Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  The Countess nodded in satisfaction. ‘You’re welcome to Lucy: in fact, you’ll be doing me a favour taking her out. I need to get through some business matters this morning.’ She glanced at the black leather folder, frowning. ‘It’s Roger’s half-day off, and he’s left me with all of this to look at. I need to be alone to concentrate fully. And I need to make some calls of my own from here. I look forward to your report later on.’

  And so they left at eight-thirty, and by ten o’clock Lucy and Posie had industriously trailed around the dark but impressive St Mark’s Cathedral; its stolen saints and secrets glittering squatly in a sparse candlelight. They had stopped for Posie to buy small touristy presents in the square, at G. Pagan’s, a smart little establishment selling sunglasses and leather bags. Posie had bought presents for Dolly and for her secretary Prudence, and even for Chief Inspector Lovelace’s small daughter, Phyllis, for whom she stood godmother. They had then queued for tickets for the Doge’s Palace, but had found themselves too late for a morning-slot, so they had purchased afternoon passes instead.

  They both stood shivering now on the jetty outside the Doge’s Palace, at the end of the small square beside St Mark’s Cathedral. Posie looked up at the twin columns which marked the entrance to the city, one column topped by the prowling dark lion of St Mark, the other, more obscurely, by a pale St Theodore, looking calmly down from his somewhat perilous position atop a forlorn-looking stone crocodile.

  Why St Theodore? And why a crocodile?

  Posie had asked both these questions of their tour guide in the Cathedral, who hadn’t seemed to know exactly why this unique combination greeted visitors to the city. It seemed likely that, as so much with Venice, St Theodore and the crocodile had been stolen on some long-ago pilfering expedition when Venice was first born and in need of some authenticity, when any authenticity would do. The body and the legend of St Mark too, had been stolen in just such a way. Posie looked at the place afresh: it was an odd city, for sure, a vast beauty built on absolutely nothing. The women looked out over the wide sweep of St Mark’s Basin, a busy mix of barges and paddle-steamers bravely cresting the swell. They watched the empty gondolas and sandolis moored together, rocking backwards and forwards, as a vaporetto churned through the water, packed with rows and rows of tourists.

  ‘I’ve been here over a year now, and I still think this is the most beautiful place in the world,’ said Lucy at last, watching a fishing flotilla as it headed out to the open sea. ‘It has the best light I’ve ever seen. I like to paint watercolours of the changing colours, of the fusion between sky and water, whenever Bella can spare me. But it’s also a dangerous place. All this beauty, with no foundations. It could all collapse in a minute. It will collapse one day.’

  Lucy gestured up at the huge red-brick Campanile rising above them. ‘Like that. The Bell Tower of St Mark’s. Ten centuries of being the most important monument in the city, then it collapsed in on itself twenty-two years ago. This here is only a recent remake. But you wouldn’t think it, would you? It’s been done so well. Nothing here is quite as it seems.’

  Posie eyed Lucy keenly, more certain than ever that she knew the girl from somewhere, but still unable to place her.

  She’s right, Posie thought to herself. This is a dangerous place, a place where nothing is quite what it seems. Some of us might not be able to survive it.

  Although the storm of the day before had blown itself out, grey clouds scudded through the skies in an angry fashion, sweeping across the watery mass, and the promise of more rain was not far off. You could taste the sulphur in the air. Posie tried to avoid looking out over the basin towards the jetty on the opposite side of the water where she had been with Alaric the night before. She attempted to blot out the image of his face, the memory of those two flashing lights in the Palace, searching…

  ‘Coffee, Lucy?’ she said abruptly, shivering into her still-damp coat. ‘And I need a telephone, too. Any ideas where we can find both?’

  ‘Well, there’s the Café Florian, of course,’ replied the girl hesitantly, indicating backwards, towards the main square. ‘You know, the oldest café in the world, with windows onto the square. Some people sit there for hours, watching the world go by.’

  ‘Casanova’s hunting-ground?’ Posie smiled. ‘It’s famous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy nodded. ‘They say he met a good many of his conquests there as it was pretty much the only place in Venice where women of good repute could be seen out in public. But it’s dashed expensive, for all it’s still the hottest spot in town. Otherwise we could just head back to the guesthouse?’

