Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

“What do they do there?”

  “My uncle is a clergyman. And an antiquarian. He studies – you know, antiquities and that.”

  Not as useful as a diplomat or a lawyer, and the clerical qualification would not count greatly in Roman Catholic Venice; still, a respectable enough activity. It might help.

  “Tell me again about the casino: you’re sure there was no one else there?”

  “No one.”

  “And no one came out while you were waiting outside?”

  “No. But they must have – I mean, there must be another way out. The window. Something.”

  “Did you have time to look properly at Mr Shackleford?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he look as if had put on those clothes by himself?”

  “I don’t know. He was covered in blood. I didn’t stop to look at his – the way he was dressed.”

  “Even though he was wearing women’s clothes?”

  “Well, I could hardly help noticing that. But I didn’t look to see if he’d done the stays up properly…” He gave a grimace as he realised how incongruously comic this sounded. “He’d had his throat cut!” he said in a sudden high-pitched cry.

  “And was there a weapon?”

  He stopped to think. “Yes. A big knife. Covered in blood. I didn’t touch it.”

  It struck me that I had better get dressed. If I was going to receive the sbirri I would prefer to do it in more dignified apparel. I muttered an apology and started gathering my clothes.

  “Are we going to go back there?” he said, with clear dismay.

  “No,” I said, taking off my nightshirt. “Not unless they take us there.” I could hear new voices in the tavern below. I found yesterday’s clothes; they would have to do for another day. I imagined that the next few hours might bring about a certain amount of sweating, so I saw no point in putting on a clean shirt.

  “They?”

  “The people who have arrived at the tavern downstairs and are now asking about the arrival of a foreign gentleman.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Boscombe gave a desperate look at the window but I shook my head. “Stay calm,” I said. “React with dignity.”

  There was a knock at the door. I opened up. Two figures stood there, one of them holding a lantern. They were clearly sbirri: nobody else has that same look of menacing surliness, usually combined with a certain lack of sartorial flair.

  “How can we help you?” I said, making myself sound as Venetian as possible.

  “Looking for the foresto who just got here,” said the larger sbirro, the one holding the lantern. His accent had the rising intonation of western Dorsoduro, the area around San Nicolò, where nearly all the sbirri came from. His expression of surliness was exacerbated by a jagged scar that seemed designed to emphasise the downward tendency of his mouth.

  “He is ready to answer your questions,” I said, “but you will probably need me as an interpreter.”

  “That’s no problem,” he said. “We’ve got irons for both of you.” And his colleague held up two sets of fetters. I think he gave a surly grin as he did so, but it was difficult to tell as most of his face was hidden behind a matted forest of black hairs.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “We’re not going to try to escape.”

  “Rules are rules,” said the man with the jagged scar. “Hands behind your backs.”

  I translated for Boscombe. He gave just a faint whimper of protest but then obeyed. A few seconds later we both had our arms shackled behind us and were being pushed towards the doorway.

  “Are you going to let me lock the door behind us?” I said.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll look after your little house,” said the scarred man. “We’ll keep it real nice for you.”

  When we got out into the street I realised there were other sbirri waiting there. Carlo and Giovanna had come out of the tavern and were talking to them. Many of the windows around us were open, and curious faces were staring out.

  “Don’t worry about this,” I said to Carlo and Giovanna. “It’s all a mistake. I’ll be back later.”

  Carlo looked sceptical but Giovanna gave me an encouraging smile. “I’m sure it’ll all be sorted out,” she said. “We’ll keep everything nice for you.” The fact that she used the same expression as the sbirri was not encouraging, however motherly her tone. I could see three sbirri making their way upstairs as we talked. Well, there was nothing more incriminating for them to discover than my chamber pot, I thought. They were welcome to it.

  The man with the scarred face prodded us forward and off we went, to our first night in custody.

  10

  Half an hour later I was standing in a small room somewhere in the Doge’s palace, with my arms still tied behind my back and just one sbirro – the hairy one – by my side. Boscombe and I had been separated some minutes earlier, although I had not realised it at the time. I had no idea where in the palace I was, having lost all sense of direction since being pushed out of the gondola into the prison courtyard. It was only because I had realised, at a certain point during our scrambling up dark stone staircases and along cold stone corridors, that we were crossing the Bridge of Sighs that I knew I was now in the Doge’s palace itself: the heart of Venetian government – and of Venetian justice. But after that moment of recognition another series of torchlit staircases, twisting corridors and secret doorways had me newly bewildered. I suspected that this was not unintentional on the part of my captors.

  Venetian justice. For me, as for most citizens of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, these words were not entirely reassuring. I knew that many of the stories of what went on in the back rooms of the palace were exaggerated; I knew that executions were comparatively rare today and that it was not true that secret denunciations dropped by malevolent spirits into stone lions’ mouths resulted automatically in the arrest and secret dispatch of innocent victims. I knew these things – or, at least, I had known them up until a few hours ago. I felt a little less sure of them now.

