Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  ‘Valentina?’

  He jerked his chin at one of the water-sipping pencils. ‘Senora Bassano de Guisti. A friend of the Marchese. And his wife, of course. And a second cousin to me and to poor Katy.’

  I looked again, more closely. Wasn’t she the woman I’d seen crossing a square in Venice with a bejewelled Bichon Frise on a lead? Even if not, she was certainly a clone of the other three, who had clumped together, eyeing the company through heavy black false eyelashes and making no attempt to express any kind of sentiment whatsoever. In case, I presumed, the maquillage splintered. Two of them had high-heeled ankle boots, another wore black suede boots which came up over her knees and a crotch-skimming black dress. Very suitable attire for a solemn occasion like this.

  ‘She and Katy were very friendly,’ Fabio continued. ‘Being so close in age.’

  So close? In Valentina’s dreams, I thought. There must have been a good fifteen years’ difference between the two.

  I could see the Marchesa staring at me and frowning. I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t felt that she’d taken to me when I’d met her in Venice, but she looked like the sort of person who didn’t take to anybody much, including the Marchese. ‘When you say Valentina came in unexpectedly when you were attending Sandro’s dinner party, what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘We were having champagne before we sat down at the table to eat, and she appeared at the door of the salone. She seemed astonished to see us there. As we were to see her. Naturally Sandro offered her a glass but she refused it, said she was so sorry, she had not realized anyone was there and had only come to pick up a pair of gloves she had left behind the last time she had visited Allegra.’

  ‘Who is her aunt, right?’

  ‘Or her cousin. I’m never quite sure of the relationships among those noble families.’

  ‘But you yourself were Katy’s cousin, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but on my mother’s side.’ To my dismay, his eyes filled. ‘I was so very upset to hear of her death. It seemed so unnecessary. So cruel. But then, signorina, the world is a cruel place, non è vero?’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  Jack or Harry Jago appeared beside us. He took my hand, from which I deduced he was the other twin since the last time I’d met his brother, delivering vegetable boxes from Eating Naturally, he’d been pretty unfriendly. ‘Nice to see you again, despite everything,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ I said.

  Someone discreetly tapped a glass and we fell silent. Short tributes were paid from various members of the company. Katy’s father spoke briefly, thanking us all for coming. He held a white handkerchief in a hand that trembled. Poor man.

  ‘We are, and shall always be, devastated at the loss of our beautiful daughter,’ he said. ‘I should like to be able to say that we have nothing but pity in our hearts for the person responsible, but it wouldn’t be true. Nobody has the right to deprive another of his or her life. Especially a life as promising, as vibrant, as Katerina’s was. I cannot believe that that person will find it easy to live with the burden of what they have done, not only to our daughter, but also to her family.’ He glanced around at us all. ‘Thank you again for coming to say goodbye to her.’

  His eyes filled and without embarrassment he lifted the white handkerchief to blot them dry. Most people were in tears. I saw the one called Valentina detach herself from her coven and run over to hug him, and then his wife. All three of them stood in a small circle, heads bowed. It was very moving.

  I stood alone beside a rather beautiful fruitwood credenza – if that was the right word for it – and surveyed the room. I was pretty certain that among the assembled people there was at least one thief and one murderer. They might even be one and the same person and I really wished I could pinpoint whoever it was, but none of the sorrowful faces indicated criminality. It’s perfectly possible to compartmentalize one’s feelings, of course. The murderer might be genuinely anguished at the death of Katy Pasqualin, which wouldn’t make him or her any less or more guilty. The thief might feel no shame at standing in the same room as the person from whom she or he had lifted the Marchese’s possessions.

  Would we ever find the answer? It seemed to me that the person or people responsible had been remarkably lucky not to have been identified by now. I hated to think of Katy’s final moments as someone she trusted – and maybe loved – had come into the bathroom and, as she turned to smile or make some innocuous remark, had simply pushed her under. Moments of startled disbelief would have been followed by a frantic struggle, followed by desperately diminishing awareness and, finally, by blank darkness. What would you think of in those last minutes? Almost certainly not of anything but the impossibility of what was happening to you.

