Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  The old man bristled. “And you assume it is your business?”

  “I assume you are all my friends,” she retorted.

  “He will do it because he wishes to,” Scacchi said carefully. “Those are the only circumstances under which I would countenance allowing it to happen. And everything will be at arm’s length. I’ve never had Massiter in this house to this day, nor shall I. Daniel can be our intermediary and deal with him elsewhere.”

  “But why?” she demanded, furious. “Why do you need the money? We’ve managed to get by so far without some sudden catastrophe. Why now?”

  Scacchi stared at her with a deliberate absence of feeling, as if preparing himself for something he wished not to say.

  “Well?” she insisted.

  He pushed his coffee cup across the table in her direction, then folded his arms.

  “Laura,” he said slowly, “over the time you have been part of my household I have come to love you dearly, and hope you may feel a little of the same in return. You are the one fixed point in the diminishing lives which Paul and I lead. Without you we would be quite lost, and deprived of a dear friend too. For that I cannot thank you enough.”

  She stared at him blankly as if she had never heard words like these before.

  “Nevertheless,” Scacchi continued, “you are a servant in this house. I employ you to do our bidding. Not to tell us our business. There are matters here which in no way concern you, and it is impertinent that you should assume they do. When I wish your opinion, I shall, rest assured, ask for it, and hold what you say in the highest regard. But now I would like you to clear this table. The coffee cups are long cold and these plates are dirty. After which I should like you to go to the fish market and buy some fresh calamari. I’ve a fancy for squid for lunch, and no one cooks it better than you. On with it! Please. And no more of this nonsense!”

  The sudden tears stained her cheeks, a strange contrast with the fury which blazed in her eyes. Laura stood, walked slowly round each of them, collecting the remains of breakfast, then, without a word, left the room.

  Daniel listened to her descend the stairs. When he heard the kitchen door close, he turned to the old man, outraged. “Scacchi, I take back everything I said. I’ll not do your bidding or tolerate that kind of cruelty. It’s undeserved of her and unbecoming of you. How could you even...”

  Paul rose and patted him on the shoulder. “He’s a mile ahead of you, Daniel. He doesn’t need you to tell him. I don’t know about anyone else here, but I could use a drink.”

  Scacchi sat mute, desolate, tears in his eyes. Daniel hated himself suddenly for the rush of adrenaline this unexpectedly heated discussion had given him.

  Paul went over to the sideboard, picked up a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie, and returned to the table with three glasses. Daniel put a hand over his. “I require an explanation.”

  They tasted their whisky and listened as the outer door closed with a slam.

  “And you’ll have one,” Scacchi said. “As much as I can.”

  He gulped the fierce liquid too quickly and burst into a fit of coughing. Daniel watched as Paul patted him lightly on the back. The two men seemed terribly frail, as if a sudden movement could snap their bones.

  “You must see a doctor. Both of you,” he said.

  “This isn’t about doctors,” Scacchi replied. “Oh, I know you and Laura assume as much, and I’m happy you should think so. Understand me, Daniel, I hated myself for every word I spoke. Laura is as close to a daughter as an old fool like me might have. Without her, I doubt I’d still be alive. But there are matters she should not be involved with, and this is one of them. So swear to me. That you will never, never breathe a word of what I now tell you. Let her think this is all for some quack medicine to cure the bitter poison in our veins. Then when it’s done, we can all get back to enjoying what remains of our lives and she’s none the wiser.”

  “That’s unfair,” Daniel said. “You ask me to bind myself to an oath without knowing the cost or the consequences.”

  “There’s nothing in this that harms her in any way. To the contrary. I seek the best solution for us all. Please?”

  Daniel said nothing. “Hell,” Paul grumbled. “Let’s tell him anyway. It’s simple, Daniel. We’re broke. In crapola profunda .”

  “I understood that,” Daniel answered.

