Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  “In this city everything is connected with everything else,” said Fabrizio. “But the knots that tie them are usually so intricate that you can rarely follow the threads from one end to the other.”

  “I wouldn’t bother trying in this case,” said Lucia. “I’m sure you can find better things to fill your time with.”

  She might have been right. But as it turned out I was not to have much choice in the matter.

  9

  I was pulled into the intricate web the very next night. The first intimation of my newly entangled state came in the form of hard, insistent pummelling sounds. I passed from a confused dream in which the two bronze Moors on the clock tower were pounding me with their long hammers to an only slightly less confused realisation that the urgent knocks were being administered to my bedroom door (which is also my front door, my apartment consisting of just the one room).

  I sat up. The gaps above the window shutters told me that it was still dark. I guessed that I had been asleep only a couple of hours.

  “Who is it?” I called out.

  The knocking ceased. “It’s me, Boscombe,” came a muffled voice.

  This made little more sense than my previous notion that the Moors had come to life. “What –”

  “Just open the door, please!”

  I pushed the bedclothes from me, stumbled across the room and turned the key.

  A little light from the tavern on the floor below seeped up the stairs and I could just make out his face, white and anxious, above a dark cloak. I thought he was even shaking.

  “Please let me in,” he said. “I need to sit down.”

  I stood aside and he stumbled in. I wondered if he was drunk. Then I told myself the man was no longer employing me and so I said out loud: “Excuse me, sir, but have you been drinking?”

  “No, really. Not a drop. Where can I sit? I can’t see anything.”

  I groped for my tinderbox and a tallow candle. A few moments later the young man’s tense figure was visible by its flickering light. He was definitely pale; he looked out of breath and his eyes darted nervously around the room.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “If I had known you were coming I would have tidied up.” I pointed to the little table by the window and my one stiff chair. “You can sit down there, sir.”

  He crossed the room, picking his way through the scattered clothes and piles of books, and sat down with a grateful sigh.

  “To what do I owe –” I began.

  “He’s dead,” he said abruptly.

  “Who?”

  “Shackleford.” He said it almost impatiently, as if it were obvious.

  “I’m sorry,” I said clumsily. “My condolences –”

  “He was killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yes, killed!” His voice had risen several notches so that it was almost a scream. “Murdered!”

  “But who – how –”

  Suddenly he bent over the desk with his face resting on his left arm and started sobbing.

  Like all men faced by another man in tears I felt at a loss. Fortunately he got a grip on himself and sat up.

  “Sorry,” he said with some difficulty. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Just tell me what happened.” I forgot the difference in rank as I spoke.

  He was too upset himself to notice the lack of deference. “I didn’t know where else to turn,” he said. “Then I remembered your card and found I still had it. The people downstairs told me where you lived.”

  “Very kind of them,” I said drily. Carlo and Giovanna who ran the tavern would presumably see nothing odd in someone calling on me at two in the morning. The tavern usually closed around one thirty; it had taken me a few months to habituate myself to sleeping through the buzz of voices and even the occasional rowdy choruses from the regular clients, and then through the clatter of pots and pans that would accompany my dreams for half an hour or so after closing time. My first night in the apartment had made it clear to me why the rent was so affordable. The tavern was officially just a magazen, which was only supposed to serve cheap wines, but the luganegher next door, run by Carlo’s cousin, provided sausages and other forms of meat, and there was a constant to and fro between the two establishments; it was clear to me that all the washing up was done in the kitchens of Carlo’s magazen.

  “You see, there’s no one else. I don’t think I can trust anyone. Not the count. Nor his Excellency Loredan … I don’t know whether I can go to the Resident, not after this.”

  “After what?”

  “I’m going to tell you. Wait. Wait.” He sat there breathing hard for a few moments.

  I waited. To try to relieve the tension I picked up a few stray garments and discreetly pushed my chamber pot under the bed, out of sight.

  “You see, I followed him,” he said.

  “Your tutor?”

  “Yes. I felt sure he was up to something. I never believed that theft, you know.”

  “Theft?”

  “Yes, you remember. The night we arrived at the White Lion.”

  “Ah yes. You didn’t believe it? You mean you didn’t believe there had been a burglary?”

  “Well, I did at first. But later…” He looked sharply at me: “Did you believe it?”

  I shook my head. “I had my doubts,” I said. “But as I didn’t know what was supposed to have been taken, I kept my suspicions to myself.”

  “It was the book,” he said.

  “What book?”

  “About Marino Faliero.” He used the Italian, rather than the Venetian, form of the name.

  “Ah,” I said. There had to be a reason why things kept coming back to a fourteenth-century doge. “So why would anyone steal a book on Marin Falier? What sort of book was it? A history book?”

  “Well, I didn’t know exactly, because it was in Italian. But Shackleford told me it explained the Rosicrucian mysteries. Because Marino Faliero was one of the first initiates.”

