Island of the Mad

by Laurie R. King

  “When Rose told me about Poveglia, it was I who wanted to come here,” Vivian said. “I who planned our escape. Most of it.”

  Holmes sat with his fingers steepled in thought. I met his gaze for a silent consultation, knowing that he, too, was envisioning a searching boat with a Blackshirt Capitano. Both of us were thinking how easy it would be to lock thirty-two additional patients into San Clemente alongside my gondolier’s sister and Mussolini’s inconvenient wife.

  And both of us could imagine all too well the complete and final disappearance of the sister of the Marquess of Selwick, allowing for a more permanent transfer of the woman’s inheritance.

  I turned my gaze to the two women: the nurse in her man’s jacket, the golden fairy in her sparkles. Vivian’s feet were again tucked up on the chair, although it now seemed less an expression of comfort than one of making herself small.

  Which was not difficult. Even now, all the parts of her seemed childlike, from her delicate hands to her tiny feet. How did she find women’s shoes? I wondered, considering…

  A faint, tiny voice of a thought spoke into the back of my mind. Not a plan, not even a fully fledged idea, just an awareness of similarities.

  I’d met someone else in recent days with child-sized feet in Cuban heels. Someone who had not struck me as particularly fond of Fascists.

  Chapter Forty-six

  HOLMES AND I ABANDONED THE ladies of Poveglia long before sunrise, having made certain there was someplace Vivian could hide if the Marquess came looking—and having extracted a promise that she would be there when we returned.

  We putted sedately across the silent, dark water, at a speed that threatened to clog all the valves in the big motor. Rather than risk a third surreptitious entrance to the Lido, we retraced our route to the Ca’ Rezzonico landing. There we found the palazzo silent, but the other boats still tied up. The torches had burned out, and only one of the Greeks remained, snoring mightily as we came and as we left. The palazzo’s lights were burning, which suggested that either the partygoers were in a similar stupor, or they had moved to yet another venue.

  The traghetto stop was deserted, so Holmes led me down a narrow path that opened onto a marginally larger passage that kinked around and came eventually to the Accademia Bridge, which took us through more lanes and campi to the Piazza San Marco—where we found the remainder of the conjoined party, their mad-sounding whoops ringing off the stones of the Ducal Palace. Somehow, they’d managed to get someone to open a café—not Florian’s—and drag out a piano, on which a small man wearing a sort of toga was currently pounding out dance tunes, while around him heels flew and costumes disintegrated. Sometimes, I had heard, local residents protested the disturbances of foreigners with stones and sticks, but tonight the only onlookers were two waiters in ill-buttoned uniforms leaning, half-asleep, against the wall.

  “Is that your Mr Porter?” I asked Holmes.

  “Yes. His wife is the one dancing with T. E. Lawrence.” Not the actual Lawrence of Arabia—unless the hero of the Arab War had somehow grown ten inches since we’d last met. I pointed out one or two of the dramatis personae from my side of the lagoon—Miss Maxwell and her companion Dickie; the Hon Terry and his Venetian friend; and Bongo, dancing with a small dark-haired woman and clearly no longer pining over the loss of his Cinderella.

  However, there were some among the rowdy gathering who would instantly recognise Holmes beneath the Zorro costume. A duke, a High Court judge, two former Cabinet ministers—adults, it would seem, among the children at play. I chuckled at the idea of my twenty-five-year-old self thinking of men twice my age as children—then shook my head at Holmes’ inquiring look and addressed the question of how we might reach our beds.

  “Shall we take to the back streets, Holmes?”

  The wild rout was gathered mostly at the foot of the clock-tower, leaving the Piazza’s wide colonnaded sides dark and deserted. At the closest point to the Porters’ impromptu cabaret, the passageway would be hidden by the campanile—so, no: we did not have to turn back. We did walk briskly, and kept close to the darkened windows of shops and cafés, blending into the sea of chairs waiting to be scattered across the paving stones for morning seekers of coffee. At the end of the Ducal Palace, we clung to the walls until we were nearer the water, then made a straight run at the Beau Rivage.

