One Way to Venice

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Seems so. Here, you’re not supposed to get out of bed!”

  “Oh, yes, I am.” Julia was on her feet. “I’m going to have a bath.” She moved over to the half-open door of the private bathroom, then turned back. “Nurse—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not such a poor thing as I’ve been letting on. You’ve seen the family. Do you wonder I’m lying low? So, keep my secret?”

  “Sure thing.” She yawned and laughed all at once. “I thought it was funny, an upstanding girl like you acting half-dead just for a miscarriage. Well”—she had seen Julia’s expression—”I know, dear, but it’s not the end of the world, is it? So you go ahead and have your bath—only don’t lock the door, just in case—and I’ll fix up sleeping beauty here. She’s not had her pills yet. And then, thank God for a good night’s sleep. I’m bushed.”

  Lying in the blissful bath, Julia thought it an odd admission for a night nurse. But then, she remembered, Nurse Morris must have come straight from the General Hospital. When did the poor girl sleep?

  Emerging at last, she found the answer all too obvious. Nurse Morris was sitting in the room’s one easy chair legs up on a stool, breathing deep and heavily, fast asleep.

  Too fast asleep? Julia felt as if Sir Charles was at her elbow, pointing out the classic symptoms he had described so often. “Strongest soup I ever tasted,” the girl had said. Her highly seasoned chicken creole soup might have contained any drug, and she would not have noticed. Why should she have? Night nurses do not expect to be drugged before going on duty. Julia moved over to the door and found it had no lock. Why should it? She propped a chair under the knob and went back to Nurse Morris.

  “Nurse!” She shook her, hard. “Nurse!” No response. She looked round the room. No telephone. The curtained window spoke of the dark evergreen shubbery outside. And, inevitably, it would be from outside that danger would come. It must not seem like anything to do with the family. She turned off the overhead light and went over to pull up a careful corner of curtain and look at the catch of the French windows. A nothing. A triviality. She herself could have opened the long windows with a toothpick. Well, no, with a nail file. Thinking like Sir Charles, she began to feel like him. Competent.

  And about time too. She was alone, in this dangerous house, with two drugged women, and someone had plans for them all. She looked at her watch. Half past eleven. Surely nothing would happen for a while yet? The enemy would not know how long the drug would take to affect Nurse Morris, and would also, surely, be allowing for the sedatives she herself and Fanny were supposed to take. That reminded her of something. She crossed the room and saw the two torpedo-shaped pills still in the saucer on Fanny’s bedside table. The nurse must have passed out cold the minute she was alone. An appallingly strong dose of whatever it was, and the sooner she had help the better. Julia thought of the long, dark corridor that linked this isolated wing with the rest of the house. She was almost convinced that danger, when it came, would come from outside, but could she be sure of it? Dared she risk leaving the two other women alone? Somehow, illogically, decisive was the fact that she had no clothes but her chiffon nightgown and negligee.

  She began to shake Fanny. “Fan! Fan dear, wake up!” So far as she knew, Fanny had taken no medicine of any kind since she herself had got back, and certainly her sleep now seemed light and natural enough.

  She turned over, grunted sleepily, then opened her eyes. “What’s the matter?” Her voice was reassuringly as near normal as usual. She merely sounded, predictably, cross.

  “Fan, dear, the nurse is sick. I can’t get her to wake up. Can you give me a hand with her?”

  “Who? Oh—” She looked across at the slumped figure in the chair. “Why bother? She’ll sleep it off.”

  It was bafflingly logical. Time was seeping past. The others would be in bed by now. Yes. She moved across the room to peer out once more, cautiously, from behind the curtains. The lights in the main house were all out. Was someone, over there, watching from a darkened room to see when their light, too, went out? No, the enemy would not wait for that. They might well expect Nurse Morris to fall asleep as she had, leaving the light on.

  “Come on, Fan.” She picked up the dressing gown from the foot of Fanny’s bed. “We really do have to wake her.” And then, an inspiration. “Raoul told me to.”

  “Raoul? Why?” But she stretched out an obedient arm and took the dressing gown.

  “I don’t know.” Which, God knew, was true enough. “He just said so. She’s on duty. She oughtn’t to be asleep.”

