desk before Stanley came rampaging in demanding tea and attention.

In fact she need not have hurried, as for nearly two hours she was able to work undisturbed by either her boss or the baleful pleasantries of Mrs Burkiss the office char. But no silence lasts and as the clock struck midday she heard the familiar voice of Dr Stanley booming along the corridor, and the next moment he was in the room.

‘Do you want a holiday?’ he asked abruptly.

She was startled. ‘Er, not especially, I had some leave not long ago.’

‘Yes but I think you should take some more,’ he replied, pacing the room and scattering ash.

Rosy cogitated, unimpressed by the apparent solicitude. In fact she was more than a little unsettled by it. To show interest in his staff’s welfare was not Stanley’s style. Was this an attempt to ease her out, a subtle hint that her services were no longer required?

‘Ah … well,’ she said uneasily, and waited.

He swung round and fixed her with a stern gaze. ‘You see I want you go to Venice. Soon.’

‘Venice! Whatever for? I don’t know it.’

‘Well here’s your chance then. You could make yourself useful there.’

Make herself useful there? What did he think she had been doing all this time here in London fixing his lectures, editing catalogues, researching projects and mollifying his colleagues – making daisy chains? She returned his gaze with a mixture of wonder and irritation. ‘I see,’ she said slowly, ‘so why do you want me to go to Venice?’

‘To find something. A book: Bodger’s Horace.’

‘Bodger’s Horace,’ she exclaimed, ‘what on earth is that?’

He sighed. ‘Didn’t they teach you anything up at Cambridge? Doctor R. D. M. Bodger, an Oxford Fellow in the 1890s. His edition of Horace’s Odes plus translation is one of the most notable we have. Except that we don’t have it, that’s just the point. There are only three copies extant, two in America and one in Europe, i.e. Venice. The Venice one is especially important because it has his signature and a dedication in his own hand, and it’s imperative we include it in our spring exhibition of rare nineteenth-century texts.’ He paused and leered. ‘That’ll put a feather in our cap I can tell you – and more to the point, some shekels in the coffers!’

Rosy frowned. ‘Really? So what’s the financial advantage?’

‘Quite considerable. The nephew, Sir Fenton Bodger, is most keen to see that edition retrieved and deposited here at the Museum. If that can be done he is willing to make quite a sizeable donation to the department – my department.’ Dr Stanley beamed.

‘But apart from the signature what’s so special about the thing? I mean, is the translation very good?’

Stanley grimaced. ‘Pretty awful actually: exact enough but turgid – keeps to the letter but hardly to the spirit of the verse. To call it lumpen might be unfair but it’s hardly distinguished … No, its value lies in the notes and annotations – now those do show some insight and originality. Bodger was a scholar not a poet. In fact he would have done better to leave the translating altogether and confine himself to the textual exegesis. However, it still has an intrinsic worth, and because of the nephew’s interest extrinsic as well. Which is why I want it here with us.’ He rapped the desk and leered again.

Rosy hesitated, still unclear. ‘But,’ she asked, ‘wouldn’t it be simpler if you were to get it yourself – I mean why send me? And in any case where is it exactly?’

‘Ah, leading questions. Your revered superior is incommoded on two counts: first I have far too much on my plate wrestling with my new publication – you know the one, Collections and Curios: Tips for Curators.’ (Rosy knew it only too well. It was, she gathered, to be the definitive guide to the curating fraternity, a vade mecum without which no serious custodian could possibly survive.) ‘And secondly,’ he continued, ‘at long last my hip is to be dealt with or so they tell me.’

Without thinking she asked what was wrong with his hip, an unfortunate blunder which elicited a blast of indignation.

‘My hip!’ he exclaimed. ‘The one that has been giving me all this agony. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen my appalling limp!’ She had not, though now she came to think of it she did vaguely recall a few grumbling complaints.

‘Oh dear. Are they going to operate?’

‘They are thinking of it. Bound to be ghastly of course but one has to suffer to be whole.’ He assumed a martyred air and added, ‘Still, you can assuage the pain by bringing me brandy and chocolates and other essential palliatives.’

‘Not if I am in Venice I can’t.’

‘Ah …’ he replied with evident relief, ‘so you will go then?’

‘Well yes, in principle.’

‘And in practice?’

Rosy hesitated, slightly embarrassed, and then said firmly: ‘Well for one thing who will pay?’

‘Pay?’ He sounded startled. ‘Oh well … uhm, us of course, the Museum. Er, yes that’s it, we’ll sub your travel and accommodation.’ He managed to sound at once both vague and magnanimous.

‘The Danieli?’ she enquired brightly.

