Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  I was about to lead the way across the square when Mr Boscombe said: “I’ll stay and look at the church.”

  “Oh, Father,” she said, but with no special emphasis.

  “You know you don’t need me. And I’ve got no questions to ask.”

  “Very well then,” she said, and I had the distinct impression that she was far from minding his decision. “But don’t wander off and get lost.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear.” He stumped off towards the church, his wig and hat askew as usual. This was decidedly unusual; there were certainly few Venetian fathers who would so casually leave their unmarried daughters alone with a cicerone. However, I was not going to complain.

  “Mr Marangon,” she said, “please lead the way.”

  “Certainly, signorina,” I said, and did so. I thought I heard a faint sigh of envy from Bepi behind me as we set off across the square.

  As we walked past the statue she gazed up at it. “Colleoni,” she said, but pronouncing it quite distinctly as “coglioni.” And then she said, “Oh goodness me,” and emitted an embarrassed little laugh.

  “Signorina?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she said. And she gave me a sidelong smile. “Quite a man, this condottiere of yours.” She had clearly seen the coat-of-arms.

  It was my turn to be startled and she obviously enjoyed my confusion. “Pray do tell me more about him,” she said with breathy eagerness.

  “I really can’t tell you that much,” I said. “As so often in these cases the statue is now far better known than the man. Indeed, the man is really only known, other than to historians, because of the statue.”

  “And yet he looks so proud and sure of himself,” she said. “What a lesson for us all. All forgotten – even his manly attributes.” And she said this last phrase with such an air of innocence that I wondered whether I had misread her earlier remarks.

  We walked towards the eastern end of the square and the narrow lane that led towards the canal. I was remembering Frederick Boscombe’s description of his night-time walk, and accounts I had heard later from others; I was fairly sure I knew where the house was.

  “Oh, goodness me,” she said. “Some of these narrow streets. Hardly wide enough for one’s skirts.”

  “There are many much narrower streets,” I said.

  “Well, maybe we’ll have a chance to explore them later,” she said. “That could be most intriguing, Mr Marangon. But now we must concentrate on our reason for being here.”

  “Well, of course. It should be over the next bridge. This, on our right, is the tavern your cousin mentioned.”

  We mounted a bridge, on which stood an idle figure in drab clothes gazing at the view. It was worth gazing at. Looking to our left from the top of the bridge, we could see the canal divide into two prongs alongside the flanks of a wedge-shaped palace, which rose from the water like a sturdy vessel. In the other direction the canal broadened and was flanked by a number of fine palaces with marble frontages.

  On the other side of the bridge I began to look at the front doors to the houses, although I was well aware that it would be absurd to expect any visible sign of the momentous event after all this time.

  “Why don’t we ask the man on the bridge?” she said.

  I don’t know whether it was just typical male reluctance to ask for help but my instinct was to resist this suggestion. However, before I could say anything she called out to him, in her comic Italian: “Dov’è la casa del delitto?” Where is the scene of the crime?

  He grunted that it was the second house on the left and we thanked him and pulled the bell rope. There was just the one.

  Seconds later a window opened above us. No face appeared but a creaky female voice asked who we were. Miss Boscombe answered that she was a relative of the poor Englishman. Not an exhaustive answer, but after another few seconds the door was opened, clearly pulled by a string from above.

  I led the way up the narrow staircase. There were two doorways off the first landing, but only the one to the right was open. In the doorway stood a small lady with a head that seemed to be at least twice as large as it should be. In better lighting, as she stood aside to let us pass into the hallway, it proved to be composed mainly of an elaborate wig of stiff yellow curls. I found it less disturbing to focus my attention on these curls than on the face beneath, which was coated in a thick patina of paint and powder in a vain attempt to conceal its web of cavernous corrugations. She wore a dress with as profound a décolletée as Miss Boscombe’s, but it merely provided another reason to keep my eyes fixed on the stiff curls.

  “Can I help you?” she said, in a throaty whisper that was clearly intended to be seductive but was as cracked as the face. I do not think she had any particular designs on us; this was just her habitual mode of address.

  “Signora,” Miss Boscombe began.

  “Signorina,” the lady corrected her at once.

  “I beg your pardon, signorina. I am a relative of the Englishman who was arrested following the murder in this apartment last week.”

  “Ah, the murderer.”

  “No, I assure you. My cousin is entirely innocent. We’ve come to try to find out what happened.”

  “I’ve told everything to the sbirri. And to the magistrate. And to the Missier Grande. That should be enough.”

  She spoke in thick Venetian and I could see that Miss Boscombe was having problems. I translated into English for her.

  “But signora – signorina,” Miss Boscombe protested, “try to understand. They aren’t interested in finding the truth. They just want to arrest someone. And even better if he’s a foreigner.”

  The door on the opposite side of the landing opened and another small lady appeared there. Her plain grey dress and hair were in total and welcome contrast to those of her neighbour. “Haven’t you created enough scandal?” she said indignantly, addressing all of us indiscriminately. “Can’t we be left in peace?”

