Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  ‘I’ve wished the same, Guy.’ Our fingers entwined so instinctively it was impossible to judge whose had reached out first. ‘Why don’t we try again? Why don’t we give ourselves a little more time?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘We both have to stay here until the inquest. And that’s more than two weeks away.’

  ‘So Faraday told me.’

  ‘Did he also tell you he’s leaving Venice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tomorrow, apparently. So, you wouldn’t have to dread him forever popping in. If you moved back to the villa, I mean.’

  Our eyes met for more than the fleeting moment we had so far risked. To look at her was to remember what we had done – and to see, reflected in her gaze, the irresistible uncertainty of all we might yet do. May God forgive me. For surely Max would not have.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy, Guy. Waiting to have our … immorality … exposed in court. But at least it might be bearable if we waited together.’

  ‘It wasn’t immoral.’

  ‘No. But some will say it was.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘I will. If you’ll give me the strength not to care what they say.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Then you will come back to the villa?’

  ‘Unless Vita objects.’

  ‘She never objects to anything that’s good for me.’

  ‘And am I good for you?’

  ‘I hope we’re good for each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, leading her away from the grave. ‘So do I.’

  9

  AND SO I went back to the Villa Primavera. I cannot be sure now whether, left to my own devices, I would have succumbed to temptation during the weeks I had still to spend in Venice. Not that it matters. I was forced to return to the villa for Diana’s sake. And once there, it was not hard to persuade myself that more or less any deception – any indulgence – was justifiable on the same grounds.

  Diana had moved to a different room since Max’s death. It was hardly necessary to ask why. Mercifully, though, no memory of that afternoon clung to the fabric of the villa. Max’s presence had been too fleeting for any ghost to linger. When I thought of him – which was frequently – it was in other places and moods than those in which he had died. By the second night – when Diana came to me, weeping and nervous in the still small hours – I could wrap her in my arms without seeming to see Max’s face hovering at my shoulder. And by the third night – when we surrendered, as I had thought we never would again, to the needs and instincts of the flesh – no scruple stayed my hand as it slid around her body.

  Nor could it reasonably have been expected to. They were strange and unsettling, those days of waiting on the Lido, as autumn seeped about us in salt-tinged mists and ever colder dawns. What could we do to still our doubts and anxieties but cling to each other? I did not love her. I did not believe in the possibility of love. But she did. And every time and every way she gave herself to me made the next time and the next way more irresistible still.

  I gleaned her secrets without compunction. Though she did not know it, I was trying to help her, trying to save her from whatever persuasions Faraday’s friends might devise. There seemed to be nothing she was not willing to tell me. Nothing except what I needed ever more urgently to discover. But for the conversation between her and Vita I had eavesdropped on that night in the garden, I would have become convinced of her innocence, convinced there really was no hidden pile of Charnwood’s money. But there had to be. Otherwise, what had they meant? What else could be worth such artful concealment?

  For artful they undoubtedly were. Diana opened her soul to me. There was nothing she denied me. Save one scrap of knowledge, the scrap I sought in bedroom drawers and wardrobe shelves, in purses and handbags, explored whenever chance allowed. I did not spare Vita either. Her bureau I opened, her letters I read, her pockets I searched. For time and idleness make many opportunities. And I seized them with mounting desperation. Only to be left as I had begun – empty-handed.

  As the days ticked away, I reached a grim conclusion. I would have to tell them. There was no other way. I would have to make them understand the gravity of their position. Then they would volunteer the truth to save themselves. But, in the process, I would have to admit I was merely Faraday’s spy, somebody more contemptible even than he was. In saving Diana, it seemed certain I would also lose her. And no amount of money could compensate me for that. Reject the concept of love as I might, I could not deny infatuation, addiction, even obsession. I was the victim of them all. And she was the cause.

  Yet what could I do? What alternative was there? None, so far as I could see – except delay. The inquest was now definitely fixed for Monday the twenty-sixth. Martelli had said so during one of his several visits. He had also assured us of the outcome: a verdict of involuntary homicide and the immediate end of our confinement. We were all eager to leave Venice and planned to do so as soon as possible. What then? I did not care to wonder, for by then the end of October would be upon us. And I would have to speak. Until the inquest, I could hold my tongue – and my place in Diana’s affections. But no longer.

  Often, I found myself hoping for some sudden extrication from my dilemma, some deus ex machina to resolve my every difficulty. But it was no more than a hope – and not a very pious one either. Certainly I did not think it was fulfilled by the unexpected arrival five days before the inquest of Quincy Z. McGowan, younger brother of the late Maud Charnwood and seldom-heard-from uncle of Diana.

  He was a tall barrel-chested man in his mid-forties, with a booming voice and a beaming smile, running to fat and inclining to baldness, but defiantly projecting a boyish charm. He had decided, he explained, to bring forward a business trip to England in order to give Vita and Diana any help he could in the wake of his brother-in-law’s death. The news of their latest misfortune had been waiting for him at Amber Court and he had therefore proceeded to Venice immediately.