  “No,” Scacchi said with an ironic smile. “You understood we were short of money. This is somewhat more serious. Five years ago, when both of us were diagnosed with this blasted disease, I never expected we’d live this long. All I thought of was making something of the time we had left. I went to the bank and tried to mortgage this place. Well, the sum they offered was an insult. So, like an idiot, I did what any gentleman did and spoke to a ‘man of a certain standing.’ You understand who I mean?”

  There could, Daniel thought, be only one possible explanation. “ Mafiosi?”

  “A catchall phrase of the newspapers. Not something I would use. But you get my drift. The terms were generous. The penalties for default, however...”

  Paul poured himself another glass and, without looking at either of them, said, “Tell him.”

  Scacchi groaned, as if in despair at his own folly. “In October, the payment becomes due. Since the time I negotiated this arrangement, the price of this kind of property, in this kind of area, has fallen, and Ca’ Scacchi is in greater need of repair than ever. With interest, the gap between my equity and the debt they seek repaid is some quarter of a million dollars. Not that either of us expected to have to face it. I believed the insurance and the sale of the house on our inevitable deaths would more than cover the debt and that Laura would enjoy the balance. None of this will happen. If I don’t give them the money, they will, of course, kill me, which will be no great loss, I think, except to my dear, gullible Paul here.”

  “I believe Laura would have something to say about that,” Daniel said, astonished. “So might I, for that matter.”

  “And I think you know none of us as well as you believe,” Scacchi declared. “Kindly hear me out. Before they kill me, they will, some weeks before, first kill her, on the assumption that Laura’s innocent death will be the most painful spur to my compliance. Should that fail, they will then murder Paul, who has at least the stain of being party to this original arrangement. These are businessmen at heart and murderers only by force of circumstance. Practical fellows. They seek the money they are owed, not revenge, but they will, I fear, have one or the other. I...”

  Scacchi’s voice broke. He put a hand to his mouth. Paul took away his glass, went to the sideboard, and returned with a tumbler full of water and some pills. Scacchi snatched at them.

  “You must go to the police!” Daniel demanded. “Talk to that woman who was here. Immediately!”

  The old man shrugged his frail shoulders. “Oh, Daniel. Your innocence is quite overwhelming sometimes. This is Italy. The police would surely investigate. For as long as they could bear interviewing corpses. I believe that policewoman you saw is honest. But she will tell someone who is not. The men we speak of are as close to many in the police as their own family. To complain to the authorities about them...we wouldn’t live beyond a week, even if they put us in a cell.”

  “We’ve tried every option,” Paul said. “Believe me.”

  “Then what?”

  “We seek,” Scacchi said slowly, “a creative solution.”

  “You mean the money from the concerto?”

  “No! This is insufficient. But the money from the concerto could be our seed. And from it we grow the crop we require.”

  “So quickly?” Daniel wondered.

  “Oh, yes,” Scacchi said. “I am an art dealer by trade. I have my connections. There is an object on the market in the hands of a fool who does not know its value. Massiter has discovered as much too. You heard him talk of this Guarneri? The Giuseppe del Gesù? The selfsame instrument. Unlike Massiter, I know where it is and how much I may pay for it. Betwee
n that and its true price lies the solution to our difficulties. With your assistance, I believe it may be ours to sell on to the very highest bidder.”

  “You’re ill,” Daniel told the two men. “But you can walk. You can do business. You can think as quickly as any men.”

  “This is true,” Scacchi agreed.

  “And this Guarneri,” he went on. “It is, I assume, stolen. Otherwise the ‘fool’ who has it would surely know its true value?”

  Scacchi hesitated before answering. “Yes. Let us say it’s stolen.”

  “And this policewoman came here because she suspected you may seek it?”

  Scacchi grimaced. “I will be honest with you. She knows there is an object on the market, though not what it is. Who are we to argue with the police?”

  “And this is why you asked me here in the first place? Not just for your library? You have known about this violin for some time and sought me out as your route to it.”

  Scacchi thought carefully. “Nothing is quite that concrete. If I’m honest with you, it was at the back of my mind, should the need arise. Yes. Do you agree, Paul?”

