Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  “Mr Boscombe, I am sure that if you speak to the authorities here and make it clear that your family –”

  “As good a family as any in England,” he said. “Even if my brother did marry a –”

  “Father,” said Miss Boscombe sharply.

  “Well, you know what I think,” he said, and settled into a sulky silence, gazing out over the lagoon.

  “Yes, Father. But that is hardly the point. Not when poor Freddy –”

  Another snort and a few muttered words, which might have been an unclergymanlike “damned fool”, which she resolutely talked over: “When poor Freddy is accused of an absurd crime with no evidence against him.”

  “Well,” I said, “that is the problem. Your cousin put himself in a very invidious situation.”

  “Mr Marangon, do you really think my cousin would kill his own tutor?”

  “Of course I don’t, Miss Boscombe, not for a moment. But he managed to make it look very much as if he had done so.”

  “It’s not as if it was any great loss,” muttered Mr Boscombe.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Father,” said Miss Boscombe, in automatic reproach.

  “Well, by all accounts this Shackleford fellow was a pretty shady character.”

  “He seemed perfectly respectable to me,” I said, a little surprised.

  “Typical of my sister-in-law.”

  “What?”

  “Hired the fellow without getting any proper references, just because he talked so fine. And because she was desperate to get the boy out of the country.”

  “Father,” said Miss Boscombe, now squirming with embarrassment.

  “Well, you know it’s true,” he said.

  “Yes, but it’s not the point.”

  “So Mr Shackleford wasn’t Mr Boscombe’s regular tutor?” I asked.

  “No. He just wormed his way into the family, after the story about the village girls got out –”

  “Father!”

  I realised that a direct question about the village girls did not really befit my role so I attempted a circuitous route. “Are you suggesting that Mr Shackleford was not really qualified for the role?”

  “Oh, I expect he has a smattering of Latin and Greek. She met him in Bath, while she was taking the waters. Trying to get over the shock of that business –”

  “Father!”

  Maybe the direct route was better after all. “Miss Boscombe,” I said. “I have no interest in the private affairs of your family but I think it would be helpful if I had a fuller picture of Mr Shackleford and his relations with the family. It would make it easier for me to give you relevant information that might help you to establish the truth of this affair.”

  She turned those brimming blue eyes on me. “You think you can help?”

  “I can certainly provide you with information about Mr Shackleford. But it would be useful to know a little more how he came to be tutoring your cousin.”

  “Well, we only know what my aunt wrote to us. We have been living in Florence for over a year now. My father, as you may have heard, is a leader of the Anglican community in the city –”

  “He doesn’t need to know about me,” her father cut in. “The story is quite simple. Frederick was sent down from Oxford for gambling and general unruly behaviour. His mother decided to keep him at home and he got involved with a set of rogues in the neighbourhood who filled his vacant head with blasphemous nonsense about cabals and the Rosy Cross and God knows what…”

  “He’s not a bad boy,” said Miss Boscombe. “He just gets easily led astray. And I think that in his own way he’s looking for spiritual comfort.”

  Mr Boscombe snorted. “I suppose he never thought of going to his parish church – or even talking to me.”

  “Father, how could he do that?”

  “The boy can write, can’t he? Anyway, to cut a long story short there was a scandalous incident in the village involving the rogues he’d fallen in with and some local wenches. They were carrying out some sacred Egyptian rites, if you can believe it, and the wenches started screaming, the neighbours intervened, and there they all were, as naked as newborn babies but a lot less innocent. My sister-in-law had to pay a good deal of money to hush everything up. After that she decided Frederick must go abroad with a tutor, and since she never takes the trouble to think things over carefully she hired the first plausible-sounding scoundrel she met in Bath.”

  “Father, we don’t know he was a scoundrel.”

  “We don’t know anything about him at all. That’s the problem. Apparently she just liked the way he talked about Virgil. As if she knew the first thing about Virgil.”

  “That does fit in with something my friend at the bookshop hinted at,” I said, remembering Lucia’s doubts about Mr Shackleford’s classical scholarship.

  “There you go,” said Mr Boscombe. “Smooth-talking charlatan. Who knows what he was intending to do with the lad.” After a pause, he added darkly: “What he might have done already.”

  “Do you know anything about a book your brother owned?” I asked. “A book in Italian about the fourteenth-century doge Marin Falier?”

  “My brother owned a lot of books. Hardly ever read them.” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice. I guessed there was a touch of the younger brother’s resentment here.

  “This was a book your brother was apparently quite fond of, according to your nephew.”

  “Weren’t many of those –”

  He was interrupted by his daughter. “Father, try to be more helpful. You know there was more to Uncle James than you’re making out.”

  He gave a sort of snorting noise, which could have been anything from contempt to contrition, then started again. “Well, yes, when he was younger James fancied himself as a thinker. Even got mixed up with some so-called philosophical scholars in town. You know the sort: people interested in Locke and Newton, that sort of stuff.”

  “I see,” I said. I guessed it would be difficult to get him to be more precise.

