The three walked in silence, the lapping of waves and the occasional plashing of oars their only real companion.
Posie had the sensation that she might be experiencing the real Venice for the first time, stripped away of tourists and gilt and glamour, peeled back to its messy, archaic disorder. She didn’t know which Venice she liked the best. But at least it made her forget the awful picture now which kept flooding her mind over and over: Silvia in that room, trapped. Alaric trying to reach her, in vain…
They came out onto a bridge. ‘The San Lorenzo Canal,’ Salvarocca muttered. He pointed at a large unspectacular building, rising squatly over several floors on the other side of the canal, a dim lantern swinging over its door with the words ‘QUESTURA – PROVINCIA DI VENEZIA’ picked out in an arch of black metal.
‘This is the main police headquarters. Welcome, but watch your step. The tide is very high tonight. Unusually so.’
Several police boats were moored up outside the Questura, and sodden duckboards covered the path leading to the main steps. They went through a dark-olive reception room on the first floor, with framed photographs of Mussolini and glittering awards mounted around the walls. Junior policemen, similarly glittering, melted away in Salvarocca’s wake.
‘We’re here to see Lucy, then, sir?’
‘Among other things.’
They ended up in what was obviously the Commissario’s office. There was just one tiny window in an otherwise plain grey wall and it was open, letting in the high-tide smells. Salvarocca threw down his briefcase and cast off his flamboyant cap, fishing around for a packet of cigarettes in a desk drawer. He offered them around and Lovelace took one. They all sat in smoky silence for a few minutes.
‘All my men are out and about,’ said the Chief of Police at last. ‘They have instructions to track down Corsetti, and also to bring in Roger Valentine. I’ve had the devil of a time keeping the press from reporting it all. But the story about Bella’s murder finally broke tonight, and I guess it will be in London’s papers tomorrow. I think the story about Silvia Hanro can be held at bay for now. London won’t know for several days…’
Posie nodded. London felt very far away right now. ‘You believe Roger Valentine is your man for Bella’s murder, Commissario?’
‘I’m not certain, but he ran from us, didn’t he? I’m imagining he had a falling out with the Countess, tried to blackmail her, it failed, and it resulted in this.’
‘It seems extreme, sir. But I agree about him being an expert at blackmailing.’ And she reported the maid overhearing the argument from Roger Valentine’s room the night before, and the scuffle or fight which had taken place inside it.
Lovelace raised an eyebrow. ‘The man is unstoppable! But what was he going to show?’
‘It seems there were two things at stake, sir.’
‘I agree. And this thing about the reel – that’s very interesting.’ Lovelace scrabbled for a bit in his own attaché case, bringing out a small waxy exhibit envelope. He shook it on the table carefully and a thin sliver of shiny black ribbon emerged.
‘Salvo’s already seen this. It’s pretty much the only evidence we got out of Valentine’s grate – the rest were handwritten notes, a burnt green folio, and newspaper pages – but they’ve all flaked up badly and are completely unreadable. Valentine had torched it all before doing a runner. Go on, Posie. Have a good look.’
The black shiny strip was about eight inches long, but only about half an inch wide. It was singed badly around the edges. Pulling it closer Posie saw it had been a photograph, a high-quality one. One such as the press would use when setting their copy. Posie was familiar with such photos from using the archives at newspaper offices. The heading beneath the picture was just a burnt fragment. She could make out:
‘…HEAR THE VERD…’
The picture which remained didn’t show anything much. Perhaps some wooden railings? And the suggestions of people above them: hands and shirts and a puffy light blouse with a cameo badge and a long spindly plait…
‘I can’t make anything out, sir. It was obviously a crowd photo, but with the heads and identities burnt off we’re nowhere near being able to identify who these people were.’
She turned the slip of paper over and saw the remnants of a name, ‘Charlton’.
‘The photographer, sir?’