  The American smiled. Both of them were, Daniel thought, grateful for this conversation, glad to end the pretence. “Of course I agree, Scacchi. Look, we’re sorry, Daniel. We thought we were getting some dumb college kid who’d help us sell some junk from the cellar, then, if we got lucky, run a couple of quiet errands to this guy with the fiddle. We didn’t realise you were going to turn out to be so likeable. Or smart.”

  “Or,” Scacchi added, “become a part of us so quickly and so surely.”

  “Hey,” Paul said. “We make lousy villains. We’re as sorry, as miserable, and as guilty as hell, and I’ll be damned if I am going to make that confession more than once.”

  Daniel laughed and allowed Paul to pour him a small shot of whisky.

  “And we still need you,” Paul added. “We could try to do this ourselves. If it’s an up day, maybe it would work. But...” He gestured at the two of them. “You can see for yourself.”

  Scacchi leaned forward, peering into Daniel’s eyes. “This is a young man’s game, a fit man’s game. A meeting here. Something to carry there. The risk is minimal, and we’ll take it whenever we can. But if I can’t get your name on the cover of that music, if I can’t rely on you to meet this fellow with the Guarneri and see the instrument to ensure he’s not trying to gull us, we’re lost, Daniel. I will pay for your contribution. Come up with a price.”

  They waited in silence.

  “Think about it,” Scacchi said. “But not for too long. Massiter wants an answer.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Good. You know I tried to tell you, Daniel. I showed you that handsome Lucifer of mine. Don’t you think a part of him lives inside me?”

  “No, Scacchi, I don’t, to be honest.”

  “As you see fit. But in any case, remember what I said. When the Devil makes you an offer, there are but three options. To do what he asks. To do what ‘goodness’ demands. Or the third way. To do what the hell you like.”

  “I recall.” Daniel looked at his watch. It was just past ten. The decision was, in truth, no decision at all. To refuse would be to abandon them, and Daniel Forster had been abandoned once before, in his cot, by a father he never knew. From the time he first understood the nature of this act, he had come to believe that there were few greater sins one human could inflict upon another. There was a personal reward in the game too. The dull world of Oxford seemed a million miles distant. He felt, for the first time in his life, that he was shaping the world about him, not watching it slowly fall apart. “I shall require a computer and some composition software. I am not transcribing every last note by hand.”

  Scacchi looked excitedly at Paul. “Well?”

  “I know someone at the university,” Paul said. “We can fix it.”

  “Good,” Daniel continued. “This depends, of course, on your meeting my price.”

  They shuffled awkwardly on their seats. “And that is?” asked Scacchi.

  “No more secrets. No more deception. You’ll be honest with me, always, or I’ll consider everything between us forfeit, including our friendship. And you’ll find some way of making Laura happy again, for all our sakes.”

  Scacchi leaned forward across the table and clutched his hand, his face split by the rictus of a happy grin. “Always. And as for Laura, nothing will give me more pleasure. We are Venetian, Daniel. We are used to these little explosions from time to time.”

  “Always,” Paul repeated. “I’ll call about that computer now.”

  The American headed for the study. Scacchi stayed at the table, pensive, perhaps a little guilty.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For all of us. Particularly my innocent Laura.”

  “This changes how I feel about you, Scacchi,” Daniel said.

  “I can understand that. You feel let down. Deceived. With good reason.”

  “With very good reason.”

  “But,” Scacchi added, “as Paul said, you are, in part, to blame. Had you been the gullible lad we thought we’d found, none of this heartache need have occurred. You would have flitted in and out of Venice none the wiser.”

  “And you would have failed, Scacchi. The opportunity for this bargain with Massiter wouldn’t have arisen. I think you are, in truth, not very good at this.”

  The old man nodded, accepting the point pleasantly. “Agreed. While you appear to be developing a formidable and quite shocking talent for such intrigues.”

