Late in the afternoon, we were transferred in separate launches to the Questura in central Venice. I suppose it was the change in surroundings that first roused me from my trance. The room they put me in boasted one small barred window overlooking a noisy side-canal. Its furnishings comprised a rickety deal table and two hard chairs. The only decoration was a large framed photograph of Mussolini striking an heroic pose. This adorned the wall facing me, looming above the pinched face of my tireless interrogator, Vice-Questore Varsini. Towards Diana he had been scrupulously polite, not to say deferential. For me, however, he reserved a sullen scepticism that became increasingly wearing. He spoke good English, verging, indeed, on the uncomfortably meticulous. But what he was thinking emerged only in his native tongue, taking the form of gabbled asides to his colleagues in a dialect I had no hope of understanding. He blamed the language barrier for his wish to return to certain points over and over again, but from the outset I knew there was some other reason.
‘Let us begin again,’ he would say, as the smoke from his cigarette climbed into the glare of the single light bulb. ‘What were you and Signorina Charnwood doing when Signor Wingate entered the villa?’
‘We were in bed.’
‘Together?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Signorina Charnwood was Signor Wingate’s … fiancée?’
‘They had been intending to marry, yes. But that was before her father’s death.’
‘Sì, sì. Signor Charnwood. Also killed by a blow on the head.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You knew of the weakness in Signor Wingate’s skull?’
‘I did.’
‘But Signorina Charnwood did not?’
‘She knew he’d been shot in the head during the war, but not that the injury had weakened his skull.’
‘You did not tell her so?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘But you cannot say Signor Wingate definitely did not tell her, can you?’
‘Well … No.’
‘Therefore, she might have known.’
‘She had no idea. I’m certain of it. She was simply trying to stop him strangling me.’
‘And why was he trying to strangle you?’
‘Because – It’s obvious why, isn’t it?’
‘Sì. It is. Because he found you in bed together. L’amico e la fidanzata.’
‘I told you. They were no longer engaged.’
‘But you were still his friend.’
‘Of course I was.’
‘If I found a friend of mine in bed with my wife … I might try to strangle him. And her.’
‘She wasn’t his wife. Or his fiancée. He was trying to kill me and she was trying to stop him. But she only wanted to distract him long enough for him to calm down and see reason. She never meant to kill him. It was an accident.’
‘That will be for the magistrate to decide, Signor Horton. So far, we have only a death. And many questions.’
So he did. Many, many questions. Eventually, I was invited to stay at the Questura overnight in a tone that suggested I would be forced to do so if I did not agree. The same invitation, I was informed, had been extended to Signorina Charnwood and she had accepted. In her aunt’s absence, there was nobody to vouch for either of us. The police in Asolo had been in touch with Vita and she was expected back in the morning. Until then, Varsini signalled with a shrug, nothing could be done.
I slept little during the few hours of the night that remained when I was taken down to my cell. Like an engine I could not stop, my mind raced on regardless, hurling doubts and accusations at me from the darkness into which I stared. Did Diana’s account tally with mine? Was she lying awake in her cell, weeping and mourning for Max? Or was she secretly rejoicing? Was there just a chance she had known where on his skull any blow might prove fatal? If so—
But I was being unfair and ungrateful, the rebuke came regularly back from the rational half of my brain. She had saved my life and could never have meant to take Max’s. She had grabbed at the ewer in a panic and struck without aiming or deliberating. Max’s death, whatever Varsini or some unworthy part of me might like to believe, was an accident of his own creation.
And yet, and yet … What had he actually said in those last moments of life? ‘How much do you know, Guy? How much has she told you?’ If only I could still ask him to explain. What was I supposed to know? What was she supposed to have told me? ‘I don’t care about the rest,’ he had shouted. But the rest of what? The treachery of his friend and his fiancée was surely bad enough. What more could there be?
Only Charnwood’s murder. To that event my thoughts returned like a dog to a bone. Max was innocent. I knew that now. Somebody else had killed Charnwood. But who? And why?