  “Signora,” said Miss Boscombe, “please excuse us. I’ve only come for –”

  I cut in, guessing that a few words in Venetian would work better than this heartfelt but laboured explanation in bad Tuscan. “Siora, this young lady is the cousin of the Englishman who was arrested. She just wishes to establish the truth of the events of that night.”

  “I saw him there. Brandishing a knife. A monster. Covered in blood. And that other man. Lying there. All in a pool of blood.”

  This came out in a series of clipped Venetian phrases, each one a miniature picture of horror, like a sketch by Piranesi. She had clearly told her story many times over and had perhaps even come to relish her part in it. I guessed that it would be difficult to get her to go back to her original impressions – for example, to remove the brandished knife from Mr Boscombe’s bloodstained hands.

  The lady in the opposite doorway drew herself up to her full height, which even with the wig was far from towering, and said: “I cannot be blamed for what my clients choose to do when they rent my rooms.”

  “Everyone knows what people rent your rooms for,” said the lady in grey. “And we’ve had enough of it.”

  “My rooms are rented by some of the best names in the city,” said the lady with the wig. “There has never been any scandal until this unfortunate affair. And no one is more harmed by it than me.”

  Miss Boscombe was looking from one to the other, trying to catch the odd recognisable word in the torrents of vehement Venetian.

  “Up and down. All night long,” said the lady in grey. “And the noises that come from in there…”

  “I’m sure you sit with your ear to the door,” said the lady with the wig. “Just jealous of anyone still able to enjoy life. Snooper.”

  The lady in grey looked as if she were about to explode. Then she said, “You’ve got a nerve: that to me! You know perfectly well –”

  The lady with the wig was suddenly eager to close the argument. “That’s enough,” she said loudly, drowning out her neighbour. She turned to us: “Come
in.”

  We were hustled into the apartment and the door was closed behind us, while the other lady continued to protest as vehemently as ever, if more indistinctly.

  “I am so sorry,” said the lady in the wig. “Some people do not understand true refinement. I am sure that two young people like yourselves have more appreciation of the finer things in life.” And she gave us what was presumably intended as a winning smile, but unfortunately revealed a chequered wreck of a mouth. “This is my little casino, which can of course be rented by the day, the week or the month.” She had switched automatically to her sales pitch, regardless of the reason we had given for our visit.

  Miss Boscombe and I looked around. We were standing in a small hallway with ornately decorated mirrors on three sides. On the ceiling were frescoes of damsels in clearly vain flight from leering gods; ornamental stucco frisked and frolicked in lascivious coils and curves at the tops of the walls.

  “You can see how elegant everything is,” our hostess went on. “Only the best artists and decorators –”

  “Signorina,” I said, “we’re not here to rent the rooms. You will remember –”

  “Of course,” she said. “How foolish of me.” She let out a girlish giggle that sent a shudder up my spine.

  “What a place,” said Miss Boscombe in English. “Is this where she lives?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “At present she’s trying to rent it to us.”

  “Well, you can put a stop to that.”

  “I have done so.”

  “Not my style of place,” Miss Boscombe added.

  I was a little disconcerted by this but returned to the lady, who was looking at us warily. “Signorina, we wish to find out what happened that night.”

  “Well, of course I wasn’t here. I was in my apartment upstairs. The first thing I knew was when that woman there started screaming … dreadful noise.”

  “Well, it must have been a horrific sight.”

  “Yes,” she said, realising that it hardly suited her role to remain unaffected by such an event. “Dreadful. The poor man.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “The poor victim? No, no. Never seen him before.”

  “So who had rented the room?”

  “I’ve been through all this with the magistrates. I’ve told them that I don’t know.”

  “But you must have spoken to someone. They must have paid you.”

  “Sior, the very nature of the service I offer means that I guarantee discretion. I never ask for names.”

  “Yes, but –”

  She went straight on. I imagined that she had been repeating this defensive line unremittingly for the last week. “You know as well as I do that our hardworking senators and lawmakers and merchants need somewhere to relax occasionally; they must be allowed to shake off the heavy responsibilities of their office with some moments in the company of friends. A little card-playing. Some gentle music. Sympathetic female companions…”

  I saw Miss Boscombe give a little smile. The lady was enunciating her words very carefully for our benefit and I supposed that Miss Boscombe’s ear was becoming attuned to the dialect.

  “Yes, but you must have spoken to one of these hard-pressed servants of the republic, even if he didn’t give a name,” I said. “There is the matter of payment, after all.”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “But as I said to the magistrate, it was someone I had never seen before and he was wearing a mask.”

  “A mask?” I said. “At this season?”

  “I was a little surprised, but I imagined he wanted particular discretion. He called on me the night before it happened and asked to book the rooms for one night. He paid in advance and I gave him the key and promised to leave everything ready. As of course I did. The card table was prepared…” She gestured towards the room beyond and we walked into it.

