One Way to Venice

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  But she had seen Tarn Menzies, standing up at his table in the sun to wave to her. He, too, had changed, and looked more darkly striking than ever in light jacket and black, flared jeans. Two girls at a nearby table had been eyeing him speculatively, now stood up and moved away as Julia approached. “Hi.” He had two drinks in front of him. “I ordered for you. OK? They take forever here.”

  “What is it?” She look dubiously at the fizzy pink liquid.

  “Campari soda. Good for the digestion. I’ll drink it if you think it’s crook.”

  “Crook?” She tasted the drink dubiously. Then. “Nice; thanks.”

  “Goodoh. You look better, Scheherazade. My oath, but you look a right treat.”

  “Thanks.” Something was nagging at the fringes of her mind. “How long since you left Australia?” she asked.

  “Spotted!” He leaned back in his chair and gave a great roar of laughter. “I might have known you would. Bright girl like you. It’s part of the act, see. Australian illustrator makes good. Besides, it’s kind of fun, right? English as she is spoke is about as dull as a dog’s breakfast—” He winked at her solemnly. “Whatever that means. Mind you, I’m the genuine article all right and tight. Outback…Geelong…the lot. Only, I’ve been batting round Europe since I was old enough to know which from tother. First I tried like blazes to lose the ‘Strine; then I found I missed it. Hell of a time getting it back. Sounds phoney to you, does it?”

  “Sometimes.” Had she been mad to trust him so easily?

  “I must get me a new phrase book—word of a ‘Strine I must.” He smiled his warm smile. “At least it’s a change from four-letter words. And that reminds me: any message?”

  “No.” She was glad there was none. She must have time to think.

  “Thank God for that.” His answer surprised her. “Because I’ve had one; my oath I have.” And then, laughing: “Sorry, can’t help it anymore. You’ll just have to bear with me. Anyway, my blasted author is coming over from Ravenna tomorrow. Wants me to meet him and chew the fat. I wish to God I hadn’t let him know I was coming here first, but there it is. Can’t very well dodge it now, but I’ll feel a hell of a lot safer if I know you’re taking care. I don’t like the feel of these people.”

  “Nor do I. But you must see I can’t stop. If I get a message, I’ll have to go, and, if not, I thought I’d go on working my way down the Grand Canal. After all, I’ve only got six more days.”

  “No law says you can’t stay on. Afterwards.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Oddly, this had not occurred to her. “But I wonder if there would be any point. Either they’ll have got in touch—or not. And I should think I could do all the possible bits of Venice in the time. If I keep at it.”

  “Well, keep at it carefully tomorrow, for God’s sake. If anything shows, save it for me. And if there’s a message, ring me at my hotel. No, better still, I’ll ring you in the morning, my oath I will. And if you’ve heard anything, Mr. Author Heyward can go jump in the canal.”

  “Thanks.” It was heart-warming. Absurd to have given way to that moment of mistrust. “But I’m beginning to think I shan’t hear. Ever. I think they’re just having fun with me. Cruel fun. If only I knew why…”

  “Have another drink.” He fielded a passing waiter and ordered them. “Julia, have you ever thought it might be your husband doing this to you? Ex-husband, I mean.”

  “But, why? Why him, of all people?”

  “Why not? Love and hate are two sides of a dollar. And this sure feels like hate to me.”

  “And to me.” She shivered and reached for her jacket. Putting it on, “I just don’t know.” She thought about it. “It was all so…so sad at the end. He felt he had a duty to his family…Sometimes, since Dominic was born—since I failed him so…Didn’t do my duty by him, if you like; I’ve wondered if Breckon wasn’t right. If one doesn’t have to do one’s duty. Regardless. So…Might he hate me for refusing to see it?”

  “You’ve heard from him since?”

  “Never.” Oh God, how that had hurt. “Not a word. Not from Breckon or from any of the others. Well, of course, I wouldn’t have expected to hear from them. And—they didn’t know about Dominic. So—no reason for them to write. Better not, really. I don’t know a single thing that’s happened at La Rivière since I left. Except”—she had thought of this often—”it never made the newspapers. So nothing too dreadful can have happened.”