  We even made it to our beds without being pounced upon by dancers, or benighted sun-worshippers, or the city’s prowling black-clad Fascist Milizia.

  * * *

  —

  Far too early on Sunday morning, bells rang. And rang and rang again. Not the harmonious peals of the English bell-tower, but the frank, flat clatter of Roman Catholic Europe, which required only a loud and no-nonsense call to prayer.

  The words I spoke into my pillow might have been construed as a prayer, in different tones and settings, but the insistent noise did have one of its desired effects: I rose from my bed.

  And once upright, the demands of the day came rushing in.

  Coffee; bath; more coffee; breakfast. And when my tongue would work without my tripping across it, a conversation with Holmes.

  I told him what I had seen on the Lido. He told me about his evening at Ca’ Rezzonico, how deeply annoyed Linda Porter—and hence, Cole—had been at the repressive presence of the Capitano and his English guest. We discussed the oddities and utopian dreams of Poveglia’s Amazonian settlers, and agreed that the likelihood of the women’s utopia surviving the Fascisti régime was lamentably slim. We talked about Vivian and Rose Trevisan, and agreed that, given the circumstances, it was not the unbalanced nurse-and-patient relationship it might have seemed on the surface.

  And then I gave him my faint, tiny voice of an idea, based on the similarity in the shoe size of Vivian Beaconsfield and my guide to the city, Signorina Barbarigo. He listened; nodded; put down his cup and picked up his cigarettes, smoking as we watched the traffic build over the lagoon. At the end of his cigarette, he proposed a variation on the beginnings of a plan that I had suggested.

  “Huh.” Now it was my turn to reflect. “Do you think he’d do it?”

  “He might.”

  “Well, then.”

  And Holmes smiled: a wicked little curve of the mouth such as I’d rarely seen there. What’s more, I could feel precisely that expression taking hold on my own face.

  It is a precious thing, to be in agreement with one’s husband, particularly when it comes to misbehaviour.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  THAT NIGHT, WE ATE EARLY and retired before the sky was fully dark.

  Midday on Monday, as the exuberant noon-time clatter and boom rang out from the various churches, I stood in the queue for the Lido steamer, watching two muscular young men in black Milizia garb swagger up the Riva degli Schiavoni. As they went, they stared hard into the face of every person less than five and a half feet tall.

  At the Excelsior, I walked down the shell-strewn sand to Miss Maxwell’s cabana, and asked if we might have a private talk. Since there was little chance of that on the beach, we adjourned to the Turkish Bar where, surrounded by the furnishings and attitudes of the seraglio, I described what I needed, and why.

  Elsa Maxwell was a practical woman, and had little income of her own. She was also a proud woman with clear lines when it came to acceptable behaviour—so I had to take great care not to make it sound as if I wanted to hire her services. Rather, I wished her assistance, and I was happy to pay for it: a very different thing.

  Fortunately, she also had a great sense of humour and a personal experience with injustice, so she did not take a whole lot of convincing.

  I slipped her an envelope—“for expenses”—and repeated my plea for secrecy, to which she assured me there was no problem, honey. We drained our coffee cups and went back down to the seaside, pleased with our little conspiracy.

  I spent the aftern
oon behind the now-familiar wheel of the Runabout, lengths of twine holding my hat on my head and my sleeves to my wrists, as the boat pulled a series of young men and a few women up, down, and mostly into the Adriatic. My calm competence at the wheel soothed Terry’s nerves, until I could see him wondering if he’d imagined my breakneck stunt across the laguna on Saturday night. He had, after all, been rather drunk…

  Back under the shade of the cabanas, drinking vast quantities of liquid and listening with half an ear to the exaggerated exploits of those who had attempted the skis, I spotted another pair of Blackshirts making their way along the pavements before the Excelsior. One of the girls—a Senator’s daughter from Manhattan, doing the modern version of the Victorian Grand Tour—was watching them as well, and glanced over at me.