  They both laughed. The storm was over. “Ah, and now for more important matters,” Scacchi said. “On Sunday Piero fetches us all for a picnic on Sant’ Erasmo. You’ll be the honoured guest of Ca’ Scacchi’s trio of misfits. Bring this American girl too. We should all like to meet her.”

  “Amy?” The idea was not appealing. “I don’t think so. I scarcely know her.”

  “All the more reason for her to come.”

  “I don’t even know if I like her.”

  Scacchi gave him a stern gaze. “Daniel. Take this advice, please. You need broader company than this household can provide. Let’s not suffocate each other in this place. It is the job of the old to devour the young whenever they have the opportunity. You must do your best to avoid our toothless jaws.”

  Daniel thought of Amy Hartston, sitting in her elegant dress on the Sophia, with Xerxes at the tiller, Piero spouting nonsense, Scacchi and Paul in each other’s arms, and Laura dispensing spritz while hissing, “’Ave a nice day.”

  “Can’t wait,” he said, bemused.

  22

  Rebecca receives a gift

  Complications! Complications! Before the first evening concert when, nervously, we might try out our scheme, my dear sister, we found ourselves enmeshed in plots of my uncle’s making. The negotiations with Delapole continue. Leo decided we must join the Englishman on a boat journey across the lagoon to Torcello with a small party of musicians from La Pietà, Rebecca among them, to provide entertainment along the way.

  A pretty group we made too: Delapole smiling benevolently as he handed out money right, left, and centre, to the boatmen, to the players, to just about everyone but Leo. Gobbo wore some shiny finery that made him look like a clown’s baboon. Rousseau fluttered about, still angling for a job. Rebecca, without her scarlet scarf, felt sufficiently brave to make her own way to meet us, joining three other female players, plain girls who looked as if they didn’t see the light of day much. She cast me a familiar glance and then set her eyes on the water. It was best, we both knew, to keep our relations private in such a gathering.

  The summer heat receded the moment our ski f sailed past St. Mark’s and out into the lagoon. It was unusually clear. To the west lay the mountains, still capped in snow, to the north Torcello, and to the east the low, blue flatness of the Adriatic, with scarcely a wave on it, as if the ocean itself felt like dozing on this idle afternoon.

  The musicians had struck up some of Vivaldi’
s lesser stuff as soon as we set sail from the small jetty outside Ca’ Dario. Quite why, I don’t know, since almost everyone on board talked over them as if they were mere decoration. The priest would have had a fit if he’d witnessed it.

  The city receded into the distance. The little band played and played, red Veneto wine flowed profusely, and the party settled into a lazy glow while lounging on the cushions in the stern. Delapole could not take his eyes o f the musicians, Rebecca more than any. It strikes me as odd that the Englishman, who’s a handsome, amiable fellow in the prime of life, appears not to own some mistress. Perhaps he does and keeps her out of sight. Perhaps there is in Delapole a secret to match Oedipus’s sad history. But he wasn’t the only one whose eyes were on stalks. Uncle Leo was at it, too, openly admiring Rebecca with something close to lasciviousness.

  At around three we entered the narrow canal that leads to the centre of the island. The captain pointed our bow at the tall tower of the basilica. Torcello was the capital of the lagoon before Venice and lost its position only because of the malarial nature of the swamps. Now a handful of peasants and ageing clergy live there, both sets trying to swindle visitors for the odd ducat or two.

  We disembarked close to the basilica and, as a group, inspected the place. Rebecca, being in her Gentile guise, was allowed through the door but did not loiter long, and I understood why. The west wall is covered with a vast mosaic depicting Judgement Day. It’s a spectacular thing and must make the bucolic locals positively quiver with fear every time they see it. Some very cross-looking devils are busy pushing sinners down to Hell along with every other race on the earth that is not pale-faced and Christian too. She looked at those Saracens and Moors all going to their doom through nothing more than an accident of birth, then excused herself and went outside. When, after a suitable interval, I followed, she was seated on a giant throne hewn out of rock, with some local crone pocketing a coin for allowing her this dubious privilege.