Dying Trade

by David Donachie

  For the plan he had in mind, to make a fuss about the death of Broadbridge would be a mistake, and any subsequent action, following so soon, would be directly linked to his murder. This left him with yet another problem. He’d have to concoct a tale about the two seamen that would hold water until he could get away from Genoa. They were working for Toraglia. But if they were only hired labour, then he could always say that he had taken them on as hands himself. God help him if they were family retainers. The main thing was to set in train the steps necessary to buy the Principessa, and to do that he had to get the ship to sea for a cruise. Only then, given his previous statements, could he safely bid for her.

  He tried to work out what his opponents would do next. If they’d searched the ship, they’d know that apart from a quantity of bloodstains and that damaged bulkhead, there was no real evidence of the events of last night. Yet they felt safe enough to row across the harbour in broad daylight and hoist those bodies over the side. If he showed signs of doing everything he could to get out of Genoa, then he might convince them that they had nothing to fear. And if he didn’t report any of the murders, there would be no hue and cry, and no need for desperate measures to stop him. On all counts it made sense to stay silent. It would lull his enemies into a false sense of security, leaving him free to pursue a plan of which they could know nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PEOPLE arriving at the house of Guistiani on foot were obviously a rare occurrence. For all their loud hammering on the heavy gates, Harry and the escort he’d brought from the Dido were kept waiting while those responsible for the place made sure of them. Nor was it easy getting to Giacomo Guistiani himself. The anteroom was crowded, as it had been the day before, but the servants seemed to suffer from a form of professional deafness when it came to admitting supplicants to their masters’ domain. Having been ushered straight in, he had not noticed the desk off to one side of the room. Here sat the fellow who’d led the way the day before. A fussy little man with rouged cheeks and an old-fashioned full-bottomed wig, he apparently acted as some form of appointments clerk. He clearly loved his job, and the power it gave him, for he treated all Harry’s loud protestations that haste was essential with a silent shrug, and a gesture to the ledger on the desk before him.

  Harry moved to the centre of the room and fumed quietly, then approached the desk again. The clerk favoured him with the same resigned shrug of the shoulders. It seemed absurd that he could not proceed for the mere want of an address, but he had no idea where Count di Toraglia and his wife resided. He realised that he would have to act or the man at the desk would delay him all day. Keeping a weather eye out for other servants, he made for the other side of the room, moving swiftly through the crowd without knocking into anyone. There he paused, waited until all the servants were too far away to stop them interfering, and barged in.

  The Guistiani brothers, in conference with several other sleek-looking men, looked up in shock, and the doorway behind Harry was suddenly full of liveried retainers. But Harry was already talking. ‘I require directions to Count Toraglia’s house, and someone from here to take me. I can hardly call otherwise.’

  ‘Signor Ludlow,’ said Alfredo Guistiani angrily, but Harry kept talking.

  ‘I apologise to these gentlemen, but I will not be kept waiting all day for such a simple matter.’ Harry was watching both the brothers closely. He didn’t know who to trust in this city state, and that included these two. He looked for any sign of alarm greater than that caused by shock of his sudden entry.

  Giacomo recovered almost immediately, roundly cursed the ineptitude of his epicene clerk, and gave loud instructions that the gentlemen should be taken with haste to Count Toraglia’s villa. The clerk, wilting under the gaze and words of his master, half stood and grovelled an affirmative reply. Harry, closing the door and going back to the desk, was gratified to see that the colour in the man’s cheeks was not now solely composed of rouge.

  An escort was provided, one of the fellows he’d had the day before, and with a posse of his own new hands in tow they set off. They made their way south through the town and out of one of the old gates in the imposing city walls. The place had long since spread beyond the old defences. Given the number of houses that rose above their heads, forming dark and shaded canyons crowded with bustling humanity, it was impossible to tell if one was outside the walls or not. But the count’s villa stood alone, surrounded by a high wall topped with sharp metal spikes. The gate, like that of all the large properties hereabout, was studded with bolts and made of thick oak. The knocker was a huge affair, bearing a heraldic crest on it, a bird of prey with a small mammal fast in its claws. Harry felt it vaguely familiar. But in a city awash with heraldry it was by no means unusual.