  Waving the cost aside, Posie insisted on finding a table at a window in the Café Florian, which turned out to be an art-encrusted jewel of a coffeehouse, reminding Posie with a sharp pang of the Rivoli Bar at the Ritz in London.

  Leaving Lucy to order coffee and cakes, Posie walked to the back of the establishment, down a black-and-white tiled corridor, and found a baize-covered cubicle housing the public telephone apparatus. Posie sighed with relief that the corridor was quiet and that no-one seemed to be hanging around. She managed to get the International Operator in Rome to put her call through to London fairly easily, and then she asked for Scotland Yard.

  At the connection she asked for Chief Inspector Lovelace.

  Posie thought of London and all that was familiar, including Richard Lovelace. She pictured him now, standing in his office, loitering at the window with its view of the grey London skyline and the Embankment, a mug of tea in hand.

  How reliable he was. How comforting.

  ‘No can do, madam.’ The receptionist at Scotland Yard sighed down the phone. ‘The Chief Inspector is not here. Is there anyone else you wish to speak to?’

  ‘Er…’ Posie had been about to ask for the reliable and ever-efficient Sergeant Binny, but with a shock which still surprised her she remembered he was dead: killed in the line of duty just this summer, while they had all been working on a case together.

  ‘Sergeant Rainbird?’

  Rainbird was a good second-best, the Chief Inspector’s right-hand man now that Binny, a favourite, and tipped to become an Inspector himself just before his death, was gone. It must have been uncomfortable for Rainbird to be filling the dead man’s shoes, and Posie found herself feeling particularly unenvious of his lot.

  Rainbird came on the line sharpish. After the cursory greeting and niceties, Posie asked where Lovelace was.

  ‘Out on a case, Miss. A week long, he said, and very confidential. Can’t even tell you where he’s gone, not even if I wanted to. He didn’t share it with me.’ There was a sniff of something like regret down the line, but it could have been a cold. ‘Can I help you with anything, Miss?’

  Posie didn’t go into the details of the Alladice case. But she pulled out her small silver notebook and pencil.

  ‘I need information on a few people,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Anything you can get your hands on: police records, war records, involvement in anything suspicious, any declared or undeclared business interests these people have. Anything unusual…’

  She heard the Sergeant swallow. He was obviously busy. But he knew the ways into the Chief Inspector’s good books, and one of these was by helping Posie, whenever possible. Not to do so might have adverse effects for his future: the future that had been Binny’s, which was now being handed to him on a plate. A plate he merely had to keep spinning, not letting it fall.

  ‘Right you are then, Miss. Let’s have the names.’

  He took them down carefully, asking for a couple of repetitions of spelling. ‘When did you want this for?’

  ‘In about an hour, Sergeant.’

  She heard a sharp intake of breath down the line, and some muffled shouting in the background. ‘I’m here at this jolly nice café just now.’ She checked the number on the telephone apparatus. ‘It’s 0078 on the Italian Exchange. Café Florian, if they ask. Or if I’m gone, or its much later than an hour, try Mrs Persimmon’s guest
house. It’s 0065 on the Exchange. Do you think that’s possible, Sergeant?’

  ‘Anything is possible, Miss. But is it likely?’ Another intake of breath. ‘I’ll see what I can do. One hour, you say? Blimey!’

  The line went dead, and Posie stood holding the receiver, hearing the pips go. The London Operator cut in: ‘Is that all, modom? Can I make another connection for you? You have three minutes left on this line.’

  ‘Er, righty-ho. No, thanks. Oh! Wait a second!’ An idea, perfectly formed and clear as a bell, came to her. ‘Connect me through to Holborn, 1267.’

  ‘Very good, modom.’

  As she waited, Posie checked her watch and thought longingly of her small detective agency up on the second floor of a corner building on shabby Grape Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue. How she loved it.