  “You thought it would?”

  “I don’t know. I mean…whether it was just me…or the whole setup there. The doctor—McCartland—told me to get Breckon away…but I don’t know if it was because he thought him actually in danger or just because of the way they all kind of batted on him. The money was his, you know; all left to him when his Cousin John died, in a kind of trust to look after the family. That’s why we had to go back there, soon after we were married. Things were in a mess, Breckon said. He had to sort them out. But I had no idea he meant to stay, till we arrived, and there they all were, taking it for granted. I still didn’t believe it; not at first. It was all wrong for him. Oh, of course he had to clear things up, but he’s a whiz at figures; he said himself it wouldn’t take long. But such a waste…He could have made a fortune, Sir Charles said. One of his own…” Her eyes blurred with tears. Suddenly, Breckon’s face was clear before them, the fine bones, the deep brown eyes under fair hair that never would lie flat. How she had hated the way Amanda and Fanny used to stroke it into place for him…

  “Time for food.” Tarn stood up abruptly. Had he noticed her tears? He sounded, suddenly, almost angry as he paid the hovering waiter and took her arm to guide her across the square. “Much too cold to eat out.” He turned her down a narrow alley. “There’s a place I read about on the way to St. Mark’s. Sounds a bit of all right.”

  It was a big ground-floor room with a roaring fire on an old-fashioned hearth, and Julia, glancing at the vast menu that suggested still vaster prices, found herself wondering how well Tarn did as an illustrator. But he made her order lavishly. “And champagne, don’t you think, in honour of our first meeting?”

  “Two days ago.” It seemed incredibly longer. She drank the aperitif Tarn had insisted on ordering and wondered what had happened to the gay, almost defiant mood in which she had come out to meet him. Something, somehow had gone wrong between them, and the evening dwindled into a laborious business of manufactured conversation. Answering a stilted question about her work with Sir Charles, she found herself wondering whether Tarn was not perhaps regretting his involvement with her. Had he invented tomorrow’s appointment in order to disengage himself tactfully from her search? It was a daunting thought, and she found herself, and was ashamed of it, consciously trying to charm her now silent companion.

  “Sorry, girl.” He smiled at her with a sudden return of warmth. “To quote from the book, I’m low as a shag on a rock tonight. The job’s bugging me. And I’m biting my nails about you. I don’t one bit like the feel of all this.” He jumped to his feet. “Hang on a moment. I think I’ll phone old Heyward and put him off. Do him good. No reason I should let him foul us up.”

  “Oh, please—” But he was gone, with a quick word to the waiter on the way.

  Coffee and two glasses of strega had appeared before he returned, shaking his head. “No joy. He must be out on the town. Sorry to let you down, Scheherazade, but maybe I’d best meet the old bore. I’ve the worst feeling he’s going to make a dog’s breakfast of that book if I don’t watch it. All my work wasted.”

  “How frightful. Have you done much?”

  “Background. Before I came over. Plenty and to spare.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me.” Was she stupid, too, to be trusting him? His quick changes of front baffled and disconcerted her. She finished her strega. “Do you mind if we go along? I’m whacked.”

  “Long, hard day?” He turned to summon the waiter, who had vanished, as waiters will when wanted. “Sorry, girl.” He made a quick, efficient Australian sc
ene, got a bill from the headwaiter, left what Julie suspected of being an enormous tip, and shepherded her out into cool night air. “Sorry about all that.” He took her arm. “This way. The vaporetto will be the quickest. The Fenice stop is somewhere round here. Which reminds me. I thought we might give the opera a whirl. I’ve never been. Turandot, it’s called, if that’s how you pronounce it. Day after tomorrow. How about it?”

  “I’d love to.” Would she? Tomorrow, she would telephone Sir Charles; ask to have Tarn Menzies investigated. Mad not to have thought of this in the first place. Crazy to have talked to him so freely. Or—crazy to suspect him? After all, that scene at Victoria had been genuine enough. There had been three lines about it in the morning’s Herald Tribune. “Girl injured in station fall.” Poor Pamela had ended up in hospital with multiple injuries. Nobody would stage a scene like that. So—Tarn had to be genuine. His arm was comforting under hers. “Goodness”—there was a hint of apology in her tone—”how well you’ve learned your way round.” He was guiding her down a narrow alley, darkly overhung by high, secret buildings.

