Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  George placed a thinner wallet back in his jacket pocket and made his way quickly to Piazza San Marco, from where he could see the island of Giudecca, on which the Cipriani hotel proudly stood. Every twenty minutes a water taxi docked with the name Cipriani on its bow. He stepped into the shadows of a large archway from where he could observe every boat as it disgorged its customers, confident that an elderly gentleman accompanied by three young ladies would be easy enough to identify, especially when the vision of one of those ladies had rarely left his mind for the past six weeks.

  For the next two hours George checked every customer coming by water taxi from Giudecca. After another hour he began to wonder if the Turners had moved to a different hotel; perhaps the one that had refused to divulge its guest list. He watched as the cafés all around him began to fill up. The pervading aroma of freshly baked panini, crostini, and piping hot coffee reminded him he hadn’t had any breakfast. But he dared not desert his post, for fear that if he did so, that would be the moment the Turner family set foot on the shore. George decided that if they hadn’t appeared by midday, he might have to risk taking the taxi across to the island, and even entering their hotel. But if he were to bump into them, how would he explain what he was doing there? Mr. Turner would have known that a night at the Cipriani would barely have been covered by George’s monthly salary, however small the room was.

  And then George saw her. His first thought was that she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. She was wearing a long, empire-line yellow silk dress with a wide red ribbon tied just below the bust. Her wavy auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and she shaded herself from the morning sun with a white parasol. If you’d asked him what Marjorie and Mildred were wearing, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

  Mr. Turner was the first to step onto the quay. He was dressed in a smart cream suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He raised an arm to assist his daughters as they stepped off the boat. George was relieved to see no sign of Andrew, who he hoped was defending a goal in Taunton.

  The Turners strolled off in the direction of Piazza San Marco with an air of knowing exactly where they were heading, as indeed they clearly did, because when they walked into a crowded café, the head waiter immediately guided them to the only unoccupied table. Once they had ordered, Turner settled down to read the previous day’s Times while Ruth leafed through a book that must have been a guide to Venice, because she kept sharing the contents with her sisters while occasionally pointing out landmarks.

  At one point Ruth looked in his direction, and for a moment George wondered if she had seen him, although you rarely notice someone you’re not looking for, especially if they’re obscured by shadows. He waited patiently until Mr. Turner called for the bill, realizing that the next part of his plan could not be put off for much longer.

  The moment the Turners left the café, George stepped out of the shadows and headed toward the center of the square. His eyes never left Ruth, the guidebook still open in her hand. She was now reading passages out from it while the rest of the family listened intently. George began to wish he was back on top of a mountain, even if it had meant that Finch was his only companion. Surely the moment they saw him they would twig. There was only one way he was going to find out.

  He emerged from behind a group of ambling tourists, and when he was just a few paces away, came to a halt in front of Mr. Turner.

  “Good morning, sir,” said George, raising his boater and trying to look astonished. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Well, it’s certainly a surprise for me, Mr. Mallory,” said Turner.

  “And a most pleasing one,” said Marjorie.

  “Good morning, Miss Turner,” said George, once again raising his hat. Although Mildred rewarded him with a shy smile, Ruth continued to read her guidebook, as if George’s unexpected appearance was nothing more than an irritating distraction.

  “‘Before the five arched portals of the Basilica,’” she declared, her voice rising, “‘rests the Piazza San Marco, a vast, paved, arcaded square once described by Napoleon as the drawing room of Europe.’”

  George continued to smile at her, feeling like Malvolio, because like Olivia, she didn’t return the compliment. He was beginning to feel that he had embarked on a wasted journey, and should never have allowed himself to imagine, even for a moment…He would slip away, and they would soon forget he’d ever been there.

  “‘The bell tower,’” continued Ruth, looking up, “‘rises to a height of 325 feet, and visitors can reach the parapet by ascending its four hundred and twenty-one steps.’”

  George raised his hat to Mr. Turner, and turned to leave.

  “Do you think you could manage that, Mr. Mallory?” asked Ruth.

  George hesitated. “Possibly,” he said, turning back. “But the weather conditions would have to be taken into consideration. A high wind might make it difficult.”

  “I can’t imagine why a high wind would make it difficult if you were safely inside, Mr. Mallory.”

  “And then one must always remember, Miss Turner,” continued George, “that the most important decision when considering any climb is the route you select. You rarely end up going in a straight line, and if you make the wrong choice, you might have to turn back unrewarded.”

  “How interesting, Mr. Mallory,” said Ruth.

  “But if a more direct route does present itself, you should always be prepared to consider it.”

  “I can find nothing in Baedeker to suggest that there might be a more direct route,” said Ruth.

  That was the moment George decided that if he was going to leave them, he might as well do it in style.

  “Then perhaps the time has come to write a new chapter for your guidebook, Miss Turner.” Without another word, George took off his hat and jacket, and handed them to Ruth. He took one more look at the tower, then walked toward the public entrance, where he joined the line of tourists waiting to go inside.