Lovelace nodded. ‘I’ve telephoned London already, I got Rainbird to sniff it out for me, but without much success. The studio of Ernest Charlton and Sons, based on the Strand, was a good one, but it went out of business the year after the war ended, as all of the photographers had been killed off. The studio and its contents were sold as a job lot at auction: the chances of finding a negative or a print identical to this one must be impossible. The Charltons were jobbing photographers: they’d take their shots and hawk them around the various newspapers until they made a sale. I’d bet money that this is the “reel” Roger Valentine was talking about. But what does it show? And who was he threatening? I don’t know where to start. We don’t even know the year of this print!’
Posie scowled in concentration. ‘It was before the war, sir. Look at that cameo, people haven’t worn those in years. And those sleeves! Who on earth had material sufficient for those beauties in the war, or just after? And this woman has her hair in a plait, so it’s before 1914. Can I keep it for now, sir?’
Watching the Inspector nod bleakly, at a complete loss, Posie was suddenly reminded of other calls made to London that very morning, by a now-dead woman. Of new leads which she should have passed on…
‘I’m very sorry, sir. I have new information. Only I forgot to share it in all the excitement of hearing about…about Silvia…’
Lovelace cleared his throat lustily. ‘Never mind Silvia Hanro for now, or your swine of a boyfriend, Posie. And have no fear: my loyalty is of course to you in all this mess. If you don’t want me to speak to Alaric, or to intervene, I won’t. Even though he paid for my ticket out here.’
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’
‘Go on then, we’d better hear the worst.’
And Posie reported, as she should have done earlier, the overheard conversations: the strange story Rita had told her about Minnie Alladice blackmailing Giancarlo in the Church of San Trovaso, and then Mrs Persimmon’s eavesdropping on Bella Alladice and her two telephone calls to London.
The Commissario frowned at the end of the report and stared at Lovelace, who was looking unsettled. ‘Richard, do you know what this “registrar” or “register” is all about?’
‘No. And neither do I know why Bella Alladice wanted to speak to a Scotland Yard Inspector. She wanted to report a murder, you say?’
They were all at a dead end. Rising, the Commissario produced the silver hip-flask which had been found in the toilet cistern by Max, and which really belonged to Lucy.
‘Take this flask, Miss Parker,’ he said firmly. ‘Show Miss Christie. Tell her we know there are two identical hip-flasks; this is her flask, which never contained poison. Tell her she’s not a suspect anymore. See if she has any information which may be useful. We desperately need a break here. You can do the interview alone. Ask what you like.’
‘Fine.’
Posie was more certain than ever now that Lucy was still central to this whole dreadful affair, but how or why escaped her. She ran through possible questions she could ask the girl as she was led along another winding corridor, and past a row of cells which were mere cubicles with thin partition walls.
The two Inspectors hung back as a young policeman took over, jangling a huge ring of keys.
‘Good luck,’ said the Commissario. ‘We’ll be listening at the door.’
‘No pressure to get things right, then,’ Posie muttered darkly to herself.
****
Twenty-Three
It could have been a tiny hotel room.
There was a bowl of fruit, some chocolate, even a pile of books. Candles burned around the place, softening the harsh elec
tric bar of light in the corridor outside. Soft woollen rugs were spread over the hard wooden bench. Only the smallness of the place, and a bucket in the corner, and the stink of institutional bleach, and the scent of fear – which could never be eradicated somehow in police cells like these – indicated the real purpose of the place.
Posie remembered how Lovelace had said that Salvo Salvarocca could never treat someone badly. It seemed he was right.
‘You’ve come!’
Lucy looked up in surprise. She was smoking a black and silver cigarette and she put it down immediately.
Posie sat at a spare wooden chair. She got Lucy’s silver flask out immediately and waved it in the air, watching Lucy Christie’s wide-eyed shock.
‘What are you doing, Posie?’