  I shuddered.

  When the gathering began to disperse, I said goodbye to those I had been talking to. Outside, the expensive Chelsea air was brisk but still warm as I turned towards the nearest Tube station. Something caught my eye as I walked: a flash, a shine. Someone was coming towards me, and it was only after I’d gone by that I realized I’d just passed – was it possible? – the bald man of Venice.

  ‘Please,’ I said aloud. ‘Don’t tell me that it’s someone else, or that this is a tremendous coincidence or anything ridiculous of that sort.’ Nobody did.

  I turned. He continued to walk unhurriedly away from me, before he turned the corner into a side street. I started to run, then stopped, removed my shoes and took to my stockinged feet. But by the time I’d reached the corner, he was gone. What was he doing there? The logical answer was that he was waiting for someone who had attended the Graingers’ little assembly. But who? Any one of the Italians who were there, obviously. But why not use the phone or text or email? Why would he have flown to England? Could he possibly be the person who’d killed Katy? Even if he was, why would he have been hanging around outside the Graingers’ place?

  I lurked for a bit, for nearly forty minutes, in the hope that he would return. But he didn’t, and in the end I took the Underground to my station and travelled back home to Longbury.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘I simply don’t know what to do,’ I said. With much squirming embarrassment, I’d confessed to the loss of the Tiepolo drawing. My distress was clear enough for the Major to twist his moustaches about then lay a hand on my arm.

  ‘It’s really of no consequence,’ he said. ‘Glad to get rid of the dratted things, if you want to know the truth.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure I know who they legally belong to. If only I knew who’d pinched them.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘Several. But that’s just speculation on my part. I’ve got no proof.’ I reached for another of his peanut butter cookies and mumbled, half of it in my mouth before it collapsed in crumbs all over the Major’s carpet.

  ‘Did you ever find the place that woman said she’d bought the drawings?’

  ‘Not really. Though we don’t really believe a word she said, do we?’ I frowned. ‘I wonder how she knew Nell Roscoe had those drawings.’

  ‘The art mistress, the real Mrs Forbes, who Nell travelled with, perhaps?’

  ‘Very possibly. Except she died. Are you sure Mrs Roscoe didn’t give you any other clues as to the place she bought them from?’

  ‘None at all.’ The Major frowned. ‘Thing is, Alex, Nell would hate all this skulduggery. She’d want everything to be above board. She wasn’t into anything dodgy. I really can’t see her taking much notice of some tout pssting at her on a street corner.’

  ‘I agree. On the other hand, if she was with the real Philippa Forbes, the art teacher might have thought the drawings were worth at least a second look, dodgy or not. I can quite easily imagine that. And Nell ended up buying them because she liked them, not because she thought they had any particular value.’

  ‘Yes. That’s plausible.’

  ‘And then, when they got back to their hotel or home to England, the art teacher takes a closer look at them and says, “Hang about, Nell, I
think these are worth a bob or two and you should have them authenticated.”’

  ‘And before she could do anything about it, the poor old girl starts getting really unwell, and stashes them behind Mrs Forbes’ oil painting until she can decide what to do with them, goes off to the hospital and never comes home again. Doesn’t bear thinking about really.’ The Major reached for another cookie. ‘I wonder why she didn’t tell me when I visited her in hospital.’

  ‘She probably forgot. After all, she had a lot more on her mind by then than a couple of nice little drawings which she’d bought as a holiday souvenir.’

  ‘Tell you what …’ The Major smoothed his moustaches and frowned. ‘We still don’t know how that woman – you know who I mean – cottoned on to the fact that Nell had them in the first place?’

  ‘We’d have to find out who she really is, and then trace her connection to Nell, if there is one.’ I mused a bit. ‘Could she have been a nurse at the hospital where poor Mrs Roscoe died? Or a friend of Mrs Forbes, who heard about them from her?’