  The postern gate, off to the side of the main gate, was opened by a grave-looking servant, old and bent, who listened carefully to Guistiani’s man before ushering Harry inside. But he would not allow in the three sailors Harry had with him, or the man from the Guistianis. With an emphatic shake of the head, he shut the postern gate in their faces and they were left to fend for themselves in the crowded street. The courtyard was a riot of colour and smells, each one pressing in on the other in an untidy abundance of plants and trees. He followed the servant down a winding path, heavily shaded and laid with old worn flagstones, catching the odd glimpse of the carriageway that led to the main entrance through the trees.

  This informal garden, encroaching as it was on the path, with the trees forming a canopy overhead, was oppressive rather than shaded, an impression strengthened by the overpowering scents of plants in bloom and the odour of rotting vegetation. Eventually they emerged at the point where the path and the carriageway met, and Harry could see the house. Again there were no windows on the ground floor. At the top of the walls, embrasures had been constructed giving the place a Gothic appearance, even more like a fortress than the Guistianis’ bank. The general impression was of a house and grounds gone to seed.

  The cool tiled hall was welcome after the heat of the streets and the garden. He could hear subdued voices, talking urgently, almost as if an argument was in progress, except the tone was too restrained. The servant motioned for Harry to wait, and went through the hall into a inner courtyard, his presence bringing silence. Harry looked about him. The walls were white and practically bare, and with the tiled floor it was more like a Levantine residence than a Latin one. Some gilded and inlaid scimitars crossed on one of the walls heightened the flavour of something eastern. It seemed a house designed for two things: sound defence and the need to nullify the heat of the world outside.

  Apart from the swords, a single portrait broke the monotony of the white walls. Harry moved closer to have a look.

  The subject was of medium height and stocky, wearing a plain blue coat and white breeches, a feathered tricorn hat in his hand and a jewelled sword on his hips. It was the background, dotted with ships under sail, that told you he was a sailor. The face was handsome, and the eyes lively. It was hard to reconcile this image of sturdy health with the man he’d come to see.

  The servant was gone some time, leaving Harry kicking his heels impatiently. He finally returned, bowed, and motioned Harry to follow him out into the shaded courtyard. He heard the sound of running water and as he emerged his eye was taken by the height of the jets streaming from the elaborate sculptured pond in the middle of the open space. The count and his wife lounged on a pair of silk-covered divans by the side of the fountain, and between them lay a table laden with fruit. A hookah, bubbling merrily, and obviously in use, lay at the side of Toraglia’s couch. Harry surmised that the man was asleep, for he did not react to the sound of Harry’s footsteps.

  But Harry’s eyes barely noticed the count, being dragged without protest to the vision on the other divan. The garment she was wearing could have been easily described as indecent, it was cut so low. Her hair was piled high on her head as before, leaving her graceful neck and her face, free of even the slightest trac
e of powder, to be admired. And Harry made no attempt to hide his regard. He thanked the Lord that the count was blind as well as asleep, for he could not have failed to notice the reaction in Harry’s features. He knew he had assumed the same inane grin that he’d carried on his face the first time he met her. No wonder half of Genoa was queueing up for this creature. To her credit, the countess seemed not to notice. She carried her beauty lightly, with an overwhelming air of innocence.

  She favoured him with a warm smile, indicating by dumb show both that her husband was asleep, and that he should avail himself of the other divan, which lay right by the side of the fountain, receiving the maximum benefit from the cooling air created by the streams of bright water. Harry sat down, his mind registering that the seat was warm, as though recently occupied. The servant reappeared again, bearing an elaborate Venetian glass pitcher full of pale silver liquid. He placed it, with a matching goblet, on the table, removing another half-full glass as he did so.