‘We know who you are, Lucy. Or Alicia, should I say? We also know this is your hip-flask, identical to Bella’s. And I’m guessing that Johnny Alladice gave them to each of you, didn’t he? Johnny Alladice, your lost love: the boy who didn’t propose, but who blew apart his own sister’s damning testimony against you at the Gattling Appeal, setting you free. Your guardian angel. Not many of us are lucky enough to have one of those.’
Lucy gasped aloud. ‘How do you know all of this?’
‘Don’t worry. The Alladice circle of secrecy hasn’t broken ranks. It was Inspector Lovelace. He recognised you. You wouldn’t admit in public who you really were, would you? You wouldn’t bring out this flask, either, for fear of revealing your identity. Even though you could have hung for the murder of Bella Alladice, despite being innocent. It’s almost funny, but your true identity has saved you.’
‘You believe in my innocence?’ The girl sounded amazed. She picked up her still-smouldering cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing a smoke-ring at the ceiling.
‘I do. But God knows, I wouldn’t have blamed you for murdering Bella Alladice. She treated you so shabbily, for years.’
‘What do you mean?’
Posie stared. Was this girl some kind of an innocent? Lucy had been badly payed, badly clothed, and spoken to insufferably for six years, all so that Bella Alladice could inflict some bizarre act of petty revenge on Lucy, almost illegally: in direct contravention of her late brothers’ wishes. But Posie didn’t focus on any of that now.
‘Why, she testified against you at Robert Gattling’s murder trial!’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that. She could very well have had you hung for a crime you didn’t commit. She was pure evil.’
Lucy was shaking her head. ‘No, Posie. There you are wrong. It was very difficult, I’ll admit, especially afterwards of course, as Johnny and Bella never really spoke again after he got her statement about me thrown out at the appeal, but what you have to understand is that Bella Alladice was a woman of firm principles. If she truly believed in something, she stuck to her guns.’
Posie didn’t bother to reply. It was too, too ridiculous.
Lucy continued: ‘Actually, she apologised to me in the year following the trial. She said she had seen me loitering at the table at that Spring Ball. Which was true. I had been alone there for a couple of minutes, killing time. I hated events like that and I was longing for it to be over. And Bella really, honestly believed I had poisoned Robert. It was a terrible situation for her to be in. You know that Robert had thrown her over when he got bored of her? Poor Bella, she was deeply in love with him.’
‘Mnnn. That red ring…’
‘She paid Robert’s parents a vast sum for it.’ Lucy shrugged uneasily. ‘But if it made her happy…’
‘But what about your happiness? That murder trial ruined you. Why else would you stick with the Alladice family through thick and thin?’
Lucy hesitated. ‘Your Inspector remembered my face today, years and years later. Imagine what it was like for me in the immediate aftermath! My reputation was gone. I had press men following my every step. I wanted to die, so Johnny hid me and kept me housed in a flat far away, up in Edinburgh, a beautiful little place. He arranged for me to change my name, to something very English, and I chose it at random from a newspaper one day. He paid my mother’s nursing home fees, too. Nothing was too much trouble for him. The two things he didn’t do were make an honest woman of me, and provide for me after his death. But no matter: I loved him anyway. And you’re wrong that it was the murder trial which ruined me. It was Johnny’s death in 1917 which did that.’
The girl’s fingers shook as she stubbed out her cigarette. She automatically lit another, and offered the packet at her elbow to Posie, who shook her head. Lucy stared past Posie, years away in time and place. When she spoke it was a low whisper.
‘I wanted to die again then. I closed up the flat in Edinburgh where I had lived for five whole years and I trained as a nurse. I was sent out to the Western Front, only it was so horrific that my nerves didn’t last, and I came back, tail between my legs. I was at rock-bottom, with no money of my own and no provision made for me by Johnny. It was then that Bella offered to look after me, said that I could be her companion. She told me that it would only be a matter of months until we would all move abroad, to America most likely, which suited me fine. I leapt at the chance to get away from home. Her father was already in talks with suitors for Bella’s hand in marriage; it looked very likely that we would end up in Chicago or New York, but suitors fell through time and again, for years, until Giancarlo presented himself through a newspaper advertisement. Venice was a promise of release. No-one knew me, or the history of the case out here. I thought I would be free. It was an escape.’