  When he got to the front of the queue, he leaped onto the turnstile and reached up to grasp the archway above the entrance. He pulled himself up and stood on the ledge. Moments later, with a line of startled onlookers following his progress, he was hanging from the first parapet. He paused for a moment to consider his next move. It was to place his right foot on the statue of a saint—Saint Thomas, Mildred noted—who looked doubtful.

  Mr. Turner turned his attention away from George for a moment, as he progressed from ledge to ledge, buttress to buttress, to observe his daughters. Mildred appeared fascinated by George’s skill, while Marjorie had a look of awe on her face, but it was Ruth’s reaction that took him most by surprise. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her whole body seemed to be trembling. When George appeared to lose his footing only a few feet from the top, Mr. Turner thought his favorite daughter was going to faint.

  George looked down into the crowded square, no longer able to identify Ruth among the patchwork quilt of speckled colors below. He placed both hands firmly on the wide balustrade, pulled himself up onto the top parapet, and joined the visitors who had made the ascent by a more orthodox route.

  A small group of mesmerized tourists took a step back, hardly able to believe what they were witnessing. One or two of them had taken photographs so they could prove to the folks back home that they hadn’t made it up. George leaned over the balustrade and began to consider his route back down—that was until he spotted two members of the Carabinieri running into the square.

  George could not risk returning by the same route if there was a possibility of adding an Italian prison to his French experience. He bolted toward the main exit at the top of the stairs and joined the sightseers who were beginning to make their slow progress down the winding stone staircase back to the square. He brushed past several of them, finally slowing his pace to join a party of Americans who had clearly not witnessed his efforts. Their only topic of conversation was where they would be having lunch.

  As they spilled out of the tower and back into th
e square, George linked arms with an elderly American matron from Illinois, who didn’t protest. She smiled up at him. “Have I ever told you I had a relative who was on the Titanic?”

  “No,” said George. “How fascinating,” he added, as the group passed two Carabinieri who were searching for an unaccompanied man.

  “Yes, it was my sister’s child, Roderick. You know, he wasn’t even meant…” but George had already disappeared.

  Once he had escaped from the crowded square, he made his way swiftly back to his hotel, but never once broke into a run for fear of attracting attention. It only took him fifteen minutes to pack, settle the bill—a surcharge was added for checking out after midday—and leave.

  He walked briskly in the direction of the Rialto Bridge, where he knew there would be a vaporetto to take him to the railway station. As the motor launch glided slowly past Piazza San Marco, he spotted an officer questioning a young man who must have been about his own age.

  When he was dropped off at Santa Lucia station he headed straight for the booking office and asked the clerk what time was the next train to London Victoria.

  “Three o’clock, sir,” he replied, “but I’m afraid I have no more first-class tickets available.”

  “Then I’ll have to settle for third class,” said George, emptying his wallet.

  George nipped into the shadows whenever he spotted a policeman, and it seemed an eternity before the platform bell was rung and a guard, at the top of his voice, invited all first-class passengers to board the express. George joined the select group as they strolled toward the train, suspecting that they were the last people the police would be taking any interest in. He even thought about climbing onto the roof of the train, but decided that it would leave him even more exposed.

  Once George was on board he hung around in a corridor, keeping a wary eye out for any ticket collectors. He was just wondering whether he should lock himself in a lavatory and wait there until the train had moved off, when a voice behind him said, “Il vostro biglietto, signore, per favore.”

  George swung around to see a man dressed in a long blue jacket with thick gold piping on the lapels and holding a leather book. He looked out of the window, and spotted a policeman walking down the platform and peering in the carriage windows. He began to make a pretense of searching for his ticket, when the policeman boarded the carriage.

  “I must have mislaid it,” said George. “I’ll just go back to the booking office, and—”

  “No need to do that, sir,” said the ticket collector, switching languages effortlessly. “All I require is your name.”

  “Mallory,” George said with resignation, as the policeman headed toward him.

  “Ah, yes,” said the ticket collector. “You’re in carriage B, stateroom eleven. Your wife has already arrived, sir. Would you care to follow me?”

  “My wife?” said George, before following the ticket collector through the dining car and into the next carriage, trying to think up some plausible excuse before the ticket collector realized his mistake. When they reached cabin number 11, the concierge pulled open a door marked Riservato. George peered inside to see his jacket and boater on the seat opposite her.

  “Ah, there you are, darling,” said Ruth. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it in time.”

  “I thought you weren’t going back to England for another week,” George spluttered, taking the seat by her side.

  “So did I,” replied Ruth. “But someone once told me that if a more direct route presents itself, you should be prepared to consider it, unless of course there’s a high wind.”

  George laughed, and wanted to leap in the air with joy, until he remembered an encumbrance every bit as terrifying as the Italian police. “Does your father know you’re here?”