  “Of course not.” Fanny got quite briskly out of bed, swayed for a minute, then finished putting on her dressing gown. “Naughty.” She looked at Nurse Morris, then surprised Julia by slapping her quite hard on one cheek. The nurse stirred a little, and Fanny slapped her on the other cheek. “Very naughty.” The girl stirred again and muttered something.

  “Aren’t you clever?” said Julia. “Let’s see if we can get her on to her feet, shall we, and make her walk? That ought to wake her.”

  “Yes. Must wake her.” Fanny slapped the nurse a little harder and Julia realised with a qualm that she was enjoying herself.

  “Come on, then.” She took the chair away from under the doorknob, opened the door, and looked cautiously down the corridor. There should have been a light burning. Instead, there was blackness, and a smell of smoke. Fire. Why had she not thought of that? The ideal “accident.” Three drugged women incapable of saving themselves, and, probably, no evidence by morning. She had often heard the family discussing the need for rewiring the whole place, and the prohibitive expense of it. This old wing was built entirely of wood, and there had been no rain for weeks. Impossible to tell from which of the rooms that lay between them and the main building the smoke was coming, but its increasing volume warned her that there was no time to be lost. Not a hope of getting Nurse Morris down that long corridor, which might at any moment become a hall of fire. She must get them out on the porch and pray that whoever had set the fire had not stayed to watch it. Surely they would be elsewhere, establishing an alibi, just in case?

  She shut the door behind her and saw with relief that the nurse had responded a little more to Fanny’s continued rhythmic, ruthless slapping. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “The wing is on fire. The wiring must have gone at last.” She paused. If she drew the curtains and opened the French windows, it would be to announce to anyone watching that someone was awake in here. She dared not risk it. On the other hand if she turned out the light it would also tell a possible watcher that someone was awake. It was the lesser risk. If she could get them out in the dark.

  She remembered something. “Fan, have you got your flashlight?”

  “Of course.” Fanny was terrified of the dark and always had one by her bed. She stopped slapping the nurse and went to fetch it from the drawer of her bedside table, and as she picked it up the light went out. She screamed, but to Julia’s passionate relief, a small circle of light, flickering wildly, showed that she had not dropped the flashlight.

  “The power must have gone.” It was the one thing she had not thought of, but the enemy would have. “We must hurry. Turn the beam on the window, Fanny, and I’ll get it open.” She kept her voice calm, and the wavering beam of the flashlight steadied on the windows. When she opened them, she heard the fire, crackling merrily, a few windows down. “No!” She had turned to see Fanny coming towards her, flashlight in hand, bent on escape. “We’ve got to save Nurse Morris, Raoul said so; don’t you remember?” She snatched the flashlight from Fanny’s hand and pulled her back to the chair where the nurse had slumped down again, breathing stertorously. “Fire!” she shouted. “Fire, Nurse Morris! We’ve got to wake the patients.” And then, to Fanny, “Come on, Fan, get your arm under hers. Now: one, two, three—up!” They pulled together and as the girl came out of the chair, Julia felt her make a feeble effort to help. “That’s it.” The flashlight in her left hand lighted their staggering wa
ys toward the open windows. The sound of the fire, loud and close now, told her that she had no choice of direction on the screened porch. They must go away from the house, to the door at the end, and chance what might be waiting for them in the tangle of shrubbery below.

  The French windows were too narrow for three, and leading the way, Julia thought for a moment that they would never get Nurse Morris through them. But Fanny had seen the glow of the fire now. Fanny was terrified and pushed the nurse over the threshold into Julia’s arms. Then, emerging herself, she ran, screaming along the porch into the darkness.

  “Hold up, Nurse,” said Julia desperately as the girl slumped against her. “We’ve got to get the patients out,” she said again.

  It was the call of duty, and, as she had hoped, the nurse responded by stiffening a little. “Which way?” The words came out blurred.

  “Come!” Now Nurse Morris was taking her own staggering steps along the verandah. If anyone was waiting at the far end, the two of them must be clearly silhouetted against the fire. Fanny had stopped screaming. What did that mean?