Duggan could give me the answers. He had virtually offered to tell me, but I had refused to listen. Now I would listen. It was too late to save Max, but it was not too late to clear his name. As the aqueous light of a Venetian dawn stretched the shadow of the barred window across the blank wall of my cell, I swore a silent oath. I would honour Max in death as I had dishonoured him in life. I would find it in me to be a true friend at last.
But even solemn oaths must wait upon the law. Several hours of the morning had already elapsed when I was led upstairs to see the Vice-Questore again. He was in his office, a large and airy chamber overlooking the Rio di San Lorenzo. The only similarity to the room in which he had questioned me the previous night was a prominently positioned photograph of Il Duce. The furnishings could otherwise have been those of a well-to-do doctor’s surgery. The change of venue seemed to have had an effect on Varsini, who smiled warmly as I was shown in.
‘Buon giorno, Signor Horton. I trust you have been … reasonably comfortable?’
‘I’ve no complaints.’
Two grey-suited figures rose from their chairs on my side of Varsini’s desk. One was a tubby little bald-headed man with a sallow complexion and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. The other was Faraday.
‘How are you feeling, Horton?’ he enquired in his most syrupy tone.
‘Perfectly well, thank you.’
For a second, he stared at me, pouting in what could either have been puzzlement or simply scrutiny. Then he nodded towards his companion. ‘This is Signor Martelli, a lawyer Vita has engaged on Diana’s behalf. He would be happy to advise you as well.’
‘I’m grateful, but where is Diana?’
‘She’s been released. Vita’s taken her back to the villa.’
‘You are also free to go, Signor Horton,’ said Varsini. ‘The necessity of your overnight detention is regretted, but in the circumstances …’ He shrugged. ‘Since interviewing you yesterday, I have received a cable from the Surrey police confirming that Max Wingate was a wanted murderer capable of extreme violence. I have also received the results of the autopsy, which show that the blow to his head would not have been sufficient to cause death but for the exceptional thinness of his skull in the area struck. My preliminary conclusion is therefore that he was not intentionally killed. This appears to me to be a case of involuntary homicide, as I shall report to the investigating magistrate. He will consider the matter at a formal inquest in due course. But I am confident my findings will be upheld.’
‘Death by misadventure,’ murmured Faraday, cocking one eyebrow at me.
‘Miscusi,’ said Martelli, with a faint bow in my direction. ‘Perhaps I should explain that a verdict in Italian law of involuntary homicide is not an exact equivalent of the English concept of misadventure. Nevertheless …’
‘It’s close enough?’
‘Sì. Close enough.’
‘And when will the inquest be held?’
‘At a date yet to be fixed,’ said Varsini. ‘You will be informed.’
‘It’s just … I need to leave Venice. Soon.’
Faraday’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Nor did he need to, as Varsini soon made clear. ‘Impossible. Although I do not anticipate criminal charges being
brought, you and Signorina Charnwood must both remain in Venice until the matter is settled. Your passport, please.’ He held out his hand. Suddenly, the affable manner had evaporated. I would not be leaving Venice until he said I could. And I had the distinct impression that, if I resisted, I would not even be leaving the Questura. I took my passport from my pocket and laid it in his palm. ‘Grazie,’ he said, the smile reappearing. ‘You will be staying at the Villa Primavera?’
‘No.’ This time, I took good care to avoid Faraday’s gaze. ‘I’ll find a pensione somewhere.’
‘I must have a definite address, Signor Horton. Otherwise …’
‘Can I let you know later today?’
He nodded. ‘So long as you do.’
‘I will.’
‘Va bene.’ He rose from his chair and tugged at his lapels. ‘Well, signori, I think our business is concluded. You must not let me detain you any longer.’