  “And then there’s the family history. We were for Parliament, you know. And we paid for it when the Stuarts came back. Well, we’re loyal enough now to king and country but my brother went through a patch when he got interested in the old family traditions and started reading up on the civil war and republicanism. Didn’t last, of course, like all his enthusiasms.”

  “Did he have any Italian acquaintances? Specifically, Venetian?”

  “Well, yes, I believe there were one or two he met in town. And he had them down to the family seat on at least one occasion. Couldn’t tell you who they were. I do remember him getting interested in Venice as an example of a successful republic. But he was always taking up notions and then dropping them.”

  “Does the name Zanotto mean anything? Or Garzoni?”

  He frowned. “Garzoni. Yes, that name is familiar. Little fellow? Talks in a low voice?”

  “I don’t know. I have never met him myself.”

  “Well, if it’s the man I’m thinking of, there was something odd about him. He’d come to England to study ship-building techniques…”

  “Ah, that sounds likely,” I said.

  “… but apparently he’d already decided he knew all he needed. He seemed to think there was nothing an Englishman could teach a Venetian about ships.”

  “That too sounds quite likely,” I said. It was probably the attitude of most of the Venetian population, although they would not necessarily say so to your face. Diplomacy is another art in which Venetians are well schooled.

  “Arrogant fool,” said Mr Boscombe, who had clearly attended a different school. “Just the kind my brother would be influenced by. Always looking for someone to follow. Like his son.”

  “So he was a forceful person, this Garzoni?”

  “Well, he was if you were malleable enough. Like my brother. Though they did have some falling-out, as I remember. Never got the full details. But I had my own concerns, studying for the Church.”

  �
�Yes, of course,” I said. “When you say a falling-out, do you mean they argued over something?”

  “James never argued. Didn’t know how to. He blustered. Anyway shortly afterwards our father died and all of a sudden James became the traditional country squire, all hunting and fishing and never picking up a book to save his life. And no foreigners around the house any more.”

  “Father, you’re exaggerating. But it’s true that Uncle James was a very changeable sort of person. I think Freddy takes after him in that.” She turned to me. “What is this book you mentioned?”

  I gave them a fuller account of my last encounter with Frederick Boscombe, telling them about his discovery of the book in Shackleford’s baggage and its consequences. I did not go into my own subsequent adventures with nobleman Zanotto and his henchmen. One thing at a time. I attempted to lighten things towards the end of the journey by bidding them enjoy our entrance into the Grand Canal. But although they gazed at the spectacle it was clear that appreciating the sights was not the first thing on their minds.

  When we reached the Leon Bianco, Sior Scarpa offered them the same rooms that their relative and his retinue had occupied, declaring how sorry he was about what had happened and assuring them of his firm belief that all would be resolved soon. I wondered whether there was still a matter of an unpaid bill, which, for him, would be one of the questions most urgently in need of resolution. Miss Boscombe had her usual dazzling effect on the staff of the inn, of which she seemed radiantly unconscious.

  “When can we see poor Freddy?” she asked me, as I prepared to leave them for the evening.

  “I think the easiest thing will be to arrange matters through the English Resident,” I said.

  “Can’t we just go to the prison and demand to see him?”

  “That would not be wise,” I said, trying not to wince at the notion.

  Mr Boscombe, slightly to my surprise, agreed with me. I was half expecting him to propose relying on sturdy national persistence but it seemed he was more realistic than that. “From what I’ve seen of the Venetians,” he said, “you won’t get anywhere by claiming to know better than they do.” And so we arranged that Bepi and I would take them there the next morning. I wondered whether I should suggest that Miss Boscombe dress a little more soberly for the encounter if she wanted to draw Mr Murray’s attention to the facts of the matter, but decided it was not worth it. She would at least be sure of getting his attention.

  14

  And so it proved. John Murray was his usual bleary self in the early morning (around eleven o’clock) but not so bleary that he could not focus on Miss Boscombe’s cleavage (nestled within the gorgeous slopes of a sky-blue dress this morning). He received us in the splendid reception hall of his palace on the Grand Canal, frescoed figures of the family of the former owners cavorting with indulgent deities on the ceiling.

  Mr and Miss Boscombe presented themselves while I hovered in the background, feeling distinctly supernumerary, until summoned forward. On hearing my name the Resident frowned: “Aren’t you the fellow young Boscombe went running to? I thought the authorities told you to stay out of things – until they call upon you to give evidence.”

  “I’m here solely in the capacity of cicerone to Mr and Miss Boscombe, whom I met quite by chance at Fusina yesterday.”

  “In that case,” he said, “I’ll kindly ask you to wait outside. And perhaps Mr and Miss Boscombe will think of hiring another cicerone.” He turned to them. “There is nothing to be gained by antagonising the authorities here.”

  I bowed and took my leave, faintly cheered by a dismayed “Oh” from Miss Boscombe. I was escorted down the grand marble staircase by a black servant in yellow livery. Bepi, sprawling in the stern of the gondola enjoying the spring sunshine, looked up as I made my way towards him.

  “Sacked again?” he said.

  “Not quite. Or at least not yet. We’ll see when they come down.”