  Vita and Diana both seemed overjoyed to see him and it was easy to understand why. He blew through the villa like a spring breeze, dispelling much of the unspoken dread that had settled upon us. Diana had fond memories of him as the strapping young god of her childhood, a playful uncle who had largely lapsed from her life after her mother’s death. He recalled hoping the United States would declare war on Germany after the sinking of the Lusitania in 1915 and so give him the chance to avenge his sister. But he had had to wait until 1918 for that, in the form of a few glorious months under arms on the Western Front. His descriptions of combat did not tally with my memories, but it was impossible to resent or resist the force of his enthusiasm. I was only grateful Max and I had never crossed swords with him. The McGowans of Pittsburgh ranked not that far short of Carnegie and Frick in the American steel industry. They would have made powerful enemies. And I had enough of those already.

  One of Quincy’s most endearing characteristics was his modesty. ‘My father made my wealth for me while I was still in diapers. And my brother Theo’s made sure I’ve kept it. I’m just the grateful beneficiary of their acumen. Theo has the brains. And Maudie had the beauty. There was precious little left for me – except to have a lot of fun.’ But he had not come to Venice in search of fun. He had come to offer a helping hand. ‘If the McGowan Steel Corporation had gone bust, Fabian would have ridden to our rescue. So, it’s only fair I should try to do the same.’

  He proved to be as good as his word. He knew nothing of Charnwood Investments – ‘Fabian always kept us at arm’s length where business was concerned’ – but he did know how to entertain women of any age and how to oil the wheels of any nation’s legal system. He established an immediate rapport with Martelli and persuaded the American Consulate to do far more than our own had troubled to. When he was not amusing us, he was encouraging us. And when the day of the inquest finally came, his presence alongside us in the court seemed magically to guarantee a favourable outcome. Whether something more than magic was at wor
k – such as a bribe – I had no way of knowing. But I would not have put it past him.

  Certainly the inquest did go smoothly. Most of it, of course, was conducted in Italian. If the presiding magistrate expressed his distaste for the circumstances surrounding Max’s death, it was not translated for our benefit. And what he said about Max’s character was likewise never conveyed to us. Diana and I were questioned in English, but the convoluted process of translation had the effect of neutralizing our answers, draining them of shame as well as feeling. I could not judge how an Italian court would react to the events we described, but I felt sure it would not be with the narrow-minded sourness of a middle-class English jury. And nor was it. When the verdict came, it was calmly, almost clinically, pronounced. Omicidio involontario, as Martelli had predicted – and as Quincy may have taken steps to ensure.

  We went to Harry’s Bar afterwards, then returned to the Lido and dined at the Excelsior, buoyed up by a sense of release amounting almost to gaiety. Late in the evening, glancing around the table at my companions, I felt a sudden sense of remoteness from them, of remorse for being pleased that the book had been closed on the death as well as the life of Max Algernon Wingate. I made some excuse and went out onto the terrace to smoke a cigar, watching the white horses of the Adriatic roll in at me from the limitless night, wondering what I could have done – or not done – to avert this bitter end to our twenty years of friendship.

  ‘You’re thinking about Max, aren’t you?’ asked Diana, coming up silently behind me to thread her arm through mine and lean her head against my shoulder. ‘I could see it in your face as you left.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. We’ll never forget him. We’ll never try to.’

  ‘None of it was his fault, you see.’

  ‘You still think somebody else murdered Papa?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t suppose I ever will be.’ Feeling goose-pimples forming on her arm, I added: ‘Shall we go back in?’

  ‘In a moment. The sea by night is … so lovely.’

  ‘Not as lovely as you.’ I kissed her and saw the lights from the dining-room dance in her eyes. ‘Are you looking forward to going home?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Only think?’

  ‘What does it mean for us, Guy – going back to England? Will we stay together?’

  I should have told her then. I should have revealed my secret while I had the courage. But I knew I could delay a little longer. So all I did was kiss her again and murmur ‘Of course’ in her scented ear. Next day, we collected our passports from the Questura, then took the speed-boat out to San Michele, where we laid flowers on Max’s grave and bade him a wordless farewell. Soon, we would be leaving Venice. But Max would be staying for ever. No blame attached to us. The court had said so. And yet he would remain, while we were free to go.

  We were booked aboard the Orient Express leaving Venice on Wednesday afternoon. It was the twenty-eighth of October and time was running short. Not that there was any tension in the air as breakfast commenced at the Villa Primavera. Diana and I preserved a fictional decorum, which doubtless deceived nobody, by descending separately from our respective rooms. Accordingly, I found myself alone with Vita for ten minutes or so before Diana joined us, Quincy having gone for his regular morning tramp along the beach.

  ‘I’m glad to have this chance of a quiet word,’ said Vita. ‘It’s high time I asked what your intentions are towards my niece.’

  I set down my coffee-cup and smiled at her. ‘I’m not sure I know.’

  ‘Then you should. She’s in love with you, Guy. That’s obvious to me, even if it isn’t to you. So, what do you propose to do about it?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. You see …’ I hesitated in the face of another opportunity to confess. And then the opportunity was gone.