Martelli took his leave of us on the Questura steps following a flurry of handshakes and a conversation with Faraday in Italian. After he had gone, Faraday walked a few paces with me in silence, tapping his lip thoughtfully. Then he said: ‘I have no reason to think you would not be welcome to stay at the villa.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘Then why did you tell Varsini—’
‘Because I don’t wish to stay there. Not after what’s happened.’
He pulled up, obliging me to do the same. ‘You don’t wish? Perhaps I should remind you, Horton, that you’re here to fulfil the requirements of your paymasters, not pander to your own whims.’
‘And perhaps I should remind you that a good friend of mine died yesterday.’
‘Very distressing, no doubt, but strictly irrelevant. Save in so far as the circumstances of Wingate’s death do tend to suggest you have succeeded in winning Diana’s confidence. She will be in an especially vulnerable state at the moment. Highly receptive to your charms, I would venture to—’
‘Don’t!’ I snapped, grabbing at his tie and noticing the sudden outbreak of fear on his face. ‘Don’t venture to suggest anything. Not if you value your health.’ I let go and he stepped hurriedly back, his hand jerking up to smooth the crumpled tie. ‘I want no further part in this. Do you understand? I shan’t be spying or prying or probing on your account – or Gregory’s.’
He cleared his throat nervously. ‘You’re upset. That’s understandable. But as soon as—’
‘My decision’s final.’
‘Surely not.’ The ready smile was restored to his lips, the superior tone to his voice. ‘Think of the money you’d be giving up.’
‘I don’t care about the money.’
‘Oh, but you do. Your whole life proves you do. As you’ll remember once you’ve recovered from the shock. You’ll think of what you’d be losing. And then you’ll think again.’
‘No.’
‘Believe me, Horton, you will. But take my advice: don’t delay too long. Now, excuse me, will you? I don’t think we’re heading in the same direction.’ With that, he bustled off. I lit a cigarette and watched his receding figure until it vanished round a corner, wondering whether he might not be right after all – and praying I would prove him wrong.
I did not have to go far in search of a suitable pensione. La Casa di Pellicani was perched at the malodorous end of a narrow bridge about halfway between the Questura and San Marco. After agreeing terms for one of its better rooms, I walked down to Riva Schiavoni and boarded the next vaporetto bound for the Lido, determined to extricate myself from the Villa Primavera without delay.
Vita received me in the drawing-room, where nothing appeared to have changed – though everything had – since my arrival a week before. She was grave-faced and trembling, looking suddenly old and frail, worn down, it seemed, by one tragedy too many.
‘Diana’s resting. She’s very tired. I imagine you must be too.’
‘No. In fact …’ My words died in the mutual incomprehension conveyed by our eyes. I wanted to apologize for abusing her hospitality, but to do so would have been to refer openly to what had happened, which her expression implied was the last thing she wanted of me. ‘I’m moving to a pensione,’ I said abruptly. ‘In the circumstances, it seems … well, in everybody’s best interests.’
‘Don’t feel you have to, Guy. I don’t pretend to understand the morals of your generation. They are certainly not the morals of mine. Nevertheless, it’s clear to me that Diana’s come to care for you a great deal. And she will need the support of those she cares for in the weeks ahead. She will need it as never before.’
‘And she’ll have mine. It’s just … It’s difficult to explain, but I feel, for Max’s sake … I must go.’
‘Max is dead.’
‘Yes. But our friendship isn’t. Tell Diana—’
‘Tell me yourself, Guy.’ Diana was standing in the doorway, waiting to meet my gaze as I swung round. She was wearing a plain white dress and was clasping her hands together tightly as she looked at me. Her face was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. Her lips were quivering as she spoke. ‘You’re leaving … without saying goodbye?’
‘No. That is—’
‘One moment,’ said Vita. ‘I think it would be best if I left. Excuse me.’ She rose and hurried across the room, pausing to lay a concerned hand to Diana’s cheek before walking out through the door – and closing it behind her.
Silence leapt between us as soon as the door clicked shut. Diana took a few steps towards me, but I did not move towards her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, bowing my head.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Why are you leaving?’