  “Built-in bump of direction. We ‘Strines need it, all alone in the outback, with nothing but ‘roos and rabbits.” He was teasing her and she liked it. “Here we are.” The landing stage at Santa Maria Zobenigo was deserted. “Damn, we must have just missed a boat.” The landing stage, small and dark, rocked gently under their feet. From behind, footsteps sounded in the alley, coming towards them, not fast, but steady. Two men? Three?

  Listening, she could feel he was listening too. “Julia, I don’t know that I like this. Stand back. Away from the water. It’s probably nothing. Imagination. Nerves…”

  Three shadows emerged from the alley and moved forward, their feet silent now, on wood. Faceless figures. The creatures of her nightmare. Tarn was fighting them, savagely, quietly, cursing under his breath in those unknown four-letter Australian words he had abjured. “Julia! Shout for help!” He went down as he spoke, and one of the shadows detached itself to advance on her. And, then, a miracle. A blinding glare of light and a water taxi sliding to a stop by the wharf. “Taxi, signor?”

  As swiftly as they had come, the shadows vanished. Tarn rose shakily to his feet. “Thank God for that.” He helped Julia on board. “Did you see them?” he asked the boatman.

  “Muggers.” The man spat into the water and started his engine. “I never see them. Where to, signor?”

  “The Salute.” He had a handkerchief to his face, and she saw the dark stain grow. “Do you believe they were muggers?” he asked in English.

  “I…don’t…know.” Slowly. “But why? Why attack me? If that’s what it was.”

  “God knows. Maybe you’re doing too well. Coming too close. Because we’d sure as hell have been two dead ducks in the canal if this Galahad hadn’t shown up. And, glory be, here we are.” The boat nosed into the Salute wharf and he paid the man and helped her ashore. “Dead lucky, that’s us.”

  “I’ll say.” She looked anxiously at the spreading patch of dark blood on his handkerchief. “Oughtn’t you to keep the boat and go home?”

  “And let you go back through those lanes alone? Not on your sweet life. I’m OK, Julia, word of a ‘Strine I am. It’s just a nosebleed, not exactly elegant. But I’m sure glad that water taxi turned up. Our saviour.” Something she had not heard before in his tone. Rage.

  “Yes. We were lucky.” More than ever, his warm arm was a comfort. The alleys, so picturesque and full of life in the daytime, were terrifying, now, heavy with the echo of those remembered, advancing feet. And yet here and there a couple stood in a darker corner, close embraced, and Julia found herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Tarn Menzies.

  She was not to find out tonight. More and more, his arm in hers, she was aware of the rage in him. “Thank God you were with me,” she said. “I’m…grateful, Tarn.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Again that note of savage irony in his voice. “I’m just sorry I didn’t give a better account of myself. The buggers...Sorry, girl!” They had reached the door of the Da Rimini. “For God’s sake take care tomorrow. Though, mind you, the more I think…I bet it was just a random thing…Muggers on the lookout for rich opera buffs…But just the same…”

  “I know. I can’t help wondering. But why?”

  “I can’t think. So—probably just our bad luck. Only, for my sake, and your own, Julia, stay in the open tomorrow? With the crowds?”

  “Believe me, I will. And—thank you again, Tarn. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “For God’s sake, yes! A bloody nosebleed.” With an obvious effort, he managed a lighter note. “Fine hero I’d make. Night, girl. Pleasant dreams.”

  Pleasant dreams! Fear walked with her back into the Da Rimini. In the lobby, a lively group of young people were making plans for the next day. A tall young man was quietly strumming a guitar; at the desk, a girl in a long grey smock was carrying on an endless, cheerful telephone conversation with someone, by the sound of it, in England. In all the lonely years, Julia had never felt so completely isolated. If the telephone had been free, she thought she would have called Sir Charles. As it was, she picked up her key and went upstairs, fear beside her.