  At this time of the morning there would normally be coffee being made, not very well, admittedly, by Prudence. And Len, her partner in the firm, would be settling down in the clients’ waiting room, handing around a bag of Lyons’ cakes. The lights would all be blazing as the office caught no natural light at all until the early afternoon, and on a November day such as today the chances of even afternoon light were very slim. Would any new cases have come in? Posie swallowed: she missed the office awfully. And she missed London. She would never give either of those things up.

  ‘Connecting you now.’

  After a good many rings, a breathless adolescent voice answered the telephone, in purest cockney. ‘Mornin’! Grape Street Bureau ’ere! ’Ow can we ’elp you?’

  ‘Sidney?’ she asked, trying not to sound too shocked. ‘Is that you? Where on earth is Prudence? Or Len, for that matter? It’s not part of your job description to be answering the telephone.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t mind, Miss,’ replied Sidney, the office-boy, with some pride. Sidney had only been taken on since the summer and had proved himself remarkably useful in that time. Even Len, who had been doubtful about the arrangement, seemed to be coming around to the idea of Sidney becoming a permanent member of staff.

  ‘And how are yer doin’ Miss? Havin’ a luvverly time, I hope? You married yet, Miss? Are congratulations in order just yet?’

  ‘No, Sidney, I am not married yet, and so congratulations are not in order.’

  ‘Oh!’ She could hear Sidney blowing out his breath, slightly lost for words.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  He piped up cheerily again, on firmer ground. ‘Miss Prudence ’as had to go home on account of her poor old mum. She’s ’ad a funny turn, or something. And Mr Len, he’s just nipped out for a spot of milk and a few treats from the pub downstairs.’

  ‘Mnnn. While the cat’s away…’

  ‘What, Miss?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So it’s just me ’ere, mannin’ the fort!’

  ‘I can see that. Any clients?’

  ‘None. Place is quiet as the grave. Bit of luck, innit?’

  ‘I see. Well, yes; let’s be grateful for small mercies. As luck would have it, it was you I was after, Sidney. I need you to go out and get something for me, sharpish. Got some paper to note this down?’

  ‘Yes. Course I ’ave, Miss.’ The boy was as eager as a terrier and Posie almost smiled.

  ‘Head down to Somerset House on the Strand, will you? The Wills Department. Cut along on the tram. It’s a public record office, and so you can look at the Will I want, provided you pay for the pleasure. Take a shilling from petty cash. I trust you – the key is taped under Prudence’s seat.’

  ‘Right-ho! Whose Will do you want me to collect?’

  ‘You won’t be able to collect anything, or make notes. You might just have to memorise what you can, they’re usually pretty strict in these places. The Will I want is a chap named John Alladice. His Will is stored by date of death and that will be… Hang on.’ Posie desperately tried to remember Max’s story about the Messines Ridge the night before. She nodded. ‘His death was sometime in the second week of June, 1917. A war death. I can’t be more specific.’

  ‘What am I lookin’ for exactly, Miss? Wills are pretty complicated, ain’t they?’

  ‘Cut through all the legal jargon and get to the end. That’s the only important bit in a Will. Where the fella says who he wants his things to go to. I want to see how John Alladice divided his money up.’

  Posie remembered Bella’s comment about Johnny leaving her his business shareholdings, and how he had cut out his brother on purpose. ‘See if he makes any interesting remarks about anyone in particular.’

  ‘Got it, Miss. I’m on to it now. Where can I reach you?’

  Posie gave the same numbers and returned to the table, where, much to her irritation, she found their lovely window seat had been taken over. Aunt Minnie was now perched there, but it was Dickie Alladice, dressed casually in an expensive pinstriped suit which perfectly matched his pearl-grey eyes, who was holding court, having ordered liqueur coffees for the whole table.

  Dickie beamed at Posie, and she was suddenly struck by how handsome he really was, something she hadn’t appreciated when he had been a nervous wreck the night before. Posie saw for the first time the man Dickie Alladice really was: putting people at their ease, luminous with a ready smile. Alaric had been right.

  ‘Posie, what-ho! I was just saying what a coincidence it is to meet like this! We never normally come in here, do we, Auntie Minnie? But we were on our way back from the notary and we saw Lucy adorning the window, and we couldn’t resist. We hope you don’t mind us gate-crashing like this?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s lovely to see you both. We’re quite the party now, aren’t we?’