  The room was narrow and lit by just one small chandelier with a few flickering candles. There were no windows. The walls on two sides were lined with tall cupboards; the door of one was slightly ajar, allowing me to see that it was crammed with sheaves of paper and books with dark leather covers. The furniture consisted of one desk against the far, narrow end of the room, with two chairs behind it. I guessed it would not be a good idea to ask if I could go and sit on one of them, though I was now aching with tiredness and tension.

  A figure in a dark cloak scuttled into the room, sat down at the desk and pulled a large book and a quill towards himself. He was not quite as daunting a figure as I had been expecting: round cheeks, a pair of glasses that glinted in the candlelight and a slightly lopsided wig. I should have felt relieved, perhaps, but the very softness of his features was in fact rather disturbing in its incongruity.

  Then came the colpo di grazia. In walked the Missier Grande.

  Every Venetian knows this figure. Leader of the sbirri, in direct contact with the Council of Ten, responsible for law and order throughout the city. His jet-black robe with its huge sleeves and white fur trimmings marks him out, and usually he only has to appear in the midst of a crowd for everyone to fall silent. He never carries a weapon and even when not flanked by cudgel-bearing sbirri can impose order by his presence alone.

  I had only ever seen him from a distance before that night, but was familiar with his lean, hard features. He stared straight at me and I saw that his eyes were of an icy blue. He sat down without glancing at the other man, who had scrambled to his feet at the moment he entered. Still without turning his head he put up his left hand; the man in glasses placed a sheet of paper in it. The Missier Grande glanced down at the paper for a second and then straight back at me.

  “Alvise Marangon,” he said. His voice was quiet and level, the voice of a man who knew he never had to shout.

  “That’s my nam
e, Illustrissimo,” I said, trying to reproduce his own quiet confidence and failing.

  “Son of Alvise Marangon, clerk at the Arsenale. And Fiammetta Visentin, actress.”

  “Yes, Illustrissimo.”

  “You have lived in Venice for nearly two years, having grown up in England.”

  “Yes,” I said again. There was really no need for me to say anything. There was not the slightest interrogative tone to any of his sentences.

  “And you have worked as a cicerone mainly for English visitors, with a regular licence, usually with the help of Bepi Zennaro, gondolier.”

  He gave the merest glance at the sheet of paper in his hands as he spoke; either he was a very fast reader or he already knew all these details about my life. I preferred to think he was a fast reader.

  “You ceased to be a cicerone for Signor Boscombe” – he pronounced it Boscombay – “a week ago.”

  “Yes, Illustrissimo,” I said again.

  “And yet tonight Signor Boscombay came running to your house after murdering his tutor.”

  “He says he did not do it,” I said.

  He ignored the remark. “He came running to you. Why is that?”

  Now that a question came at last, I found myself unprepared for it. I floundered for a few seconds and then said: “He knows no one else. No one who speaks English, that is.”

  The man in glasses started writing; his quill squeaked as it darted over the paper in front of him.

  “Were you going to help him escape?”

  “No,” I said. “I told him it would be useless to try. And as he is innocent he must trust in the Venetian system of justice.”

  “He was seen following his tutor. His tutor entered a casino alone. A few minutes later Signor Boscombay entered the same house. He emerged a few minutes later in an agitated state. The woman who lives in the house opposite saw the dead body of Signor Boscombay’s tutor in the room behind him and raised the alarm. No one else was found in the apartment. No one else could have fled the apartment.”

  “It sounds bad for Signor Boscombe,” I said, “but I am convinced he did not do it. He liked his tutor.”

  “Did the two men engage in sodomitic practices?”

  The scratching of the quill pen halted for a few seconds in momentary consternation.

  “I am sure they did not,” I said. Well, certainly not with each other. I saw no point in voicing this qualifying remark.

  The quill scribbled away.

  “Do you know if Signor Shackleford was in the habit of wearing women’s apparel?”

  “I am sure he was not,” I said.

  The Missier Grande just stared at me, his eyes boring into me like honed blue icicles. Then he spoke again: “Why was he following his tutor?”

  “He told me he wanted to know where he was going. He suspected Signor Shackleford of having stolen something from him.”

  “What?”

  “A book about Doge Marin Falier.”

  There was a momentary flicker in the blue eyes; I could not tell whether it was of surprise, disbelief or puzzlement.

  “And why did he think his tutor had stolen it?”

  “He didn’t know. It was a book that had belonged to his father, which his tutor had removed from the family library.”

  “And why?”

  “Well, according to Signor Boscombe, the tutor told him that the book contained cabalistic secrets and he thought someone in Venice would be able to interpret it.”

  “Someone?”

  Was I justified in bringing in another name? That of someone about whom I knew nothing? But this was a murder investigation. “The nobleman Piero Garzoni.”

  The blue eyes did not flicker now. “Did Signor Boscombay have any dealings with nobleman Piero Garzoni?”

  “It seems he never met him,” I said. “He met a certain Count Gelashvili, who claimed to know the nobleman, but the count did not effect an introduction.”

  The quill did not even hesitate as it came to the foreign name.

  “We know all about Count Gelashvili.”

  Well, of course you do. Perhaps you can even pronounce the name of his home town.