  “I’ve never heard that,” I said. “But if you say so. Or rather if Mr Shackleford said so.”

  “I had better start at the beginning,” he said.

  “That would help.”

  “The book was in my father’s library. I was no bookworm, no point pretending that, but my father used to like this book and take it out so I recognised it when I saw it in Shackleford’s luggage.”

  “In his luggage?”

  “Yes. I had the impression there was something he was hiding. He would close his trunk whenever I came near; rearrange his clothes to cover something. So one day in Milan, when he wasn’t around, I had a look. Thought he might have some erotic pictures or something. And I found my father’s book. So naturally I asked him about it.” He was breathing more normally now and his voice had lost its agitated tone.

  “And he had an explanation?”

  “He was very embarrassed. He apologised over and over again. He said he intended to return it when we got back to England but this journey was too good an opportunity to miss. He wasn’t likely ever to be able to come to Italy again. He had thought of asking permission but then decided he couldn’t bear the idea of being refused. I mean, my father is dead but my mother probably would have said no, out of respect for his memory.”

  “Too good an opportunity for what?”

  “That’s the point. He told me the book dealt with Marino Faliero’s explorations of the Rosicrucian mysteries and that in Venice there was a man who could probably make use of the knowledge. The nobleman Piero Garzoni.”

  “And you believed him.”

  Boscombe seemed a little startled by this question. “Well, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Tell me,” I said, “did Mr Shackleford know that you were interested in these things? Rosicrucian mysteries?” I resisted the temptation to add “and that sort of nonsense”.

  “Well, yes, of course. He shared my interest. Although he had to keep quiet about it in front of my mother, who doesn’t understand these t
hings. And he said we shouldn’t mention it over here, either, since the authorities don’t approve of such things. That’s why we didn’t tell anyone when the book was stolen.”

  “But he could have just decided to tell you that story about Marin Falier as a way to win you over, after you had caught him out with the book. And you admit you haven’t read it.”

  This was clearly a new idea for him. “But surely –”

  “It’s just that I have never heard anyone claim that Marin Falier had anything to do with the Rosicrucian mysteries.”

  “The count said it too!” he said, with an air of slightly desperate triumph.

  “Ah, the count,” I said.

  “He is a true initiate,” he said. “Even if…”

  “Even if what?”

  “Well, I realise now he took me to some rather shady gambling places. But I suppose a man like that has to make a living like everyone else. And he certainly knew the rituals.”

  I decided this was not worth pursuing right now. We needed to get to the murder. “So you followed Mr Shackleford.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Over the last few days I began to think he was hiding something from me again. He was definitely acting suspiciously.”

  “You think he still had the book?”

  “Well, I began to wonder. The story of the burglary had come from him. You’ll remember that I came back from my ride in the gondola to find him very upset, complaining that we had been robbed. But no one else saw anything. Nothing else had been taken.”

  So it was possible for Boscombe to have his suspicions aroused, I thought. It probably took him a little longer than most people – and possibly a series of relentless losses at the gambling table helped.

  “But,” I said, “there were people after that book.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure whether Shackleford knew. But it made me realise the book must contain some very important secrets. So naturally I was sorry it had been stolen. However, it wasn’t the end of the world. I thought we could still try to meet this nobleman Garzoni and that would be interesting. And then we bumped into the count and that was a real stroke of luck, since he was actually living with Garzoni.”

  “Very lucky,” I said.

  “So for the next week or so the count kept meeting us, taking us to gambling houses, showing us some of the sights of the city. And he said he would introduce us to his Excellency Piero Garzoni but it wasn’t easy, the nobleman was a very retiring man, he would have to choose the right moment…”

  “Right. And when did you start wondering about Mr Shackleford and the book?”

  “Well, he would go off on his own. Nothing wrong with that, of course. I mean, goodness knows I didn’t want him with me all the time. Especially in the evenings … But if I asked him what he had been doing he always sounded a little shifty. I did have another look through his luggage, actually; I mean, the fellow is in my service, after all. Didn’t find anything. But I began to wonder. And then one evening I heard the count and Shackleford talking together and I heard the count say, ‘You’ve got it, haven’t you?’ and Shackleford said, ‘No, no, I swear it’s been stolen.’ And then they must have realised I could hear them and they changed the subject.”

  “So the count knew about it.”

  “Well, it seemed so.”

  “So maybe that encounter with the count in the square wasn’t quite so unplanned.” I was remembering the letter that Shackleford had found for himself at the Queen of Hungary, which had seemed to cheer him.

  “Oh, you think so?” Boscombe was struck by this. After a few seconds, during which I could almost hear the cogs of his brain whirring as he adjusted his mind to this new notion, he said: “Well, this afternoon he received a note at the inn. He kept it to himself but I could see it made him thoughtful. In the evening he asked if I was going out with the count, as usual, and as it happened I wasn’t. I had decided to have a quiet evening for once; I mean, you can’t drink and play every night, you know.”