  ‘She had to be someone who knew either Nell or the art teacher,’ agreed the Major. ‘Stands to reason.’

  ‘What do we know about the real Mrs Forbes?’

  ‘Very little. She was like Nell Roscoe, not married and no children. There might have been a niece—’

  ‘Which would imply a sibling,’ I said. ‘Who might have heard about the two sketches and shown up here on the off-chance and decided to try her luck.’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ the Major said faintly. ‘It’s sad that both ladies are no longer with us. And frustrating, too.’

  ‘But Nell must have told someone about them.’

  ‘Who passed the information on, unwittingly or otherwise.’ His expression brightened. ‘When you think about it, it would almost have to be someone connected in some way to the girls’ high school. Nell didn’t have much of a social life, apart from her school interests. She might have taken them in when term started again after her holiday …’

  ‘And when Nell died, your – ahem! – friend might have remembered hearing about them and thought that with Nell no longer on the scene—’

  ‘They would make a nice little supplement to her income—’

  ‘Not so little. Did you contact the school again?’

  ‘I did indeed. And it looks like you might be right about Curlilocks, the maths teacher. When I described the woman, they came up with a name immediately. Thing is, the lady retired a year ago and didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

  ‘Suspicious in itself if you ask me.’ I thought of Joey Preston, private dick. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to trace her. Meanwhile, I’ll just have to try and get the missing sketch back from whoever pinched it out of my bag. I’m not sure how, though.’

  ‘And meanwhile, you could return the one you still have to its rightful owner,’ the Major said hopefully. ‘Since you think you know who that is?’

  What was the best way to do that? I pondered the question all the way back to my flat. Then telephoned Sandro. ‘Any idea when your uncle Cesare will next be in London?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s coming over four days from now.’

  ‘So that would be next Thursday?’

  ‘Yes. He’ll be staying at the Connaught, I imagine, since that’s what he usually does.’

  ‘Not with your mother?’

  ‘Um … no. It’s sometimes … erm … easier for him to conduct his … er … business meetings in a hotel than in a private house.’

  And, I thought, to engage in a little extra-curricular business on the side, should he so wish. ‘I can quite understand that,’ I said.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘I just wondered.’ It sounded a deeply implausible thing for me to be wondering about, but Sandro said nothing more.

  I put a call through to the Connaught and checked that yes, the Marchese Cesare de Peron was indeed expected sometime soon but that they could give me no further particulars, nor would they, if they could, since it wasn’t hotel policy to divulge details concerning their guests, past, present or future.

  ‘And quite right too,’ I said heartily. ‘Carry on the good work.’ I switched off.

  All I had to do now was to ensure that I was at the Connaught in four days’ time, would hand over the Tiepolo and explain the circumstances of how it fell into my hands. I decided not to mention that there had once been two sketches and not just one. I couldn’t see how I would ever trace the ostensible drunk who’d clearly pickpocketed me in the Fox and Hounds. I would alert Sandro, once I’d returned the remaining drawing.

  Four days later, I was at the Connaught bright and early. I figured Cesare would have got in late the night before, or even scheduled a business arrangement of some kind. But at eight o’clock in the morning, he should still be in his room.

  A busload of Asian tourists fortuitously drew up and out they clambered, clad in black raincoats and weird little hats, and poured into the hotel. I poured in behind them then strayed towards the lifts and took one to the fifth floor. I’d taken the precaution the night before of calling Maddalena and extracting some info about her brother’s whereabouts. I knew she would humour me – after all, I had more or less rescued her boy for her and indirectly saved her and Dominic a shitload of money.

  On the fifth floor I stepped out of the lift and turned right, then left, then right again. I knocked on the door of Cesare’s room, and after a moment, he shouted, ‘Come in!’ So I did.

  His back to me, he was sitting in his dressing gown at a fancy desk set into the window recess, his computer open in front of him. There were trees outside the window, with sparrows hopping about in their branches.

  ‘Just put it on the table,’ he said, without turning round, obviously assuming that I was room service.