  “Illustrissimo,” I said, after a brief pause, “please allow me to repeat: I am fully convinced that Signor Boscombe did not murder Signor Shackleford. Signor Boscombe is a rather ingenuous young man, given to gambling and certain esoteric interests, but he is not a murderer.” Then, trying to think of an argument that would bear more weight, I added: “And he comes from a respectable English family.”

  “He is not a nobleman,” said the Missier Grande.

  “No,” I said, “he has no title, but he is an English gentleman. I am certain that his family is a distinguished one.”

  The blue eyes were not impressed. In Venice you are either of noble birth or you are not. The Missier Grande himself, of course, is not a nobleman, and no doubt for that reason appreciates all the more acutely just how important it is to be one.

  “He tells me his uncle lives in Florence and should be contacted. He is a distinguished antiquarian…”

  But not a noble one. The blue eyes continued to remain icily imperturbable. After a pause he said: “Naturally the English Resident here in Venice will be informed of what has happened. He will take whatever steps he considers appropriate.”

  “Perhaps I could help,” I said.

  “No.” The word came out with sudden force. “This must be the end of your dealings with Signor Boscombay.”

  “But I could help interpret … He speaks no Italian.”

  “The English Resident will provide whatever assistance is needed. Signor Marangon, your involvement with this man is now over.”

  “But he –”

  “He does not need the assistance of a hired guide, the son of an absconding actress and a treacherous clerk at the Arsenale.”

  As if in reaction to the iciness of his tone, I felt my blood suddenly surge to boiling pitch. I took an involuntary step forward and immediately a hairy hand gripped my shoulder.

  I forced myself to speak calmly. “My mother did not abscond. She left Venice to seek work with a travelling theatre company. And she never ceased to instil in me a love for her native city.”

  “Most laudable in her, I’m sure. I see you do not defend the reputation of your father.”

  “I know nothing about my father,” I said.

  “I imagine not. Your mother is not likely to have boasted of his accomplishments. In any case, the fact remains that you can be of no assistance to this English gentleman. And if you wish to keep your licence as a cicerone –”

  His voice did not trail away in a series of menacing dots. He simply allowed his sentence to conclude with this significant conditional.

  I swallowed. “I understand.”

  He nodded to the sbirro, who had not let go of my shoulder. “Take him to a cell.”

  “I’m not being released?” I said in dismay.

  He merely stared at me. I realised that a direct question was always going to be a mistake. As was a plea. I shut up.

  I was made to turn and marched towards the door at the rear of the room. More bewildering corridors, staircases, flickering torches, courtyards, creaking doors … and then suddenly I was in a cell with a chamber pot, a bench and a bed containing a sleeping figure. The sbirro locked the door and moved away; the last vestiges of light left me groping for the free bench.

  * * *

  There is no point in recounting the next twenty or so hours in any detail. I got some sleep. I had limited conversation with my Croatian cellmate, who eventually woke up still drunk and convinced that I was the devil. I did little to disillusion him since I certainly felt quite hellish. We ate some greyish sludge and drank some filthy water and listened to the bells outside to get some kind of idea of how much time was passing. I wondered how Boscombe was faring.

  Eventually, with no explanation whatsoever, the cell door was opened and I was accompanied along the various corridors and staircases until
I found myself outside on the Riva degli Schiavoni. Alone. It was night-time again. I imagined the day’s custody was simply intended to show me that they could do it. They certainly had not needed all that time to go through my belongings.

  11

  My apartment was not the disaster area I had been gloomily envisaging. There was no missing the fact that it had had visitors, and it would be hard to claim that they (or my landlady) had “kept it nice” for me: clothes had been tossed around, books pulled from the shelf and my bed stripped. However, they had not actually torn the books apart or the clothes to shreds, nor had they caused any purely wilful damage. The impression I got was that they had carried out a routine search, and not an exceptionally diligent one. Perhaps they felt they already had all the evidence they needed. After all, the murder weapon had been left at the scene of the crime.

  The only fortunate thing in this whole mess was that it had not interfered with any pressing engagements. Bepi and I had no clients at the moment and we had agreed to take a couple of days off. One just for a rest (which I had taken on the bench of the prison) and the other so that Bepi could attend to certain domestic matters. His mother, a powerful figure by all accounts, had a new bed that needed installing, if I had understood correctly.

  I made no attempt to tidy things up. I just took off my shoes and lay down on the bed, wondering idly whether Siora Zennaro’s new mattress would contain as many inexplicable rocky protuberances. I drifted into a troubled sleep, grateful that the ambient noise was now limited to the distant rumbling of Carlo’s snores.

  * * *

  This time it was a much less invasive noise that woke me. It did not need to be so loud, since I was only skimming the surface of sleep. It was a scraping noise at the shutters on the window. My first thought was of pigeons, which sometimes squabbled on the windowsill, ever since I had made the mistake of scattering crumbs there.

  But pigeons do not actually pull the shutters open. I turned over and gazed towards the square opening, which was gradually filling with grey half-light, as the shutters were prised apart.

  I lay completely still. My first thought was that the sbirri were back again. But then, even amidst the mental fog of semi-dormancy, I asked myself why they would choose this means of ingress, when it was so easy to batter the front door down.