  She crossed the outside bridge, put the key in her own lock, and felt the ghosts lying in wait for her in the darkened room. Fear and depression. The old enemies. At least, after all this time, she knew how to fight them. All the lights on. Then, meticulously, carefully, she undressed, hung away her clothes, brushed her teeth, and made ready for the night, each habitual gesture a conscious effort. At last, wondering if she dared turn off the light, she remembered that the one from the bridge shone in through inadequate curtains, and made herself do it. Then, lying very still, as the psychiatrist had taught her, she began to try and relax, was convinced it was impossible, then began to drift…Surfacing for a moment, she had time for one thought. Surely, at least, after tonight, she knew she could trust Tarn. Comforted by this, at last, she slept.

  Chapter Six

  “CHRIST! That imagination of yours!” Breckon’s eyes shone with anger; his fair hair was rumpled where he had run an angry hand through it; a little colour, pure rage, tinted his fine-drawn cheekbones. “So maybe it wasn’t a tramp attacked you both.” His voice rose for a moment, then sank again to the whisper that so exacerbated the argument. He looked quickly across to the other bed, where Fanny still slept. “What does it prove? God knows there are enough lunatic students running wild. A scared kid, I expect, who frightened himself as much as he did you.”

  “Did they find the hypodermic? The one that killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” Impatiently. “That’s the cops’ affair. Julia, will you for God’s sake stop making like Sir Charles’ assistant and make some sense? Things are bad enough without you acting crazy. Amanda’s not a bit well, and I think Raoul is in for one of his bouts. And poor Fanny…” He moved over to look down at his half-sister.

  “Nurse Morris doesn’t think there’s much wrong with her.”

  “Nurse Morris! Trouble-making bitch. I ought to fire her for upsetting you so.”

  “Breckon, she didn’t upset me. She just told me what’s going on. Which is more than anyone else has.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I know it must seem I’ve neglected you since you got back, but you must see how busy I’ve been. The servants are in a panic, God knows why. I thought for a while they were going to quit in a body.” He looked at his watch. “Time you were asleep. Where’s that damned nurse?”

  “Breckon, she’s only been gone fifteen minutes. It’s not long to get supper.” Or long to talk to your wife, she thought, but did not say.

  “I’m sorry, love.” He could still read her mind. “I’m bushed, is the truth. No sleep last night, and not much the night before. And all this…I wish Cousin John hadn’t died.”

  “My God, so do I. Breckon, please, let’s get away from here. Just as soon as we can.”

  “We can’t.” Whispering,
his voice cracked. “Don’t you see, love, this is my job. I’m responsible for them all. I’ve got to stay here, and cope. If only you’d help me.”

  “Oh, God.” Her head felt heavy as lead on the pillow. “Breckon, I’m too tired…”

  “Of course you are, love. Ah.” With relief. “There you are, Nurse.” He bent to kiss Julia. “Sleep well, darling. Better in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” Would she be alive in the morning?

  “Sorry I was so long.” Nurse Morris moved briskly about the room, settling things for the night. “Chaos in the kitchen. What’s with the staff?”

  “I don’t know. My husband said something.”

  “Scared silly. You’d think we were back in the Dark Ages: voodoo, mumbo-jumbo, the lot. Took me all this time to get some chicken creole soup. Strongest I ever tasted.” She was looking down at Fanny. “She doesn’t look dangerous to me.”

  “It’s her they’re afraid of?”

  “And the other one. Miss Amanda. Nothing wrong with her that I can see but nerves. Odd family though?” It was a question.

  “Yes.” Disloyal to say so. “I only met them two months ago.” It seemed two ages, and, looking back, seemed also incredible that a mere two months should have shown such a disastrous slump in her relations with Breckon.

  “I see.” She sounded as if she saw a great deal. “That brother-in-law of yours looks as if he was set to tie one on tonight.”

  “To—?”

  “Sorry! Don’t speak the language yet, do you? Well, no wonder. Mr. Raoul’s been drinking solidly ever since I got here. Straight bourbon—no ice, no soda, no nothing.”

  “Oh!” It all fell into place for Julia. “That’s what his ‘bouts’ are?”