‘Like hell. You’ll be lucky! As it happens I have an old school pal whose sister runs a small pensione in the Dorsoduro quarter, plain but decent as they say. It looks out over the water to the Giudecca, you would like that.’

‘Would I?’

He nodded confidently. ‘Sure to.’

‘So where is this book then? Will it be easy to get hold of?’

Stanley paused, frowning slightly. ‘Ah, well there could be a small problem. Not major of course,’ he added hastily, ‘but there may be a couple of little hiccups, though nothing you can’t cope with.’

‘Hmm. Do I really want to have hiccups in Venice? It doesn’t sound terribly romantic.’

‘Romance is not the object of your venture,’ he said sternly. ‘You are there to retrieve the Bodger Horace and bring it back to the Museum amidst joy and plaudits. This is a serious task, Rosy, and I am relying on you. Much is at stake: the honour of the department, i.e. brass and kudos. Now listen carefully …’

Rosy listened, making notes. And then watched as, briefing complete, he extinguished his cigarette in her pencil tray, stood up and strode briskly to the door.

‘Poor fellow, frightful limp,’ she murmured.

Cooking supper in her flat that night she reflected on the terms of her mission. She was to embark for Venice (i.e. catch the Calais steamer for the Simplon-Orient) in three days’ time, arriving in the St Lucia railway terminal at the crack of dawn. On the train there would be a reserved couchette; but on arrival in Venice she would be expected to make her own way to the pensione via a vaporetto, and then after alighting, negotiate two small bridges ‘a piedi’ (as Stanley had carefully enunciated). ‘Quite simple,’ he had said airily, ‘just make sure you are properly shod and don’t take too much luggage. Personally I always use a rucksack.’ (She had immediately resolved to avoid rucksacks at all costs, and decided instead to blow the expense and buy a smart leather suitcase from Marshall & Snelgrove. She might not be staying at the Danieli but was damned if she was going to turn up in Venice looking like some hobo!)

Travel practicalities dealt with, her instructor had turned to the quest itself. ‘It’s quite straightforward really,’ he had told her earnestly, ‘it’s just that the book’s location is a trifle problematic, you may have to do a bit of nosing around first.’

‘Nosing around?’ she had asked warily. ‘What sort of nosing around, and where exactly?’

‘Ah, yes … well that is the slight difficulty I alluded to. You see it could be in a number of possible places. My informant, Sir Fenton, is rather imprecise on that score. At one stage it was definitely in a small second-hand bookshop on or near the Rialto called ‘Pacelli e Figlio’. Fenton’s cousin saw it there by chance and told him. But soon after the sighting, old Pacelli died and his son offloaded much of the stock elsewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘I gather there is a shop in the Castello district, in Calle di Fiori or some such place; if the book is no longer in the Rialto place there’s a good chance of its being there. Apparently they keep a large classical section. Have a good rootle in the stacks, offer a derisory sum and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Supposing they don’t want a derisory sum?’ Rosy had asked.

‘In that case you can go up to twenty guineas and tell them the venerable British Museum will advertise the bookshop on a large hoarding in its vestibule. That should do the trick; they like a lot of show the Italians.’

‘Are you sure the Museum would sanction that?’ she had asked.

‘Not for one moment but he’s not to know that.’

‘I see. But supposing after all this rootling I discover that the book isn’t there at all or that somebody has bought it. What then?’

‘Then my dear Rosy you ask him where the bloody hell it’s likely to be. Come on dear girl, use some initiative. If you could put a searchlight on the Hun in the war then you can surely put a beam on Venice for that damn book. It’s not much to ask.’ He gave her a look of wounded reproach.

She had flashed a cooperative smile but refrained from questioning the analogy. Training a searchlight on enemy aircraft was undoubtedly the more hazardous, but it was child’s play compared with sifting through the whole of Venice for a book of ill-translated Latin poems. Still, if Dr Stanley was determined to send her on a wild goose chase to a beautiful and fabled city then that was his choice; hers meanwhile was to select the new suitcase and some appropriate clothing to go in it. She finished her supper while pondering the prospect, and recalled the smart silk jacket glimpsed in Debenham & Freebody’s window only that morning. Yes, a trip to Wigmore Street was definitely indicated …

CHAPTER TWO

Edward Jones sat in the bar of the Berkeley and reflected. He couldn’t afford the Berkeley but that did not stop him from patronising the place. Standards had to be maintained after all. And in any case normally he contrived to be treated by someone else – occasionally his grandfather but more often than not by those gullible enough to have been seduced by his charm and sleek looks. Actually Edward was not in the least charming (his housemaster had dubbed him putrid) but at the age of twenty-four he had watched others sufficiently well to cultivate the illusion of being so. It was an illusion rarely sustained but could be useful in times of sudden deprivation or to get a girl into bed.

