by Susan Moody
‘If all her friends are doing the same thing,’ I suggested, ‘maybe she doesn’t want to appear ungenerous.’
‘Or maybe it’s a way of compensating for … for the way her life has turned out.’
I said nothing for a moment, then murmured, ‘She doesn’t strike me as a particularly happy person.’
‘No, my uncle … uh … my uncle …’ He swallowed audibly. ‘He is what my mother would call “difficult”. And he has many … friends.’
‘Of the female persuasion?’ I said.
‘It’s … uh … acceptable over there.’
‘I see. And these are Italian female friends, are they?’
‘Mostly. I know that years ago he … um … got involved with an au pair from Norway or somewhere similar, working for the family of one of his colleagues, who kicked up a fuss and had to be paid off. I think that in Italy, as long as the … um … proprieties are observed, these matters are acceptable.’
‘What about your aunt? Is it acceptable for her to have male friends?’
‘As long as discretion is maintained …’ He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘What would the Marchese say if he knew?’
‘He’d be furious, I imagine. But what could he say?’
‘Sauce for the goose?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s none of my business, but I wonder why the two of them never had any children.’
‘I believe my aunt had a very traumatic miscarriage at some point.’
Backstreet abortion, I thought. Did it have any bearing on anything?
‘Apparently, she nearly bled to death. And after that, she couldn’t get pregnant again.’
‘Sad for them both.’
We didn’t say much for the rest of the ride. When we reached it, the auction house was the usual large brick building set along a wharf. There was already a crowd milling round inside and out, as people inspected the objects on sale and made marks against certain lots in their catalogues. I noticed a number of London dealers wearing man-of-the-people flat tweed caps and Barbour jackets, as though they were genuine Norfolk farmers. Or simply hoping not to be noticed. Were they after the Tiepolo? If so, it stood to make a tidy sum.
Inside, I scanned the crowds, searching for Joey’s gormless face, but couldn’t see him. With the catalogue in my hand, I pushed my way towards the table where Lot 134 waited on a small easel, enclosed in a folder. The top sketch showed a watercolour of some indeterminate herbiage standing by a red-roofed barn while what I took to be a cow bent its head to some grass.
Under the eye of a man in a brown overall, I took a pen out of my pocket and used it to turn over the six drawings on the easel one by one. The Tiepolo clown was the fourth one. I ascertained that it was indeed the one I was after by noting the mark I’d made in the bottom left-hand corner so many days before. I was burning with curiosity about the route the sketch had taken to fetch up here. The remaining drawings were nothing more than three or four undistinguished watercolours and a couple of pencil portraits of an old woman in an upright chair.
Behind me, a man spoke to his friend. ‘A piece of tourist tat, if you ask me. Pick ’em up on every street corner in Italy. The wife bought two or three of them clowns, if that’s what they are, when she was on a coach tour of Venice back in the spring, and now we’ve got the bloody things hanging on the wall of the lounge.’
‘Sooner you than me, mate.’
‘Enough to give you nightmares, innit?’
The two of them moved off.
A man across the room was giving me the eye and I turned away. ‘Want a cuppa, Sandro?’ I said as I moved to the makeshift tea counter. ‘Tea, I mean. The coffee will taste like sewage.’
I paid for two plastic cups which were filled with grey liquid from an urn, and handed one to Sandro. ‘Here. For what it’s worth.’
His patrician lip curled as he sipped at the edge of the cup.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘can you see a man on the other side of the room staring at us? Dark beard and moustache, red scarf round his neck? Act nonchalant.’
He peered over my shoulder. ‘I see him. Over by a table with three marble busts on it and what looks like some kind of animal under a glass dome.’
‘A red squirrel, is it? Stuffed and mounted on a branch? Or with a nut in its paws?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Victorians were very keen on home taxidermy as a harmless domestic hobby,’ I said. ‘They liked to stuff small woodland creatures like weasels or pine martens and display them under those glass domes in their so-called natural habitat. Do you recognize the man with the beard?’