  “I’ve been here two weeks and never seen any of those Fascist guys over on this side of the lagoon. Now that’s the third pair I’ve seen today.”

  “They must be melting in those shirts.”

  “And how. Black does make a guy look dreamy, though. I’d like to spoon a little with that sheik with the ’stache.”

  “If you don’t mind a cloud of male sweat.” Still, the girl had a point: there was a reason romantic heroes wore dark colours. Like, for example, Zorro. Mussolini’s followers seemed to have figured out how to capture their public’s imagination.

  I crossed the lagoon early, before the evening’s drinking got serious, and again, noticed the increase in black shirt-fronts and ties.

  Holmes had seen it, too.

  “You think the Capitano called for reinforcements?” I asked him.

  “They are clearly not native Venetians. In fact, some of them appear to find the city confusing. They tend to stick to the Piazza, the train station, and the Riva degli Schiavoni.”

  “Good. How are things going on your side?”

  And he told me, with satisfaction.

  * * *

  —

  Any stage play is a delicate mechanism dependent on the smooth working of all its parts. Actors, props, stage, script—all must be lubricated with the oil of practice, since one failure, one dropped piece or ill fit, can reduce matters to chaos. The simpler the mechanism, the less risk of catastrophe.

  What, however, if catastrophe is one’s aim?

  * * *

  —

  That night, we put the final touches on our plans.

  Tuesday morning, the clockwork shifted into motion, as we sat on our balcony writing letters—anonymous, in the ancient Venetian tradition of letter-borne accusations. Each missive suggested a different location for a certain blonde English visitor. In the afternoon, Holmes slid the letters into various post-boxes and hotel collection baskets, then made the rounds of our many and varied gondolieri, giving each a coin and a topic of conversation that they might drop into various ears during the course of their day. Meanwhile, I went over to the Lido with quite a bit of money in my bag. There I spoke again with Miss Elsa Maxwell, followed by a series of brief talks with the hotel’s waiters, bar-men, and photographers—those with film cameras rather than old-fashioned plates. On the return vaporetto trip, my purse was considerably thinner.

  On Wednesday, when the number of Blackshirts had reached its height and their frustration was at a peak, Holmes went to deliver a parcel, while I packed several bags and set off, one last time, for the Lido.

  The curtains began to lift.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  DARKNESS HAD FALLEN OVER OUR stage, namely, the Excelsior cabaret. Our actors, none of whom had seen the full script of the play they were about to enact, were busily engaged in restoring their flagging energies with alcohol. The jazz band held up a relentless beat; Elsa Maxwell held court and a glass of champagne; I held off the attentions of a would-be suitor; and beneath the table the Hon Terry held the hand of his new Venetian friend.

  To my relief, the sound of Holmes’ whistle was loud enough to cut through the rising tumult. At the signal, I shot to my feet, caught the eye of the bar-man, and shouted in a voice that reached all my neighbours and half the waiters, “Hey, everybody—today’s my birthday! Let’s have some fizz!”

  There is nothing like champagne to stoke the flames of a party—especially since I had paid the bartender beforehand to have a hefty supply waiting on ice. In an instant, two hundred people made a fast shift into the top gear of party mood. Glasses were emptying, pulses were pumping, the band upped its beat—and Miss Maxwell sent a trio of recent New York arrivals out onto the floor to demonstrate a bizarre rhythmic contortion (What had they called it—Raleigh? Charleston? Some town in the American South) that involved much kicking of heels and spinning of torsos, with the occasional tipsy falling-over on unaccustomed foot-wear.

  The hotel’s photographers had been contracted (and again, paid) to aim their lenses at everything in sight. Time and again, the sudden flares of their magnesium flash-trays lit up Chez Vous like a monochrome version of Saturday’s fireworks. My co-conspirator, Elsa (who thought she was directing this production), looked over the pulsating scene with approval.

  By the time the seven black-clad figures—whose arrival had triggered Holmes’ whistle—stormed through the door from the hotel, they found a riot in progress.

