by Susan Moody
As was usual at this kind of dinner party, he and I established each other’s credentials, found mutual acquaintances in the art scene, exchanged anecdotes and information designed to demonstrate how well we fit into and even shared the same setting. He spoke unaccented and almost flawless English, suggesting a sojourn at some high-class English educational institution. The general dining-table conversation covered the threat of so-called Isis, climate change, the EU referendum in England and Donald Trump. Most of the company was firmly for staying in the EU. Our collective opinion of Trump was unanimous.
I’d never understood exactly what beetling brows were until that evening. Renzo’s large black ones looked like two hairy insects pulling in opposite directions to get as far away from each other as possible. He turned them on me, having momentarily concentrated on the wine just poured into his glass (the third one, the first two having been removed after being used for earlier wines) by efficient staff. I watched him, thinking that everybody was well aware that the English did not on the whole know much about wine, but that on the other hand, the previous stuff produced during the meal had been pretty damn good. He took a small sip of the new offering, swilled it about a bit and then swallowed it before nodding appreciatively.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Alexandra Quick … Where do we go from here?’
One of those questions it’s impossible to answer, so I didn’t try.
‘I have read articles by you, have I not?’
‘You may well have done – probably have,’ I said. ‘If, that is, you subscribe to some of the better-quality art journals.’ Why be modest when boasting might get you somewhere?
‘Ah!’ He smote his forehead theatrically. ‘Yes, it comes back to me. Ripe for the Picking.’
‘That’s right.’ He referred to a compilation of text and paintings depicting fruit and vegetables which I had put together with my former friend and esteemed colleague, Dr Helena Drummond. I wished her persona did not so often rise from the grave to consort with me. It was bad enough that she was dead without having her doing the Banquo’s ghost thing at unforeseen moments. Though perhaps I should have expected it, given that I continued to work in the same field as the two of us had done so happily together before she was murdered.
‘Yes, very enjoyable,’ Renzo said. ‘A splendid concept, if I may say so. Bringing art to the masses. I have myself bought a couple of your books as gifts for my dear mamma. So tell me what other irons you currently have in the fire.’
‘I’ve been working on a new compilation,’ I said. ‘Eat, Drink and Be Merry. And I’ve been commissioned by Nirvana magazine to write some pieces on Venetian painters, past and present.’
‘How very interesting. For which I would be willing to wager that you’ll be paid peanuts, no expenses included.’
I laughed. ‘You obviously know the market.’
The eyebrows did their beetle thing again. ‘And when would you be travelling to Italy?’
‘I haven’t quite decided. Fairly soon, though.’
He began discreetly to slap at his person until he brought out a wallet of leather so fine you could have spread it on toast and had it for breakfast. He extracted an engraved card and handed it to me. ‘Please keep in touch, Alexandra. I shall be in Venice soon myself, and would be delighted to take you out for dinner. I might even have an interesting proposition to make to you.’ He flashed that smile at me and I could feel myself wanting to slaver, though I managed to hold it back.
‘That would be wond— good,’ I said, remembering to sound businesslike rather than slobberingly grateful.
‘Also, I maintain an apartment on the Grand Canal, a particularly interesting apartment in that it contains a stanza segreto, a secret room.’
‘Like in Pompeii, do you mean? Full of esoteric paintings?’
‘I’m afraid mine is more ordinary than that. But interesting, nonetheless. A room of glass. Well worth a visit, especially for an art lover such as yourself.’
‘I’d love to see it.’ I meant it. ‘Glass … do you mean mosaics? Mirrors?’
‘It is lined in glass fashioned by a famous Murano glass worker of the seventeenth century and judged by those who have seen it to be one of the finest hidden treasures in Venice.’ He sighed. ‘So much of my beautiful birthplace is, thank God, unknown to the outside world. Unseen by the tourists who are without any concept of art or beauty, afflicting our city like a plague of cockroaches and making our lives a misery.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’
‘Probably.’ He smiled his ineffable smile.