‘Because I can’t remain. Surely you see that?’
‘Because Max is dead?’
‘I can’t forget him.’
‘Of course you can’t. Neither can I. No more than I can forget what happened before he burst in. What it represented. What it signified. To me, anyway. To the police – and to Aunt Vita as well, perhaps – it may have sounded sordid and contemptible. But it wasn’t, was it?’
‘No. It wasn’t.’
‘It can’t be, can it? Not if there’s more than … physical desire.’
‘Love, you mean?’
‘Yes. Love.’
‘Diana, I …’ I turned away towards the window. Before I could continue, I felt her hand on my elbow. At the mere touch of her fingers through my sleeve, there burst into my mind the vision of her naked on the bed. Then I saw Max’s face, stained with fury. And heard his voice in my ear. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t follow you?’
‘I didn’t mean to kill him, Guy. Even the police believe me. Won’t you?’
‘I do believe you.’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
‘We are. You and I. What we did drove Max to his death. Whatever the law says, we are to blame.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes, Diana. I do.’
Her hand fell from my elbow and I heard her move away. When she next spoke, her voice seemed to come from a greater distance than the room could contain. ‘In that case, you ought to leave. And I won’t try to stop you.’
I spent the rest of that day and most of the next alternately walking and drinking myself into a state of oblivion. Trapped like a fly in a bottle, I craved only the world beyond the glass, where I could seek out the truth on Max’s behalf. But the glass could not be broken. Nor, until the Venetian magistratura gave their leisurely consent, could the cork be pulled. There was, for me, no escape.
Returning to the Casa di Pellicani late on Wednesday afternoon, I was surprised to be told that an Englishman had called in search of me and was waiting at the Oliva Nera, an unlovely local bar recommended to him by my landlady, whose brother was the proprietor. Wondering who my visitor might be, I went straight there, only to catch sight of him from some way off. He was sitting at an outside table, wearing a raincoat and trilby, peering suspiciously at a glass of fizzy beer and blendi
ng with the Venetian background about as effectively as a gondolier on the Serpentine.
‘Chief Inspector Hornby?’
‘Ah, Mr Horton, there you are. Take a seat. Can I buy you a beer?’
‘No thanks. Just coffee.’ I sat down and waited until my order had been taken, then lit a cigarette and offered Hornby one. He accepted, eagerly discarding the Italian brand he had been coughing over. ‘I’m sorry I was out. If I’d known you were coming …’
‘I hardly knew myself. But, when we heard the news … Well, somebody had to come over to check the details.’ He flexed his shoulders. ‘And I didn’t travel first-class, so don’t think I’m pleased to be here.’ After a squint around the tiny square, he added: ‘Bognor’s more to my taste.’
‘Couldn’t you have left it to the locals? Max is dead. I should have thought that was all you wanted to know.’
‘Not quite. There’s the question of how he managed to slip out of England.’
‘I can’t help you there. He didn’t tell me.’
‘Did he tell you anything? Where he’s been since the murder, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘Or what made him kill Charnwood?’
I wondered if I should respond by proclaiming Max’s innocence. But Hornby’s expression told me I would be wasting my breath. If I was to clear Max’s name, it would be without assistance from the likes of a detective chief inspector who prefers Bognor to Venice. ‘He said nothing.’
‘Apart from accusing you and Miss Charnwood of treachery?’
I sipped my coffee and stared impassively at him. ‘Apart from that.’
‘I can see it must have been a real facer for him. His friend and his fiancée.’ The phrase was a virtual and quite possibly deliberate echo of one used by Varsini. But, if he was trying to rile me, I was determined he would not succeed. ‘Do you mind me asking … how long you and Miss Charnwood …’
‘Is that really any of your business, Chief Inspector?’
‘Strictly speaking, no. But it’s only a matter of weeks since you were planning to stand as best man at their wedding. It doesn’t look very … loyal, does it?’
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