Posie chewed at her lip. A horrible thought struck her. ‘Have you ever seen or read Johnny’s Will, Lucy?’
‘No. I thought it must be a very official document, all about the company shares. Those shares were nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t want them, either: they’re unlucky. Did you know that Minnie Alladice once had a great shareholding in that company, too? It didn’t do her much good, did it?’
‘No. I didn’t know that. But I strongly advise you to read the Will, Lucy.’
It wasn’t her place now to explain about Johnny’s wishes, but Posie explained succinctly about going to Somerset House. ‘I think you’ll find it life-changing. The Will does cover company shares, by the way. Johnny wanted to leave them to you, not to either of his siblings, because he hated them. But his hand was forced.’
Lucy was looking at Posie with narrowed eyes. ‘I see. I should perhaps make a trip back to London then, if you think it is so important. If I am free to go.’
Posie changed tack. ‘Tell me, I can understand why Johnny hated his sister, but what was the problem with Dickie? Bella told me the two brothers had a spat about business? But I’m learning that so much of what she said concealed the truth.’
Lucy laughed mirthlessly. ‘They all hated each other in the end, because of the trial. Do you know, Dickie actually believed that it was Johnny who administered the poison to Robert Gattling, so that we would be free to marry? Dickie accused him of it, and it was jolly awkward. Dickie’s normally such a closed book: a clever, polite, sociable closed book. A successful closed book.’
‘So that’s why the brothers fell out?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
A silence fell. ‘You said that you were getting away from those who stalked you out here in Venice. But that’s not quite true, is it? Someone found out who you were.’
‘Roger?’
‘He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?’
Lucy raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed. Mind you, you saw me, didn’t you? Last night, going into his room. I was dropping off his latest payment. His last payment.’
‘You didn’t argue with him last night? Fight?’
‘Of course not! I put the cheque on his desk and walked straight out.’
Posie stayed silent. She believed the girl.
Lucy sighed. ‘It was dreadful, but we never had a fight about it, not in more than a year. What made it worse was that Roger didn’t cash the
money orders: he threatened to do so, all in one go, on several occasions. I think he liked the power he had over me, although I paid him a cheque every month, rather than sleep with him, which was the other alternative. He’s a horrible man. He must have overheard Bella or Dickie or Minnie talking about the Gattling case when he first joined us last year, because next thing I knew he’d got a whole big green folio of newspaper cuttings about the trial. He’s excellent at research, I’ll give him that. He claims to be in contact with some of the best journalists in England; said that he could tell them where I was and give them details as to my “new” identity.’
‘That was cruel.’
‘That’s the sort of man he is. As I said, invaluable when it comes to research. But the blackmail was beginning to break me. I’d had enough. I told Dickie about it a couple of days ago. I didn’t know what else to do. Dickie was shocked, and said he’d deal with it.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes. He sacked Roger.’
Suddenly Posie understood the comment Dickie had muttered to Lucy at the Café Florian. ‘Don’t worry, darling, it will be all right now, you’ll see. Not long to go. Hold your nerve.’
‘Dickie has the power to do that? But Roger was Bella’s secretary, surely?’
Lucy laughed bitterly. ‘I couldn’t have asked Bella to get rid of Roger: he did too good a job. She’d have chosen him over me, every time. I was under no illusion that Bella actually liked me; I was just a plaything to stoke an ego trip, really. But Roger is the Company Secretary, too, and ultimately his pay packet comes from Alladice Holdings. Dickie signs it off. And Dickie has the power to sack him.’
Something Posie had just heard didn’t quite ring true. She struggled momentarily with the anomaly, but carried on regardless: ‘Well, now Roger’s left in a dashed hurry. He’s a wanted man.’
Murder in Venice Page 19