  ‘We must wait, Signor Ludlow, for my husband requires rest.’

  All thoughts of haste slipped from Harry’s mind. The count could sleep as long as he liked, Harry Ludlow was perfectly content to sit here in the presence of this girl and drink fresh lemonade. It was a measure of how smitten he was that, short of time and usually most careful for the welfare of his men, he forgot all about haste and the trio stuck out in the hot and dusty street.

  She spoke as if she read his mind. ‘They are rarely of a long duration, but frequent. And I would not dare to give you permission to sail the Principessa on my own, since I presume that is why you have come. Anything else, yes, but that ship is closer to his heart than I am myself.’

  ‘I cannot bring myself to believe that, Madame.’

  ‘Are all Englishmen so immediately gallant, Signor? Your brother was very forward. The count, I’m afraid, remarked upon it.’

  She leant forward to pick a grape from a dish on the table, and Harry had to turn away to avoid being caught looking down her cleavage. Could she be so completely unaware of the effect she was having? She behaved as though the attributes that God had given her were of no account. He felt he must change the subject, lest his desire to be something more than gallant get the better of him.

  ‘I was struck by the portrait in the hall, Madame.’

  ‘How I would love to remove it,’ she said, frowning. ‘It does Alfonso no good, having his visitors gaze on an image of his former self. Some are so crass as to actually allude to the difference.’

  Harry looked at the wasted figure asleep on the divan. He agreed with her. Yet he didn’t want to say so, didn’t want to seem incapable of independent thought. It was with a feeling of deliberate contrariness that he replied.

  ‘Perhaps such reminders help to fortify him, Madame, to raise his spirits. Any sick man would long to return to his former health.’

  For the first time Harry saw a trace of impatience. If anything she looked even more beautiful, with a definite hauteur sharpening her features. For all his previous intentions Harry continued quickly, not wishing to be thought of as her enemy. ‘Mind, with you to sustain him, he needs little else.’

  She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, but her features didn’t soften. Harry spoke again, fearing that she would lapse into an angry silence. ‘How did his illness come about?’

  ‘Suddenly. Like a bolt out of the blue. One day the handsomest man in Genoa, surrounded by blushing maidens at every ball we attended. The next, near death’s door and only saved by Providence. He lay in a coma for days.’

  Harry had the slight feeling that she was mocking him. Perhaps it was just the rehearsed tone of an oft-repeated phrase. Her face softened again and her smile returned. ‘But he has the constitution of a bull, Signor Ludlow. He could hold nothing in his stomach and he was reduced to a skeleton. Yet he survived. I only thank the Gods that I attended him myself, with the household servants of course.’

  ‘And doctors?’

  ‘Doctors!’ she snapped. ‘I wonder if they make more out of death than they do out of life. What would they have done? Bleed him? An already weakened man and a physician takes away that which gives him strength. And I was right. His attack would have killed anyone else. Not Alfonso. He lived, blind, and depending on me for everything. Now he wavers. Sometimes I think he will recover. At other times I am set to call the priest to administer last rites. But never will I entrust him to a doctor.’

  The count moved slightly, and in a flash his wife was up, crossing over to kneel by his side, a concerned look on her face. Gently she rubbed both her hands on his furrowed brow, then opened them to circle the prominent temples. The mouth, set in the relaxed posture of sleep, changed into a smile, as the count, waking from his slumbers, raised his hand in the air. His wife immediately took it and squeezed, and Harry, in no way a sentimental man, felt a pricking at the back of his eyes to see such mutual regard in a situation in which one of the lovers was doomed.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ she said softly, placing her hands on his lips. The count’s head turned, a habit from when he had his sight. ‘Signor Ludlow.’

  The count looked confused for a moment, his brow furrowing again.

  ‘The Englishman we met yesterday, who wants to buy the Principessa.’