Sandro frowned slightly. ‘Kind of. But not really.’ He stiffened and scowled. ‘He’s coming over. Want me to fend him off?’
‘Let’s find out what he wants first.’
People were beginning to clump round the various surfaces which held the items for sale as the auctioneer, smart in a three-piece suit of fine tweed, appeared and started fussing over papers on his rostrum. Men in brown cotton coats were shifting things about and conversing in low tones. I turned my head slightly as the black-bearded guy passed me and said ‘Psst!’ as though he wanted to sell me a bunch of dirty postcards.
I drew myself up haughtily to show that I was beneducato, and he said, ‘For Pete’s sake, it’s Joey.’
And when I looked closer, of course it was. ‘Didn’t realize you were such a master of disguise,’ I said.
‘Seemed a good idea to present a different facade,’ he said.
‘The plot is thickening.’
Joey raised his black eyebrows. ‘This is assuming that the Tiepolo sketch has something to do with the kidnapping.’
‘Has to have.’
‘I wonder where the principal is.’
‘I wonder who the principal is.’
The auctioneer was banging his gavel, preparing us all for Lot One, a fine example of a late-Victorian epergne, having a wide, crimped-edge bowl, a tall central trumpet and three side trumpets, nicely etched. Or so it said in the catalogue. If you like that sort of thing, it wasn’t half bad.
We waited with some impatience for Lot 134. Joey said, ‘I’m going to exercise my masculine charms on the sales office, see if I can find out who the seller is.’
‘Take Sandro with you,’ I said. ‘That bright hair marks him out.’
‘I’ll lend him my watch cap. Come on, guy, let’s go.’
The two of them headed off while I stayed put, pulling a scarf round my face and pushing my hair about, hoping not to be recognized. As we inched towards Lot 134, there was a strange wavelet of movement as the men in flat caps moved closer to the folder which held the miscellaneous drawings. By now, two women had joined them, both wearing shrouding coats, with, in one case, a scarf covering her hair, and in the other a black trilby.
Finally, Lot 133 was gavelled down and one of the cloth-coated men eased the small portfolio on to an easel and swung wide the two sides.
‘Miscellaneous drawings,’ the auctioneer intoned. ‘Attributed to various artists, no records available. To be sold as a single lot. What am I bid? A hundred? Eighty? Sixty?’
When he was down to fifteen pounds, the bidding started. Someone obviously either knew the value of at least one of the drawings or was prepared to take a punt on it. The bidding climbed higher and higher and the atmosphere in the room changed from a generalized sort of lethargy to a sudden sense of anticipatory excitement.
‘Dunno what they’re on about,’ a man standing behind me said to his neighbour. ‘I had a look earlier – just a bunch of little drawings. Reckon my five-year-old could do better than some of them.’
‘Yer,’ said his companion. ‘What you after, then?’
‘Lot two hundred and twenty-three,’ the man said. ‘Picture of a shepherdess and some sheep. Could make a nice little profit on that if it goes for the right price.’
‘Doesn’t go, you mean!’ The two of them chortled.
Mean
while, at £1800, the bidding for the miscellaneous drawings had slowed down. ‘Blimey,’ said one of the men behind me. ‘Musta bin something in there I didn’t pick up on.’
‘They’re still bidding,’ said his friend. ‘Go on, have a go.’
‘At that price? You gotta be kidding.’
‘I’m bid one thousand nine hundred pounds,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Are there any more – two thousand I’m bid at the back. Two thousand … any advance on two thousand? Two thousand five hundred. Three. Three thousand five. And four. Four and a half. Five …’
He finally banged down his gavel at £6700 and we all craned behind us to see who had offered such an enormous winning bid. Hard to say, really, since everyone behind me was looking poker-faced, pretending to be waiting for the next lot. The auctioneer himself seemed a trifle stunned.
Six thousand pounds plus. It was a tidy sum, especially for a small place like this one, but not a whole heap of money, given that I knew what the sketch purported to be. What would the Marchese say if he knew what his drawing had gone for? I wondered even more who it was that had put the drawing up for auction.