  A riot composed of notably delicate men and oddly muscular women, all of whom wore masks, and all of whom were drunk as Lords and spinning like dervishes.

  In moments, waiters had pressed glasses into the hands of the seven newcomers (another of my instructions). The men looked somewhat taken aback, although only one followed his Capitano’s lead and put his glass down untasted. I gave them thirty seconds to study the room before I rose, pasting on a series of expressions: first puzzlement, then recognition, and finally uneasiness.

  Because I had chosen a table very near the hotel’s entrance, the Marquess spotted me the moment I got to my feet. He also noticed—could not help to notice, so exaggerated were my amateur dramatics—how I took a hasty step to the side, obscuring the person behind me at the table.

  He turned to shout into the ear of the Capitano, who had been surveying the room with open disgust. The Fascist’s eyes came around to me, a still point amongst the whirl, then dropped to the silk-stockinged ankles visible behind my trousered legs. The Capitano gave a triumphant smile, and gestured commands to his underlings.

  The two younger Blackshirts he sent to the left, to block the exit into the gardens. The two older ones went around the right side of the crowded floor, to a place where the dancing spilled onto the forecourt to the beach. And the remaining one—the man without champagne on his tongue—the Captain set down at the doors to the hotel.

  I edged closer to the silk stockings, then glanced behind me to check that all my players were on their marks. Towards the garden, the two young Fascists had already attracted admirers, male and female. On the beach side, a sort of can-can line of mixed sexes was distracting the two older ones. All four men were looking a touch confused as it occurred to them that not all the attractive women pressing up against them were quite what they seemed.

  Holmes loomed into view then, working his way across the crowded floor, his arms wrapped around a load of equipment to protect it from high-kicking heels and outflung elbows.

  When I turned to face the entrance again, the Capitano and the Marquess were bearing down on me, elbowing away would-be admirers—literally, in one case, causing a pile-up of legs and shrieks across a table.

  I blocked the Marquess by thrusting a bottle of champagne into his hands—and so ingrained were the habits of an English aristocrat that he took it. “Lord Selwick!” I shouted. “I never thought to see you in a place like this. I didn’t even know you were in Venice! I love your costume, so realistic! Is this a friend of yours? How d’you do? Mary Russell!” Having freed a hand, I thrust it out at the man I’d seen terrifying the asylum guard on San Clemente—and such were the habits of a nat
ive Venetian that he accepted it.

  But the Marquess would be distracted no longer. He thrust the bottle at a nearby set of willing hands and wrenched me aside, stepping forward in my place so as to stare down at the person I’d been hiding.

  The slim figure was all golden: gold shoes, sparkly stockings, short gold dress, golden bracelets around one wrist. As the dark trousered legs pushed past me, the sitter noticed them. The feathered bandeau dipped, pausing with gaze averted. The golden shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and then the entire figure began to turn in the chair, and rise to face the accusing Marquess. Only at the last moment did the downward-facing head come up, the feathers thrown back as the golden arms shot out to embrace the startled Englishman. The Marquess stared into the pop eyes for a small eternity (one…two…three…) and then Cole Porter turned to his enthralled audience with an exaggeratedly coy grin, all but fluttering his eyelashes. At that precise instant, a photographer’s magnesium flash briefly washed all colour from the scene. The Marquess struggled to pull free, but I was right there, getting in his way, and Porter’s arm had him in a death grip. The small musician used his free hand to yank off the bandeau and wig he wore, gave a glance at the Capitano as if to check that he was in a position to witness this—then rose up on his toes to plant a kiss directly on the mouth of the Marquess of Selwick. A second flare, accompanied by a roar of laughter.

  The third flash came when Porter, arms still locked, turned to meet his wife’s eyes across the table, his face given over to a grin composed of pleasure and jest and the hard, cold triumph of revenge.

  The Marquess finally managed to throw off the embracing arms and stagger away. A fourth camera flared, the crowd cheered, the Capitano looked appalled—and the band played on.