  Behind them, the fire was roaring now. Julia raised her voice to shout above it. “Fanny, where are you? Breckon, hurry! This way, Nurse!” If there was someone waiting, they must think they had three conscious women to deal with. Unless, as she horribly feared, they had already dealt with Fanny? But, no, there at the corner of the porch where the stairs went down was Fanny, clinging to the newel post, gazing down at the black mass of the shrubbery below. There had once been a path winding through it, Julia knew, taking an ornamental route among azalea bushes back to the main carriage sweep, but tangling wisteria and wild grapevines had gone far to close it. Not much chance of getting Nurse Morris along it, even if Fanny was prepared to help. And she dared not try and skirt the edge of the verandah for fear of the fire.

  Fanny was pulling her hand. “The back way.”

  “Back way?”

  “Servants’ path. Shortcut to their quarters. Come on!” Firelight, much nearer now, showed her face shiny with terror.

  “Which way?” Between them, they were getting the nurse awkwardly down the steps, and Julia realised with a sigh of relief that Fanny’s fear of that dark shrubbery would keep her with them. She was afraid, too; horribly afraid of what might be waiting for them there in the darkness, but just the same, they must lose no time. Far too dangerous to stay where they were.

  The back path circled the end of the verandah, and they rounded it just in time. Flames were pouring up out of the end windows now, and a series of crashes told that the middle of the building was falling in. But luckily the path left the building at once, cutting a fairly well-trodden swathe through the bushes towards the black loom of the servants’ wing at the back of the house. No lights there. But surely, Julia thought, some-one, soon, must be wakened by the noise of the fire. “Hurry!” she urged Fanny. In her own desperation, she had so far not thought of the threat the fire presented to the rest of the house. Now, anxiously looking back as they turned away from the guest wing, she saw that the wind was fanning the flames away from the main building. It gave them a breathing space, but that was all.

  It was dark in the bushes, despite the glow of the fire, and the path only just held the three of them, staggering along, awkwardly linked, their faces slashed by trailing creepers in the darkness. One of them lashed across both Julia’s face and the nurse’s. “What’s the matter?” The girl’s voice was almost normal, and Julia felt her pull herself together.

  “The house is on fire,” said Julia. “Hurry!” And, as she said it, heard movement in the bushes behind them. Someone had been waiting on the narrow path that led to the front of the house. Someone who had thought, quite rightly, that she would not know of this path. And, now, was trying to catch them with more speed than secrecy. “Hurry!” she said again. And then, “Fanny! I can manage now. You run ahead and give the alarm. Quick! Think of Raoul. He might be burned in his bed. And, look, it’s lighter now.”

  It was indeed. The whole centre of the guest wing had fallen in with a roar and the windowless back wall that had once given on to the slaves’ quarters no longer sheltered them from the light and heat of the fire. Incredible that the servants who slept nearest the guest wing had not wakened. Then, horribly, Julia thought she understood. They must have had that strong creole soup, too. “Run, Fanny!” she cried. “Wake them. Wake everyone. Quick!”

  Nurse Morris had caught the infection and was trying to hurry on feet that still did not quite obey her. She tripped and almost fell, supported by Julia’s firm arm. Behind them, the noise of pursuit was much nearer. The unknown enemy must almost have reached their path. When he did, he would be upon them.

  Fanny was clear away. But who would believe Fanny? “Hurry!” Julia said again, and then almost stopped in her tracks at the wail of a siren. Thank God. Someone must have waked and reported the fire. And, miraculously, the siren was sounding from the service road that led to the back entrance, which was, come to think of it, the quickest way from the new bridge. “Help!” she shouted, knowing it useless, but hoping the pursuer might not. “This way!” And then, “Come on, Nurse we’re almost there.”

  Behind them, the sounds of pursuit ceased suddenly. To the right, and ahead, the siren rose to its highest note, then cut off with a scream of brakes. The fire engine had arrived. She could hear the shouts of firemen as they leapt down and got to work, and now, at last, saw lights begin to show on the dark bulk of the servants’ wing. Whoever had summoned the firemen must be waking the servants, or trying to.