  Dickie had evidently been talking about moving the Romagnoli party en masse over to the Hotel Metropole, one of the top hotels in town, at his own expense. He looked at Posie, as if for her approval.

  ‘I think we may be altogether more comfortable at the Metropole. Mrs Persimmon has done her very best but it must be an awful strain on her having us all to stay. The Count is over at the Palace now with the insurance men and that big polie inspector – a dreadful job, it will take all day – and I’m sure they’ll say there is no hope of anyone moving back in there for several months. If ever, in fact. And we can’t stay on at that guesthouse. It’s beyond all reasonable expectations.’

  But Posie was miles away, thinking of petite little Giancarlo, the Count, tasked with such a day’s sombre work; staggering through the ashes of his family’s heritage. She didn’t envy him, that was for sure.

  Dickie Alladice was addressing Posie directly now. ‘Shall I have the pleasure of adding you and Alaric to my tab at the Metropole Hotel, or will you be going on somewhere else for your honeymoon, do you know?’

  All eyes turned to look at her. Posie was just taking a swig of the very alcoholic coffee and she coughed a good deal by way of convenient response.

  A honeymoon?

  Lucy cut in. ‘Dickie, you horror! You might not know it, but it is a gentleman’s prerogative to take his bride away to a surprise location for their honeymoon. And if Mr Boynton-Dale has shared that surprise with Miss Parker, it is likewise her prerogative not to reveal it to anyone else.’

  Posie smiled determinedly, anger boiling up inside her at looking a complete fool, and thankful to Lucy for papering over a huge omission. She and Alaric hadn’t even discussed a honeymoon. What else didn’t she know about her upcoming nuptials or the man she was about to marry?

  She didn’t even know where Alaric was right now, or what he was doing. It seemed she knew precious, precious little. She cursed herself silently for having put all her trust and reliance in his plans. When she should have organised things herself. Like usual.

  She turned the full force of her lovely blue gaze on Dickie. ‘It’s so kind of you, Dickie. But it’s as Lucy says, I think it’s all going to be a lovely surprise.’

  A lovely surprise! What rot! She was certain there was no honeymoon planned. What was it that Max had said up in the attic last ni
ght? That Alaric was ‘a thoroughly bad lot’ and unable to make decisions. And that Posie should have wised up to that fact by now.

  Dickie Alladice slapped his wrist playfully. ‘Of course. Posie, how silly of me. Forgive me, won’t you? Next I will be demanding details of your wedding outfit, and then where will we all be?’

  He lit up an Abdullah and offered the tin of Turkish cigarettes all around. Everyone accepted except Posie and she watched how Lucy was quite comfortable in Dickie’s presence, sitting next to him, blowing smoke rings, laughing at his jokes, putting an occasional hand on his knee, but somehow remaining dignified and apart; very at odds with Aunt Minnie, who was awkward with her smoke and on her way to getting blindingly drunk.

  Posie wondered idly about Lucy.

  Was Dickie Alladice and all of his wealth her ultimate goal? Was Lucy playing a long game, keen to escape the poverty she had ended up in by marrying this rich, showy man? But then Posie recollected the previous night: how she had seen Lucy flitting through the shadows of the dark corridor into Roger Valentine’s room.

  What exactly was her game? Was it a dangerous one? And how did that concealed diamond ring she wore fit in? Who had given her that? One of the two men out here? Or someone else entirely?

  Posie stared out of the window, looking into the main square, where rain had begun to lash down, sending the tourists running in umbrella-huddled masses to the very edges of the square, along with the pigeons. A lone cellist was battling on, playing without music or shelter, right in the centre of the big grey space. The Café Florian was well glazed, and she couldn’t hear the tune, but Posie thought suddenly and painfully of Richard, her elder brother, who had been musical, and had played the cello as a boy. How she missed him. He had also died in 1917.

  What would he have said to see her now? What advice would he have given? Would Richard have told her to get up, right this minute, and leave this toxic city where nothing seemed or felt right? Where even the man she had waited for for two months seemed completely different.