Such a time was now. The girl issue was irrelevant; but he had lost heavily at Kempton, his tailor’s bill was pushing astronomical, and the last client he had tried to interest in a used Lagonda had reneged on the deal. (Amazing how shifty people could be!) Added to this, his quarterly rent for the miniscule flat in Pimlico – for which there were no obvious funds – was looming at unnerving speed. Things looked bleak. Bleak but not desperate. Though fundamentally charmless Edward was also a genuine optimist and a firm believer in the principle that luck smiles on those who help themselves. And ever since the age of five Edward had been helping himself with dedicated care.

Thus, draped on the bar stool and sipping his gin and tonic, he gave thought to the latest venture: a venture not enormously lucrative admittedly, but one which if successful would certainly give a nice little boost to the waning finances. Besides, if he played his cards right it might open up further areas of profitable interest …

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 essentially 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!’

‘Exactly. So busy in fact that I now deserve a very stiff drink.’ He went over to the cocktail cabinet and inspected its display. ‘Perhaps we should deviate from our usual and try something a little more exotic, something specifically Venetian. After all, when in Rome as it were …’ He scrutinised the labels. ‘Oh this looks rather interesting, especially if one adds a slug of gin. I wonder if—’

Cedric coughed. ‘Before you get too engrossed I think you should remember your visitor.’

‘My visitor? What visitor?’

‘The opera singer of course. According to Hope-Landers this is his hour, so he is due for arrival at any minute.’

‘Oh Lord, the bloody dog!’

‘Precisely, and if I’m not mistaken that could be the creature now.’

There was an unmistakable scratching at the doors, a muted whine, and the next moment a stout and flop-eared basset had nosed its way across the threshold. Caruso had made his entrance.

CHAPTER FOUR

As with Felix and Cedric, Rosy’s arrival in Venice a few days later had also been damp. Alighting at the St Lucia railway terminus she was enveloped by what optimists might term an early morning mist but realists a deep fog. Expecting sunlight and panorama Rosy was ill-prepared for the pall of dankness. Voices were muffled, figures blurred and she was engulfed by a grisly clamminess – a condition the Canalettos had ignored and the guidebooks failed to describe. She felt a stab of irrational pique: was this the vaunted Venice with its romance and vivid pageantry? Where were the gondolas, the sparkling fountains and charming bridges? Where for that matter was the Grand Canal and a vaporetto? She fumbled in her pocket for Dr Stanley’s scribbled directions and peered into the fog.

‘Signora, posso lei aiutare? Lei è perduta?’

Rosy was startled by the sudden voice so close to her ear. ‘What? Sorry, I—’ she began.

‘Ah, the signora is Eenglish,’ the man exclaimed, ‘I thought maybe; you have the look.’ He beamed.

What look? Rosy wondered, not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. ‘Mi dispiace,’ she faltered, ‘non parlo Italiano. Dove—’

‘Do not trouble dear lady, I speak excellent Eenglish. You want vaporetto, yes? I take your case.’ Without waiting for a reply he had seized her suitcase and walked off quickly.

Rosy followed, plunged in apprehension. She had paid a lot for that case. Was it now to be appropriated by some glib-tongued foreigner? Her mind whirled. At best he would expect a large tip; at worst she would never see the case again. If the former, did her purse contain enough loose lire? If the latter, what the hell was she going to do? She pursued him doggedly along the platform, across a concourse, through an archway and then down a flight of shallow steps.

At the bottom of these he set down the case and flinging out an arm announced, ‘Eccolo, il Canal Grande! Here you wait, the boat come, you pay. Benvenuta in Venezia, dear madam.’ He bowed deeply from the waist, and with a stream of ‘arrivederci’s disappeared into the murk leaving Rosy ashamed and relieved.

As the vaporetto chugged its course down the broad channel, weaving from bank to bank picking up early workers, Rosy gazed around at the tall spectral façades rising steeply from the leaden waters. They loomed on either side in unending lines, shrouded and stately in the wafting mist. Yes, this was like the postcards all right; but postcards overlaid with centuries of dust – colour and detail lost in a film of grey. And despite her earlier sense of anticlimax Rosy felt a stirring of interest, awe even, as the canal widened and opened into a theatrical curve, its serpentine contour giving a cold majesty to the looming palazzi. A few of these she thought she recognised from photographs. Were those the crenelated walls of the Ca’ d’Oro, or that the famed Foscari? And could the Byzantine building to her right be the Palazzo Loredan …? Hazy air and knowledge made identity uncertain.