  A woman lay on her elbow in the big double bed. Wordlessly, I stared at her. Wordlessly, she stared back. A grey satin nightdress strap had edged down one shoulder in an enticing manner. And I’m here to tell you that at that time of the day, she appeared a lot older than she’d looked the other times I’d seen her, tit-tupping across the Venetian cobbles or at the remembrance gathering for Katy Pasqualin.

  Valentina Bassano de Giusti. I’m not a fortune-teller but, if I were, I’d predict that her days as Cesare’s – anybody’s – mistress were definitely numbered. I just hoped she’d managed to stash away a nice little nest egg for her ‘retirement’. And then it struck me. As the Marchesa’s cousin or niece, she was the woman who had keys to Cesare’s apartment, which meant she could come and go as she pleased. And indeed did so. Had she added to her retirement fund by nicking small, portable items belonging to the Marchese whenever she could, before flogging them off at a fraction of their worth? Had she been observed committing one theft or another by Katy Pasqualin? I remembered, too, that I’d seen this woman emerging from the former Palazzo Vendramin-Calergi, otherwise known as the Casinò de Venezia, and seemingly on friendly terms with the personnel inside. Was she one of those women who slinked up and down the gambling rooms in backless sequins, to attract and entice would-be players of blackjack or roulette? Almost certainly not. Although I’d never been inside, I’d heard that the casino was very small and often under-occupied. So unless she worked there in some other capacity, the probability was high that she went there to gamble.

  And she was a woman who was purported to be extremely friendly with Katy Pasqualin – in fact, she was Katy’s cousin or aunt, certainly a woman in front of whom Katy would have had no problem in taking time to strip off her work clothes and get into a bath in order to wash away the day’s grime before going out on the town. Perhaps a woman who was already being blackmailed by Katy, or frightened that it was only a matter of time before she was.

  On the other hand, would you remain close friends with someone who was blackmailing you, bleeding you dry for whatever reason? I don’t think I would. Unless I already had murder in mind.

  I’d have to gi
ve the situation some thought. Meanwhile, I judged it best to retreat from the Marchese’s bedroom before he turned round and discovered that I had not come bearing coffee and biscuits but was an intruder. So I left. But not before I’d scoped out the expensive leather bag on the coffee table – the really expensive must-have leather bag – and the small travelling bag beside it. Why couldn’t I afford such luxuries? Well, partly because however meagre it was, I preferred my way of earning my living to Valentina Bassano de Giusti’s. And because, let’s face it, nobody in their right mind was going to pay through the nose for the exclusive use of my body. As I quietly pulled the bedroom door to behind me, I smiled to think of the Marchese expecting a cup of fresh coffee. And then wondering who it was that had come into the room and then so abruptly left it. Well, I thought, as I walked along the passage to the lift, Valentina could explain it.

  Once back downstairs in the lobby, I asked if I could telephone upstairs and tell my good friend the Marchese de Farnese that I was here. They dialled the number for me and when Cesare answered, I explained that I urgently needed to speak to him, that it wouldn’t take long and that I was waiting downstairs.

  ‘I am not dressed,’ he said crossly.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of receiving people in my dressing gown.’ His voice was arctic.

  There was a pause. Finally, although I don’t like reminding people of good turns I’ve done them, but remembering the huge pile of cash I’d recently saved him from having to fork out for Sandro’s release, I said quietly, ‘I think you owe me a favour. Besides, the favour is for you, not for me.’

  Another pause. Then he said, ‘Very well. I will come down. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.’

  Eleven minutes later, he was crossing the shiny floor to where I sat on an upholstered chair, leafing through a magazine full of stuff I couldn’t afford nor had any use for: designer coats, designer watches, jewellery, perfumes, shoes. A different world.

  I extended my hand to him. ‘Ciao, Cesare,’ I said, as he bowed over my fingers and sat down. ‘I wanted to return this to you.’ I offered the envelope containing one of the two Tiepolo drawings.