  I explained what had happened and Bepi nodded philosophically. His only remark was: “Pity. Wouldn’t have minded another week with her in the boat.”

  “A little out of reach for the likes of us,” I said.

  “We can always look,” he said. After a pause he added: “And she doesn’t seem to mind being looked at.”

  About fifteen minutes later the Boscombes appeared in the entrance hall. He wore his customary expression of surly truculence while she appeared flushed and angry. “Honestly,” she said, “the absurdity of this.”

  “No more than I expected,” he said.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  “They will let us know when we can visit Freddy,” she said with haughty indignation. “Let us know!”

  “But I’m sure it’ll be soon,” I said. “They have no reason to make things difficult for you.”

  “And we are advised to sack you,” she said.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “But I can assure you that is the last thing I will do.”

  “Ah,” I said again. After a pause, I went on: “Thank you. But I don’t want to make things any more difficult for you than they already are.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. And that was clearly settled. Certainly her father made no protest other than a throaty muttering that could have meant anything. “Now you can take us to see your bookseller friend,” she added imperiously.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  I doubted Fabrizio was going to make any sales.

  * * *

  Half an hour later I was making the introductions in the bookshop. We switched to Italian, and Fabrizio and Lucia uttered polite and mendacious compliments on the Boscombes’ mastery of the language of Dante. Lucia went on to express her entirely sincere sorrow at the situation of their relative, her glistening dark eyes testifying to the veracity of her words.

  Miss Boscombe asked what she knew of Shackleford and Lucia explained her doubts about him, at the same time assuring them that he had seemed perfectly respectable and that what had happened to him was appalling. Fabrizio added that Mr Shackleford clearly had been interested in books, as he had spent many happy moments browsing among his volumes.

  Lucia was shocked to hear that they could not immediately go and visit their relative, but she hoped they would not have to wait long. She was sure that the truth would emerge soon.

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Boscombe. “But I think we might have to help it along a little.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lucia. “And if I can do anything…”

  Her father made a clucking noise which was quite as enigmatic as Mr Boscombe’s mutters had been, but could have been expressing some reservations.

  “Well,” said Miss Boscombe, “I think the first thing will be to visit the place where this dreadful murder happened. And I think our cicerone can help us there.”

  “But signorina,” said Lucia, with a touch of agitation, “the authorities have forbidden Signor Alvise to have anything more to do with this case.”

  “I’m sure Signor Alvise will not be so weak as to allow that to prevent him from doing his duty,” she said. (Her Italian was not quite as grammatically accurate as this rendering might suggest but this was the essential message.)

  “It is not a question of weakness,” said Lucia with some asperity. “Signor Alvise is a resident in this city and has to abide by its laws.”

  “I cannot believe there is any law that forbids a gentleman from assisting a lady in distress. Goodness me, I’m not asking him to lead a rebellion, just to show me the way to a house.”

  “Signorina,” said Lucia, “I can do that just as well as Signor Alvise.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but I would feel safer in the presence of a man.” After a quick glance at her audience she added quickly, “A young man, who knows the city.” She turned to me, her delphinium-blue eyes brimming with supplicant tears. “You will not abandon me?”

  What could I say?

  Even without looking at Lucia I could sense her steadily rising indignation.
She said quietly but firmly, “Signorina, this is not fair.” She turned to Mr Boscombe. “Signore, you must realise that this is not necessary.”

  He made a throat-clearing noise and said: “I leave these things to my daughter.”

  I half expected Mr Boscombe and Fabrizio to shake hands on the sentiment but of course they did not. Fabrizio mumbled a few words to the effect that perhaps Signorina Boscombe should listen to what Lucia was saying, but Signorina Boscombe simply touched my elbow and said, “Andiamo. Thank you for your time, signorina, signore.” She gave the slightest hint of a curtsey and turned towards the door. Mr Boscombe muttered a few formal words and headed out of the shop as well.

  I gave Lucia an apologetic half-smile. “I’ll be careful.”

  She did not smile back. She just said: “You are being foolish, sior, but I suppose it is not entirely your fault.”

  And on this cold note we parted.

  * * *

  Bepi rowed us to Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo. I had told him briefly why we were heading there and he had shrugged and said, “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  We drew up alongside the square and I helped them step out of the gondola. Miss Boscombe was becoming quite practised at this and it took her no more than thirty seconds to readjust her clothing once on dry land. Quite enough to gather the attention of the entire neighbourhood.

  Father and daughter ignored the occupants of the square and gazed instead at the splendid architecture: the marble façade of the Scuola di San Marco with its fine late fifteenth-century sculptures, the great gothic mass of the Dominican church towering into the blue sky, and the bronze statue of Colleoni sneering down at us from his equally supercilious steed.

  A few words in my role as cicerone seemed appropriate.

  “Statue by Verrocchio,” I said. “The condottiere Colleoni.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Miss Boscombe, startled by the name.

  I had momentarily forgotten that she spoke Italian. I wondered whether I should point out the condottiere’s coat-of-arms, with its three testicles, and decided not to.