  The man’s face showed all his emotion, first the smile and nod at the mention of an Englishman, and the subsequent change to a glum expression when he recalled that his ship was for sale.

  ‘Have you looked at her?’

  ‘I have, Count Toraglia. And may I say that I like what I see. If she’d been rigged I think I would have upped anchor without permission.’

  Toraglia smiled. ‘You have a crew, Signor?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry softly. ‘And I admit to a degree of impatience. I’ve taken the liberty of putting the leading hands aboard to look over the ship as well.’

  That was somewhat less than the truth, of course. But it would suffice till he was on more intimate terms. The count sat up, swinging his sightless eyes in Harry’s direction. He sat silently for a moment, his face gloomy, which accentuated the premature ageing caused by his illness. Harry held his breath, wondering if he was about to receive a wigging for his effrontery.

  ‘I realise that I should greet you with cries of anger, and seek to play the cunning vendor. Yet I understand. This is sad for me.’

  Harry relaxed, letting his breath out slowly. ‘Giacomo Guistiani told me how important she is to you, Count Toraglia. I too understand.’

  The count’s face cleared again, but he could not bring himself to smile. His hand waved in a weak gesture, meant to ease Harry’s concerns. ‘Then perhaps you are a true sailor, Signor Ludlow.’

  ‘I would esteem that a compliment should I ever be worthy of it.’

  The countess, who had been kneeling beside him, took both his hands in hers. ‘It has to be, Alfonso. The longer the ship lies idle, the greater the cost.’

  ‘I know my dear. But you have not stood on her deck with the wind on her quarter, and felt her cutting her way through the water, studding sails aloft and kites out, with the log showing fourteen knots. And now I must send someone to show this Inglese how to sail her. Will he buy? I know he will. No one could resist the purchase of that ship.’

  Harry wondered for a moment if he was playing the cunning vendor after all, but then he cursed himself for a heartless wretch, and tried to remember how he’d felt when he’d lost his ship. There was no explaining it to a landsman, just as a man who never owned a horse or a dog could not see why the loss of them should be an occasion for real sorrow.

  Harry had some trouble with the mixture of French and Italian as the count continued. Talking about his ship had lifted his spirits, making him seem more youthful. The enthusiasm was clear in his husky voice as he started to outline her qualities.

  ‘And she sails amazingly close to the wind, Signor. You must stow her a bit by the stern, of course, or she’ll not answer her rudder right …’

  His wi
fe, with a worried look, put her hand on his cheek and he stopped talking, the face again falling into the visage of an old man.

  ‘Alfonso, you must not tax yourself.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘I shall not do so because you do not wish it. But in truth, my love, what have I to save my energy for?’

  Harry suddenly realised the implications of something the count had said a few minutes ago. He mentioned sending someone aboard with Harry. That would never do, for he could not hide the missing watchmen, nor the condition of the ship, let alone the men he’d left aboard probably behaving as if he owned it already.

  ‘Madame, I know your husband is a sick man, but can you not see how talking of his ship raises his spirits?’

  Her features sharpened again. Plainly any interference in the care of her husband was unwelcome. Harry continued quickly. ‘I’m no medical man, but I would strongly advise you to include the vital spark in his treatment, for I have often observed that a sick man can show amazing powers of recovery, given that they have something to care for.’

  The count gave his wife’s hand another pat. ‘I have something to care for, Signor.’

  ‘Yet I observed just this very moment, sir, how your spirits lifted at the mention of rigging a ship. Why I would swear that to take part in the rigging of the Principessa again would raise you up no end …’

  ‘Signor Ludlow,’ said the countess, with a look of alarm, but Harry kept talking quickly.

  ‘I should esteem it an honour if you would accompany me back to the ship in person. There you could advise me on the best way to dress her, for I’m sure you’d want me to see the ship sail her very best. I realise that this is likely to cost me a pretty penny, but I’m bound to repeat, sir, that having already had a close look at the Principessa, I like what I see.’