‘Why else would they be coming to Venice if not to admire and appreciate?’
‘You have a point. And of course they bring revenue to the place, though given the rampant corruption among our leaders, not enough of it gets spent on the necessary substructures that any city needs, especially one like ours which is slowly sinking beneath the waves, however hard we try to stop it.’
This seemed a good time to change the subject. Make an enquiry or two on the Major’s behalf, though by now he might well have taken Mrs Roscoe’s putative Tiepolos up to be examined and assessed by experts. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘How many of those Pulcinella drawings did Tiepolo produce? I can never remember whether it’s one hundred and three, or one hundred and four.’
‘Nobody is absolutely certain,’ Renzo said. ‘Some say one thing, some say another. And of course, there has always been talk surrounding them, suggestions that there may well be others which were lost or stolen over the years.’
‘I’m fascinated to hear you say that.’
‘And why would that be?’
I tried desperately to keep my mouth shut but didn’t succeed. I told myself later that it wasn’t really my fault; if it came down to a face-off between the eyebrows and me, they were going to win every time. ‘Because someone I know has just inherited what appear to be two original sketches.’
‘Are you serious?’ He shifted in his chair to look directly at me.
‘Absolutely.’
‘But this is astounding. You have actually seen them?’
‘Yes. He called me in for my opinion.’
‘And what was it, your opinion?’
‘That they are indeed genuine Tiepolos. Giambattista that is, not his father or brother.’
He nonchalantly broke a water biscuit in half. Did I just imagine it, or did I detect a hint of the rancid odour of a hunting predator? His nails were cut short and matt varnished. ‘And how would an ordinary mortal such as myself get a glance at these possible works of art?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’ Too late, I remembered this man was an art dealer and therefore likely to be someone with an eagle eye to the main chance. ‘After all, they don’t belong to me, and I shouldn’t really have mentioned them to you.’
One of his hairy fingers gently touched the back of my hand. ‘You can rely on me not to break your confidence,’ he said.
Like hell I can, I thought. ‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘It was really most imprudent of me to mention them.’
‘Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. In my business, absolute discretion is vital.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Blame your brother’s excellent wine for unlocking your own professional caution.’ Tipping his glass to his mouth, he said softly, ‘To Tiepolo!’
It was about time to turn, in the traditional manner, to the people on our other sides. Before I could do so, he added, ‘In Italy, we would describe the colour of your hair as Titian-red. It was the colour Tiepolo preferred on his models in so much of his work.’
My turn to smile. ‘So I’ve often been told.’ We looked each other directly in the eye. Exchanged beams of mutual admiration. Adopted expressions intimating fruitful further discussions in the not-too-distant future. Clearly indicated that neither of us was a pushover.
I turned to my other neighbour and shifted slightly. He was called Jock McSomething, a long-time friend of my brother’s whom I’d first met years ago when Herry was up at Camb
ridge. ‘I thought you emigrated to Australia,’ I said.
‘I did.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Love,’ he said.
I remembered belatedly that he was a Scot and, in keeping with his heritage, a man of few words. Most of them dour. ‘Here? Or there?’
‘There.’
‘Unrequited?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘What are you doing now?’ There were probably three too many superfluous words in the sentence.
‘Farming.’
‘What sort?’
‘Dairy.’
‘Right.’
There wasn’t a huge amount to say after that.
Renzo caught up with me later as the party began to break up. ‘May I know when you are likely to be in Venice?’ he asked.
‘As I said, fairly soon.’
‘The point is, Alexandra, as I said, I maintain an apartment in Venice – a legitimate business expense, of course – and I would be honoured if you would care to take advantage of it.’
‘How very kind of you,’ I said. I can do gracious, if pressed. Not that I felt pressed here. Quite the opposite. And after my minimal conversation with Jock McSomething, my vocal chords were grateful for an airing.
‘If you let me know, I can alert the staff,’ he said. ‘And I would be particularly happy were our visits to coincide.’