  “I managed to convince him that, on balance, it wouldn’t be a good thing for the school’s reputation to have one of its masters languishing in an Italian jail just before the new term begins.”

  “What about Andrew? Weren’t you meant—”

  Ruth threw her arms around him.

  George heard the door of the compartment sliding open. He didn’t dare look around.

  “Of course the answer’s yes, my darling,” said Ruth before kissing him.

  “Scusi.” The policeman saluted before adding, “Mille congratulazioni, signore!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FRIDAY, MAY 1ST, 1914

  “YOUR SHOT, I believe,” said Turner.

  George lined up the tip of his cue on the white. He could feel his legs shaking as he made the shot. He miscued and the ball careered wildly up and down the table, bouncing off a side cushion before coming to rest several inches from the red.

  “Foul,” said Turner. “And four more points for me.”

  “Agreed,” sighed George, as his host returned to the table. Turner didn’t speak again until he had amassed another sixteen points.

  The past month had been the happiest of George’s life. In fact, he had had no idea that such happiness could exist. As each day went by, he fell more and more in love with Ruth. She was so bright, so gay, such fun to be with.

  The journey back to England had been idyllic. They had spent every minute getting to know each other, although George did have a flash of anxiety when the train stopped at the Italian border and a customs official took a close look at his passport. When they finally crossed the border into France, George relaxed for the first time, and even spent a moment thinking about Young and Finch climbing in Zermatt. But only a moment.

  He told Ruth over dinner why he’d ordered all five courses on the menu, explaining that he hadn’t eaten for three days. She laughed when he described the last person he’d spent a night with on a train, a man who belched garlic when he was awake and snored fumes while he was asleep.

  “So you haven’t slept for the past three nights,” she said.

  “And it doesn’t look as if I will tonight either, my darling,” said George.

  “I can’t pretend that this was how I expected to spend my first night with the man I love,” said Ruth. “But why don’t we…” she leaned across the table and whispered in George’s ear. He thought about her proposal for a moment, and then happily agreed.

  A few minutes later, Ruth left the table. In their compartment she found that the seats had been converted into single beds. She undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in the little hand basin, climbed into bed, and switched off the light. George remained in the dining car, drinking black coffee. Only after the last remaining customer had departed did he return to the compartment.

  He slid the door open quietly and slipped inside, then stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He could see the outline of Ruth’s slim body under the sheet, and wanted to touch her. He took off his jacket, tie, trousers, shirt, and socks, and left them on the floor before climbing into bed. He wondered if Ruth was still awake.

  “Good night, Mr. Mallory,” she said.

  “Good night, Mrs. Mallory,” he replied. George slept soundly for the first time in three nights.

  As George bent down to take his next shot, Turner said, “You wrote earlier in the week, Mallory, to say there was something of importance you wished to discuss with me.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said George, as his cue ball disappeared into the nearest pocket.

  “Another foul,” said Turner. He returned to the table and took his time piling up even more points, which only made George feel more and more inadequate.

  “Yes, sir,” he finally managed, and then paused before adding, “I’m sure you must have noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time with your daughter.”

  “Which one?” asked Turner as George missed another shot. “Another foul. Are you hoping to score anything this evening, young man?”

  “It was just, sir, just that…”

  “You would like my blessing before you ask Ruth for her hand in marriage.”

  “I’ve alrea
dy asked her,” admitted George.

  “I would hope so, Mallory. After all, you have already spent a night with her.”

  When George had woken after that night it was pitch dark. He leaned forward and pushed the blind to one side to observe the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon: a joyful sight for any mountaineer.

  He slipped quietly out of bed, felt around on the floor for his pants and slipped them on. Next he located the rest of his clothes. Not too difficult an exercise when you’re used to sleeping in a small tent with only a candle to see by. George quietly slid open the compartment door and stepped outside. He looked up and down the corridor, thankful that no one was in sight. He quickly did up his shirt, pulled on his trousers and socks, tied his tie, and slipped on his jacket. When he strolled into the dining car, the attendants laying the tables for breakfast were surprised to see a first-class passenger so early in the morning.

  “Good morning, sir,” said a waiter who was staring at Mallory’s trousers, looking slightly embarrassed.

  “Good morning,” said George, and two paces later realized his fly buttons were undone. He laughed, did them up, and hurried through the dining car in search of a morning paper.

  It wasn’t until he reached carriage K that he came across the newspaper kiosk. The sign in the window read Chiuso, but George could see a young man standing behind the counter undoing the thick string from around a pile of newspapers. He stared at the front page in disbelief. He could only just recognize himself in the blurred photograph, but even with his limited command of Italian he could translate the headline: Police seek mystery climber of St. Mark’s Basilica.

  He pointed to the pile of newspapers, and the assistant reluctantly unlocked the door.

  “How many copies of that paper do you have?”

  “Twenty, sir,” he replied.