  It was occupied mainly by a round table with a gleaming dark surface; four elegant curved chairs were placed around it. Above us was another fresco with gods lying listlessly on comfortable cushions of cloud. Another door to the right gave on to a room containing a large canopied bed. From where we stood I could see that the frescoes here had lost all pretence of coyness: the fleeing damsels had all been outrun and everywhere one looked plump buttocks and breasts were being palpated by the triumphant pursuers, while the doomed maidens raised resigned faces to the heavens.

  “Goodness me,” said Miss Boscombe, in English.

  “A very fine artist,” said the lady. “Appreciated by those who understand true refinement.”

  I returned to the question of the masked man. “Did you recognise his voice?”

  “No, no. Except that he was a foreigner.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “As I said to the magistrate, he pronounced his words strangely, and he didn’t speak Venetian.”

  “A foreigner from where?”

  “Well, I didn’t ask that, of course.”

  “No, but could you tell from the accent? For example, did he sound like this young lady?” I gestured to Miss Boscombe.

  “Oh, nothing like that,” she said. “The lady has a charming voice.”

  “I’m referring only to the accent,” I said. “Did your customer not have a charming voice, then?”

  “No, it was hoarse. And as I said, his accent was funny. German perhaps. Or French.”

  Or Chinese or Russian or Arabic, I added to myself. The lady clearly was no linguist.

  I turned to Miss Boscombe. “Have you been following?”

  “Something about a man in a mask?” she said, in a questioning tone.

  I nodded and explained the details of the booking of the apartment. She asked: “Are there many places like this in Venice?”

  “Well, it’s not uncommon. Many of the noblemen keep them. And then there are some who just rent them when they need them, like this one. I don’t know that they are all decorated like this.”

  “No, it’s quite remarkable.” She gazed at the frescoes with frank curiosity. “Some of the postures seem a little improbable.”

  “Yes,” I said, a trifle awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, with a smile. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “The lady likes the pictures?” asked our hostess, with a gap-toothed leer.

  “She’s fond of art,” I said stiffly. I tried to move the conversation on. “Tell me, signorina, is there another entrance to the apartment?”

  “No. Why should there be?” she said; her response was suspiciously swift.

  “Well, my friend’s cousin said that when he entered the apartment and found the murdered man there was nobody else here. So the question is how did the killer escape?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “I wasn’t here, as I’ve already said.”

  “May I inspect the windows?”

  “They were all shuttered from within,” she said. “My clients like privacy.”

  It did not take long to inspect the entire apartment. There was just the little entrance hall, the room with the gaming table, the bedroom, and a little dressing room just off the last. The hallway had no windows but took light from the other two rooms if the doors were left open. The gaming room had one window looking on to the calle from which we had entered; the bedroom window looked on to a little courtyard. The lady showed us how the shutters closed, with a heavy bar that precluded any possibility of anyone leaving through the window and closing it behind them.

  “Are we sure the shutters were closed?” said Miss Boscombe.

  “Well, she says so,” I said. “There is just one thing…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something her neighbour said. Let’s have another look at the bedroom.”

  “I certainly have no objection,” she said.

  But as I turned back in that direction our hostess stood in the doorway blocking the access. “I’ve answered all your questions. Now I really have to return to my apartment.”


  “We really do need another look at that room,” I said in English to Miss Boscombe. “Have you got any money?”

  “How much will be required?”

  “I’ll ask.” I said, and turned to the lady. “My friend and I would love to spend some time enjoying the artistic treasures of the bedroom. Can you tell us how much it will cost us? For half an hour?”

  I could see suspicion battling with avarice in her eyes. Eventually the latter won out. “Well, how delightful. I could see the young lady was curious. Three zecchini.”

  “Tell her one,” said Miss Boscombe, who had understood the price.

  We did not take long to come to terms and, with another leering smile, she moved towards the front door. There she turned and gave us a last indulgent farewell: “Ah, young people…” Then we were alone.

  “And now what, Mr Marangon?” said Miss Boscombe, turning to me with those big blue innocent eyes.

  “I want to study those frescoes,” I said.

  “Really? Do you need to?”

  “Well, I’ve a feeling we’ll discover they conceal something,” I said, when I had regained control over my voice.

  “They seem to conceal remarkably little,” she said.

  I could tell that she found my awkwardness a source of amusement, which helped me to resist her very obvious charms. God knows I was tempted, but I suspected that any amorous dalliance would lead to far more trouble than it was worth. It was also likely that the dalliance would in any case be very limited; I did not think that she would really let a mere cicerone get much further than an awkward kiss and a squeeze.

  But I did heave an inward sigh as I tried not to think of what there was to squeeze.

  I walked into the bedroom and gazed at the wall opposite the bed. “You remember the neighbour? Her last words?”

  “I understood very little,” she said.

  “She took umbrage at being accused of snooping. And she said something along the lines of ‘You dare to call me a snooper’… ficcanaso was the word she used.”

  “Implying…”

  “Well, let’s see,” I said, studying the decorations on the wall. A few moments later I pointed to the stucco work above a particularly salacious scene of a faun and a nymph. “There.”