Maybe Joey had found out. ‘Want the bad news or the bad news?’ he asked, when I left the hall and found him waiting with Sandro by the front door.
‘The bad,’ I said.
‘Whoever’s selling it is operating under some kind of anonymous umbrella company.’
‘And the bad?’
‘It’s an Italian name. Italartico. Whether it exists or not is something we can find out later.’
I immediately thought of Renzo Vitale. All of a sudden, it seemed so obvious. Like me, he would have been sent copies of catalogues from all over the world. Like me, he would have leafed through them. Unlike me, he might well have been searching for anything that might resemble a Tiepolo drawing. And having found it, would have either come himself, or sent a representative to bid for it. On the other hand, how was he going to dispose of it? As soon as anyone knowledgeable saw it up for sale, Cesare, I had no doubt, would have been informed. And how did it relate, if at all, to Sandro’s abduction?
‘Any Italians passed this way?’ I asked.
Sandro and Joey shrugged.
‘Not so we noticed.’
‘I suppose we might as well drive back,’ I said. I was anxious to get home in order to do some intensive research on my computer. As I lowered myself into the passenger seat of Sandro’s car, I looked back. The woman in the pseudo-flat tweed cap was standing just outside the auction house’s doors, staring at me. No mop of greying curls this time, but I recognized her at once. She hadn’t managed to get the Tiepolo drawing from the Major but I had no doubt that the man who’d lurched into me in the Fox and Hounds was working with her. I raised my hand ironically. Six thousand pounds, minus fees, wasn’t a big return for the amount of work involved in stealing it.
It was around six o’clock when I got home, where I went straight over to my machine without even taking my jacket off. I switched on and keyed in Italartico.
A series of references popped up, and among them I was gratified but unsurprised to see the name of Vitali Fratelli. Underlined and in blue. I clicked on the name and, sure enough, there was Lorenzo Vitali. And, to my surprise, the Marchesa Allegra. Did she know about the missing Tiepolos? Had there been dirty work at the crossroads somewhere in there? How much of a connection could there possibly be between her and Renzo? Despite the fact that Renzo had all the hallmarks of a villain, he was unlikely to have been behind the theft of the sketch from my shoulder bag – a theft which had obviously been targeted, which meant I was being or had been watched – because if he had, why bother to put it up for auction when he could just have kept it or sold it for much more later in one of the clandestine operations of which I was sure he was a master? But even if he was behind the theft, I couldn’t really see the logic behind the sale at auction. He could just have kept it and then attempted to sell it on the art markets.
But if it wasn’t him, who was it? In the end, it didn’t matter who had bought it. Much more important was who was selling it. And if Joey Preston couldn’t coax anything more than a company name out of the auction house, I very much doubted that I would succeed where he had failed.
At least I was no longer in possession of the drawing. And neither was the Major. So I could sleep easy. I needn’t expect any more nasty surprises.
TWENTY
There were twenty-six of us, a mixture of people on the board or patrons of La Fenice and those who administer the Venice in Peril funds, both here and in England. With much ceremony, our gold-bedecked soup plates had been borne away and small dishes of lemon sorbet placed in front of us along with small golden spoons. The Marchesa had really pulled out all the stops to entertain this group. She sat at the head of a long table, all angular collarbones and heavy black velvet, despite the fact that early summer was greening the city and gilding the domes and towers. She wore a diamond necklace and matching diamond earrings, and on her delicately bony hands was the doge’s ring, its emerald stone glinting in the light from five elaborate candelabra set along the spread of white damask which stretched between her and her husband. I wondered if she’d been aware that it had turned up in a London pawnshop and been redeemed by her dutiful nephew.
The Marchese was equally magnificent in an immaculate dinner jacket over a double-breasted waistcoat with a heavy gold watch-chain looped across his chest, and some kind of bejewelled decoration hanging round his neck from a maroon ribbon of silk moiré. The other guests were equally splendid, including, I liked to think, myself. I’d borrowed a beautiful evening gown of yellow silk embroidered with green and white lilies from my Swedish sister-in-law and had my hair styled by someone at the Hotel Danieli where I was being put up at the Marchese’s expense. Personally, I thought I looked pretty damn cool. I only wished Sam Willoughby could see me now – he might have second thoughts about that jillaroo of his. I was sorry that at the last minute Sandro had not been able to be here, but that wasn’t going to prevent my enjoying myself.