‘How kind.’ I didn’t bother to offer payment. However firmly I proposed, I could guarantee that there was no way this guy would allow me to pay for my accommodation, though he was quite likely to expect some kind of payback in return.
He seized my hand, bent slightly and raised it to his lips. ‘Arrivederci, Miss Quick. I look forward with impatience to our next meeting.’
‘Well!’ Hereward said later that evening, after the last guests had gone. He, Lena and I sat with our shoes kicked off and tiny glasses of Grand Marnier in our hands.
‘Well what?’ I raised my eyebrows as nonchalantly as I could, knowing exactly what he was talking about. Brothers, eh?
‘You and Renzo Vitali. The two of you appeared to be getting along like a house on fire.’
‘He seems like a nice guy.’
‘He’s a lot more than that. Belongs to one of the wealthiest families in Italy. Is a renowned expert on a number of matters.’
‘Recently widowed; three children,’ added my sister-in-law.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I asked.
‘Just saying.’
‘You could do a lot worse,’ Hereward pronounced, looking judicious.
‘What in the name of fortune do you mean?’ I spoke a trifle belligerently.
‘Fortune is just about the word.’
‘You’re not by any chance trying to pair the two of us up, are you?’
‘A match made in heaven,’ murmured Lena. She rested both hands on her enormous belly.
‘But he only comes up to my knee.’
‘Alexandra, you are always so absurd.’ Lena smiled gently. I distinctly saw a hand or foot pushing at her stomach, like a bird desperate to escape from its maternal nest and be hatched.
‘A delivery in the morning,’ declared my brother. ‘What do you bet, Lena, min älskling?’
‘Absolutely. One hundred per cent certain.’
‘Red? Or white?’
‘White, to start with, I should imagine.’
‘You’re almost certainly correct.’
The two of them sat across from me, cosied up together, looking much-married and unbearably smug. I rose to my feet and said with dignity, ‘I have no idea what the two of you are talking about, but if nobody has any objection, I’m off to bed. Thank you both for a splendid evening.’
They smiled with such insufferable expressions of self-satisfaction that I wanted to smack their heads together. I went into the hall and opened the interior door which led down to the basement flat, shouted, ‘Good night!’ and descended the stairs.
Red what? White what?
I found out the following morning. A giant basket of white roses arrived from the most exclusive florist in Knightsbridge, addressed to Signorina Alexandra Quick. From Renzo, of course.
‘You have them – there’s no way I’m carting that lot down to Longbury,’ I told Lena. OK, I can do gracious if I have to, but I’m a whole lot better at ungracious. ‘What was the silly man thinking?’
‘The silly man was thinking that you’re pretty hot stuff,’ said my brother. ‘Poor deluded idiot. Little does he know.’
‘We could have them sent down to you,’ said Lena. ‘If we hurry, one of the specialist services could even get them to you by this afternoon.’
‘Ridiculous,’ I scoffed. ‘What a waste of time and money.’ But they were beautiful roses, tight-budded, creamy at the base, the petals tipped with pink, the leaves and stems healthily green. I was really reluctant to abandon them. So it was arranged that they’d be sent down to Longbury by some kind of messenger service.
The basket was already standing outside my door when I got back, looking none the worse for wear. I brought them into my flat and dumped them on the table in the kitchen. I’d redistribute them later if I could find enough vases … it seemed a pity to have just one display when I could have several.
The light on the telephone was blinking, indicating a message. It was from Major Horrocks again. ‘Would you believe it? The auctioneers haven’t finished their authentication, but they think they’re genuine,’ he said gloomily. I felt a rush of guilt at my indiscretion the previous evening. ‘Call me and I’ll take you out for lunch to celebrate.’
No need to ask what ‘they’re’ were. I called him back immediately. ‘You don’t sound in a very celebratory mood.’
‘Truth to tell, m’dear, I’m not.’
‘Tell me all about it.’