  Another siren sounded from somewhere down near the bridge as Julia and the nurse emerged at last on to the drive behind the servants’ quarters. Feeling its shells crunch beneath her feet, Julia felt safe at last. But for how long? The firemen were desperately busy running out their hoses. Fanny had disappeared. And, worst of all, Nurse Morris was beginning to give way, her temporary flicker of consciousness exhausted. Julia, too, was feeling the inevitable reaction from the long, desperate day. Incredible that this morning she had been in St. Helen’s, mourning her miscarriage. The nurse slumped to the ground. They were still in the shadow of the bushes. And, somewhere behind her on the path, she heard stealthy movement, very quiet now, very careful, coming their way.

  The second siren blasted towards them and an ambulance surged out of the darkness, its lights picking up the nurse’s inert figure. It stopped beside them, and the world swung giddily around Julia. Absurd to faint, now, from sheer relief.

  “What gives?” Two men had jumped out, and one had her by the arm while the other bent over the nurse. Behind her, the silence in the shrubbery was absolute. And here was escape. Instant, certain escape. “The fumes…” She let herself sway to that dizzy movement of everything. “We were in there.” No need even to point to the blazing wing, where the firemen were now so busy. “I’m worried about her. Terrible time getting her out.”

  “I should think so,” said the man who was bending over the nurse. “She’s in a bad way. Nurse Morris.” Of course. He would know her. “No time to lose. You coming?” And then, almost as an afterthought. “Anyone else hurt?”

  “No.” Fanny was safe enough. “Yes, I’m coming.” Her teeth were chattering. With cold? With fright? With exhaustion?

  “Here!” The second man had fetched a blanket from the ambulance and wrapped it round her shoulders. “In you get.”

  “I think I’m going to faint.” She let him help her up. “I’m all right—really. But she needs help. Quick. I think she’s been drugged.”

  “Drugged?” said one, and, “That figures,” said the other. They were the last words Julia remembered.

  Chapter Seven

  BRUSHING HER hair, Julia paused, staring at the pale, dark-shadowed reflection in the glass, trying to sort out real from imagined terror. Absurd, in morning light, to have let herself think that last night’s attackers had anything to do with her search for Dominic. As Tarn had said, it must have been just a random mugging. She
shivered, wondering what would have happened if that blessed water taxi had not come by. And that, though lucky, was logical enough. The deserted pier of Santa Maria Zobenigo was the kind of place where people would be glad to settle for a taxi, however expensive. And with cause, she thought, remembering poor Tarn with his bleeding nose and his fury at having been bested.

  If only he could come with her today, as they had originally planned. Perhaps, after all, he would telephone to say he had managed to get hold of his author And put him off. And—perhaps not. There had been odd undertones to last night’s dinner, and, remembering them, she found herself wondering again whether Tarn had not perhaps tired of her and her problems. If so: hardly surprising. She made a face at her pallid other self in the glass. Was she letting herself turn into a bore, the kind of woman who talks forever about her own troubles? She thought that it was when she had spoken of Breckon that she had begun to lose touch with Tarn. Hardly surprising. And then, suddenly yielding to an old temptation, she pulled Breckon’s photograph out from the back of her jewel case. It could still move her to an almost intolerable sadness. We were right for each other, she thought. And then, again: it was my fault. Why had she realised this so clearly when she was talking to Tarn the night before? Having escaped, at seventeen, from her own unloved and unloving family, she had totally failed to understand Breckon’s commitment to his.

  How could he walk out on them, as she had demanded, straight after that disastrous fire? No one else in the family was capable of dealing with the sheer business involved. He had explained it to her, patiently, at the Fort Sumter Hotel to which she had retreated after seeing Nurse Morris into hospital. “They’re my duty, Julia, don’t you see? If I abandoned them, I might as easily abandon you.” And, “But that’s what you are doing,” she answered.

  True in a way. She had stayed for a wretched month at the hotel, while the police decided that the fire had been a mere accident, and Nurse Morris was reprimanded for sleeping on duty. She had paid Julia a furious visit. “You can speak up for me, Mrs. Rivers. You know as well as I do that was no accident. Neither the tramp, nor the fire. Just because it’s the Rivers it’s all to be hushed up, and I lose my chance of promotion.”