I was seated between a Venice in Peril person on my right hand and one of the opera house’s big wigs on my left. I knew he was a big wig because he told me so. He also told me that without the Marchesa Allegra, La Fenice would be in poorer shape than it currently was. ‘She is a tireless patron,’ he told me ponderously. ‘And a most generous and indefatigable fundraiser.’
I nodded sagely. It seemed to have been enough response.
‘As I’m sure you are aware, signorina, the opera house was burned down some years ago and it has cost millions to rebuild.’
‘It was arson, wasn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Sadly it was. Two electricians, cousins, who were falling behind in their renovation work, couldn’t afford the penalties and thought the best solution would be to burn the place down. Disgraceful!’
‘They got them both in the end, I believe.’
‘They did indeed.’
Dishes were removed. More plates appeared. Waiters moved from person to person, offering veal slices in a green sauce, asparagus, tiny potato puffs, slender green beans. It was all delicious. There was cheese, too, if anyone wanted it, and a radicchio and avocado salad with a minty kind of dressing.
My neighbour on the left-hand side smiled benignly. ‘I understand you will be joining us tomorrow evening, after the performance.’
‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ I said.
‘It should be a good evening. The production has been widely praised.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
After we’d had coffee in a reception room almost as grand as the Doge’s Palace, there was a general shifting and stirring as people prepared to take their leave. I would see some of them the following evening and thought I outdid myself in graciousness, something I’m not usually good at.
A servant appeared at my elbow to tell me that a water taxi was waiting for me at the steps of the palazzo to return me to my hotel. Everything had been thought of.
When I had disembarked from the taxi and entered the grandiose lobby to get hold of my key, I was handed a note which I took up to my suite. I removed Lena’s beautiful dress, changed into my dressing gown, poured myself a very wee dram and sat down to read it.
Twin boys, it said. All fine.
Only my brother Hereward could be so succinct about such a momentous event. I felt it was too late to telephone my parents. And Sam wasn’t around, or I could have shared the news with him.
I lifted my glass to the ceiling and laughed aloud. ‘Here’s to you all,’ I said.
As I fell asleep, I wondered what archaic names would be bestowed on the poor little lads.
During the night, I woke. My brain churned over the events of the past few weeks. Faces streamed through my head: Sandro, Katy Pasqualin, Sam Willoughby and his girlfriend, the Jago twins, Laura the model, Bianca, Suzy Hartley Heywood and her brother, my parents, my brother and his twins. Connections were still to be made, but with the list of interrelationships which Sandro had given me some time before, I already had all the information I needed to work out the causes behind the sequence of events which seemed to have begun at his dinner party in his uncle’s place, though clearly they had been ongoing for years before that.
The Marchese had booked me a suite whose windows looked across the canal to the Palladian splendours of San Giorgio Maggiore, with a giant double bed all to myself. Sipping a cup of tea brought up by room service, I stood at the window and watched the traffic passing up and down the canal. At this time of day it was mostly commercial: vast piles of vinyl piping, plastic-wrapped loads of bricks, fruit and vegetables on their way to the markets, fish and meat in huge see-through boxes. Untended gondolas rocked with the movement of the water.
It was a golden-bright day, the water sparkling, the sky a true Tiepolo cobalt blue. I spent the day walking round the city, stopping in various churches as I passed them. Names rang like bells: Guardi. Giorgione. Bellini. Carpaccio. On and on they sounded in my head. By the evening I was sated. For once I wasn’t there for work, just to enjoy a wallow in the whole Venetian ambience. Beneath the calm waters of the lagoon, the heart-stopping beauty, the centuries of civilization, lurked decadence and corruption, generation after generation of cruel deeds and scandalous vice. But what was going to change that? Certainly not me, not today, not ever.