I felt more and more uncomfortable about having told Renzo Vitali about them. Oh dear. At least I hadn’t said who the owner of the paintings was. And Renzo had assured me of his absolute discretion, which probably didn’t amount to a hill of beans.
Later, I walked along the seafront and turned left into the High Street. I’d arranged to meet the Major at the Fox and Hounds and found him to be more cheerful, but still somewhat depressed. Turned out he was worried about what to do if the drawings were definitively identified as being by the Venetian artist.
‘I keep asking myself what Nell Roscoe would have wanted me to do,’ he said.
‘I think first and foremost, she’d want you to be happy, especially considering that you were good friends for so long, and that you’re now the primary carer for Marlowe.’ I leaned my elbows on the table. ‘What would you like to do? If it works out well, you’ll have enough cash to do anything you wanted, more or less.’
‘A restaurant,’ he said wistfully. ‘Often toyed with the idea, d’you see? Perhaps in France. Checked tablecloths. Candles stuck into wine bottles. Smells of lavender and garlic.’ He looked around him at our fellow lunchers. ‘Or even here, in Longbury. Or a teashop.’
‘Great idea. Or even that cookie company I mentioned the other day. You’re so good with the biscuits and cakes, Major. You’d be able to afford all the equipment and help that you’d need. People would come from miles around for one of your cream teas.’
He smiled. ‘Tell you what … I’ve been thinking I could turn Nell’s house into a small restaurant, use the garden for teas in the summer.’
Hadn’t Sam Willoughby – who so far on his Antipodean adventure hadn’t sent me a single email – mentioned doing something of the sort when he’d finally taken over Edward Vine’s wine shop and expanded Willoughby’s Books? ‘You should get together with Sam Willoughby,’ I said. ‘When he gets back from New Zealand. If.’
‘That’s a good idea. He sent me an email the other day, now that I’ve got a computer. Maybe I could discuss the proposition long-distance with him.’
‘Good thinking,’ I said, as a feverish kind of pumping, green-coloured throb set
itself up somewhere close to my ribs.
I had the definite feeling, as I walked home later, that someone was either watching or following me. It would look too eccentric to keep on whirling round to check behind me, so I sat down every now and then on one of the benches facing the sea and cast a quick eye around. I saw nothing in the least suspicious. A couple of old girls tottering along arm in arm, a young woman pushing a pram with massive thighs clad in unflattering black tights and an almost non-existent skirt, neither of which did her any favours, a man some distance back in an unbecoming beret with a supermarket carrier bag, several little kids on bikes or scooters enjoying the sunshine with their parents. Not exactly threatening. A couple of cyclists went by. A passing dog relieved itself copiously on a fennel plant at the edge of the shingle.
I eyed the man in the beret more closely. If you were trying to be inconspicuous, how easy it would be to carry several hats in a bag and keep changing them. So he could easily dive behind a beach hut and come out the other side as a man in a baseball cap. Or a watch cap. Or a woolly hat with a bobble on top. Add a stick-on moustache or a pair of sunglasses. Or a white stick. Perfect disguise. It would take all of thirty seconds. Nobody would look at him twice.
The man in the beret eventually reached my bench and passed on, trailed by a black-and-white spaniel. A dog was too much of a giveaway, whatever hat its owner was wearing. I was getting paranoid. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that someone, somewhere, was following me. Or watching me. I didn’t much like the feeling, but on the other hand, I don’t generally pay much attention to hunches and presentiments. I carried on to my flat, climbed the stairs instead of taking the lift, and paused outside my front door.
There was that feeling again! I paused with my key in the lock. What was I going to find behind my door? I hesitated. Then thought, Fuck it. Get on with it, Quick. Apart from a body oozing blood all over my precious antique Kashan rug (a wedding present from my grandmamma, Lady Stanhope de Cuik), how bad could it be? Pretty bad, actually. My computer gone, for instance. All the notes for my next publication trashed. Much worse than a body could be.