  “No, I imagine not,” I said.

  “I could see this rather put him out. Anyway, I retired to bed early. And later I heard him creeping out. So I thought, well, now let’s see what you’re up to. And so I followed him.” The tremor returned to his voice. “Why didn’t I just challenge him? It would have been so much – so much better.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to affect his flow of thoughts at this point.

  He went on. “Well, he obviously knew where he was going. Much better than I did. After all, I’ve always got around the city by gondola. This was the first long walk I’d been on. We crossed that square with the man on the horse at one point.”

  “The statue of Colleoni. Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo.”

  “Yes, a big church. And a big building with a white façade next to it. Lions on the façade. That was where I had to be careful to stay some way back. Then he turned right, crossed a bridge, maybe two bridges, and entered a house. I waited for a while, maybe as long as ten minutes, just keeping my eye on the door. Nobody else went in or out.”

  “Could you hear any voices?”

  “There was a tavern nearby which made a fair bit of noise so I couldn’t hear anything from the house. At one point I thought I heard some kind of cry and a thumping noise…” He fell silent as his mind clearly relived these moments. “So then I thought, well, I’ve come this far. I might as well see what’s going on up there. The door opened with just a push and there was a staircase. I went up. Of course it was all completely dark and I didn’t have a lantern. At the top of the stairs there was just a little light coming from under a door so I presumed that was where Shackleford was. So I stood outside the door for a while, just listening. Couldn’t hear anything. I pushed the door.”

  Another pause. His eyes turned to the candle, as if seeking comfort in its flickering light.

  “And there he was. Blood everywhere. I must have let out some kind of cry. That was presumably what roused the people in the other apartment.”

  “So you were seen?”

  “Yes. Not at once. Wait…”

  He swallowed and started again. “He was sitting propped up against the wall, and he was staring straight at me. I mean, his eyes were open. And there was a big gash across his throat. Blood all down him. And on the floor. I slipped in it.” He looked down at his foot, as if to see if there were still stains. “Nothing I could do for him. I mean, he was clearly dead.”

  “So what did –”

  “Wait. That’s not all.”

  I waited.

  “He was dressed in women’s clothes. And he had these cat’s ears on his head.” He paused. “It wasn’t funny.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “And there was no one else there. No one. Just me and him.”

  “Did you search the place?”

  “There were two rooms. All very luxurious. You know, lots of little carvings. Painted ceiling. A small chandelier – with candles still lighted. A table – for gambling, I presume. And a bed in the second room.”

  “A casino,” I said. That was the name for these discreet sets of rooms, which usually belonged to noblemen: places where they could indulge in private gambling and other intimate activities. Boscombe must have been familiar with the word, since he had been regularly visiting the casino of the Loredan family.

  “Yes. And he just lay there.” He paused, and then said very simply: “Poor Shackleford.”

  “So then?”

  “I panicked. I just wanted to get away. I opened the door. And at that moment the door on the other side of the landing opened and a woman looked out. She stared straight at me – and then she must have seen Shackleford behind me, because I hadn’t closed the door yet. And she screamed.”

  “And you ran for it?”

  “I tried to say something like calm down, signora…”

  I winced. “So she must have heard you weren’t Venetian.” />
  “I suppose so. I wasn’t thinking. Then I ran. And she just kept screaming. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs I could hear other doors opening. And people looked out of the tavern as well.”

  “And you came straight here.”

  “Yes. Well, not straight. I had to ask the way. You were the only person I could think of who might be able to help. All I had was your card, so I had to ask people for directions.”

  “Right.” So fairly soon word was going to get round that a man with a foreign accent had been seen fleeing the scene of the murder and then asking for directions to my house. He might as well have left a trail of bloody footprints. Perhaps he had done that too.

  I said slowly: “You realise that you will probably be traced to this house.”

  His eyes widened. “You won’t give me away.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure what you think I can do for you.”

  “Hide me! I didn’t do anything … I can’t…”

  I waved my hands around the apartment. “Hide you where?”

  “Help me escape then. Your gondolier friend. He can take me to the mainland.”

  “Sir, Bepi has a living to make in this city. He can’t take such a risk.”

  He had got to his feet and put his hands to his face. I realised he was quite likely to break down in tears again.

  I spoke as calmingly as possible. “Sir, what you must do now is collect your thoughts and decide what you are going to tell the authorities. You cannot run away from this. Remember you are a man of good birth, from a nation that is respected. You will be treated with deference. There is an English Resident in the city who will do what he can for you. Running away would be the worst solution.”

  “What will my mother say? My family?”

  “Didn’t you say you have family in Italy? In Florence? You must write to them.”

  He grabbed at this. “Yes, my uncle. And his daughter, my cousin.”

  “Tell me their names.”

  “Mr Hugh Boscombe. His daughter is Clare. She’s intelligent. She’ll know what to do. We grew up together. She’ll vouch for me.”