  ‘Well, hello, you two!’ roared Quincy, advancing suddenly into the room, panting slightly from his walk. ‘Great morning, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ we chorused. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I met the mail-man outside. He gave me a letter for you, Vita. Leastways, I suppose it’s for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He dropped an envelope in front of her, addressed by typewriter to Miss Charnwood, with no initial.

  ‘Posted locally,’ said Vita. ‘How strange.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘It may be for Diana.’

  ‘And it may not.’

  ‘True, but—’

  At that moment Diana appeared, smiling, at Quincy’s elbow. ‘Something exciting?’ she asked.

  ‘A letter for Miss Charnwood,’ I said. ‘The question is: which one?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Vita passed it to her. ‘Well, there’s no handwriting to recognize. It could be for either of us.’

  ‘Do open it, my dear,’ said Vita. ‘Put us out of our misery.’

  ‘Very well.’ She slit it open with a knife from the table, pulled out a single sheet of paper and frowned at whatever message it contained. ‘How extraordinary!’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Some sort of … diagram. It means nothing to me. Aunty?’ She handed the sheet to Vita, who peered at it for a moment, then let it fall onto the tablecloth, where we all had a clear view of it.

  The sheet was blank save for a pair of concentric circles drawn in ink. They were perfect discs, the inner one about an inch in diameter, the outer about twice that. For some reason, I was reminded of the game Charnwood had played with a five-shilling piece. But this time there were two circles – and no conjurer to pluck a meaning from them.

  ‘What do you make of it, Vita?’ asked Quincy.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. But something caught in her throat, something suggesting dismay rather than puzzlement. Her face had lost much of its colour and, in her eyes, there was a hint of alarm. ‘Some absurd prank, I suppose.’

  ‘A mighty pointless prank, wouldn’t you say – if nobody understands it?’

  ‘I would, Quincy, yes.’

  Diana picked the sheet of paper up and stared at it, then at the envelope. ‘Posted yesterday, here in Venice,’ she mused. ‘What can it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vita. ‘And I don’t propose to gratify whoever sent it by racking my brains trying to find out. If you’ll excuse me, I have packing to attend to.’ She rose hurriedly from the table, still dabbing toast-crumbs from her lips, and bustled out, leaving the rest of us to stare at each other with furrowed brows.

  ‘Poor Aunty,’ said Diana. ‘This seems to have struck a nerve.’

  ‘Anonymous letters are always distressing,’ I suggested.

  ‘But it isn’t a letter,’ said Quincy. ‘Just a diagram. It’s not abusive or threatening – so far as I can see.’

  ‘And it wasn’t necessarily even intended for Aunt Vita,’ said Diana. ‘It could have been for me.’

  ‘But it means nothing to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Unlike Vita,’ said Quincy, nodding thoughtfully.

  Diana looked at him, then at me. Bafflement was turning to concern on her aunt’s behalf. She replaced the sheet of paper in its envelope, clutched it pensively in both hands for a moment, then offered it to me. ‘Keep this for me, Guy, would you? Just in case – Well, just in case.’

  ‘Certainly.’ I took it from her. ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll go and see how she is. She may want to talk to me. Would you both excuse me?’

  ‘What about—’ But she was gone before I could finish the sentence. ‘Your breakfast?’ I murmured through a grimace as the door closed behind her.

  ‘I think she’s lost her appetite,’ said Quincy. He grinned ruefully.

  ‘So it seems.’ I slid the envelope and its cryptic contents into my pocket. ‘Or been deprived of it.’

  ‘By an anonymous Venetian geometer? Just as well we’re leaving
, then.’

  ‘Yes. I think it is. From every point of view.’

  The upheaval of departure drove the subject of the strange letter – and Vita’s reaction to it – out of my thoughts. By late afternoon, we were aboard the Orient Express as it pulled slowly out of Santa Lucia station. I looked through the window of my cabin at the flat expanse of the lagoon drifting past us and remembered how much happier I would have felt leaving three weeks before, when Max’s death had reduced my intentions to a single burning determination. Now, nothing was quite so simple. Diana and I were lovers. And her father’s debts were about to be called in. A Sword of Damocles hung over us, but only I could see it. Soon, very soon, I would have to speak out – or watch helplessly as the sword descended.

  As darkness fell and we neared Verona, I headed for the bar car. The ladies would be about their toilettes for another hour or more before dinner and the best way to forget my troubles seemed to be by downing several Manhattans while the pianist warmed his fingers to some rag-time melodies. For the moment, I desired no company but my own. Quincy McGowan, however, had other ideas.

  ‘Great minds, Guy. A long cool drink before things get busy, eh? And a little … conversazione … before we leave Italy. I bet you’ll be glad to cross the Swiss border.’

  ‘I confess I will.’

  ‘Before we do, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘My gorgeous niece, Diana. Since she’s grown to remind me more and more of Maudie, I just can’t help feeling … well, protective.’

  ‘That’s quite understandable.’

  ‘It’s why I came to Venice. It’s why I left Pittsburgh. You see …’ He lowered his voice to a rumble. ‘My brother Theo got wind of some bad feeling among Charnwood Investments’ American creditors. We made a few enquiries. Asked a few discreet questions. For anyone concerned about Diana and Vita, the answers were … alarming.’

  Trying to appear and sound bemused, I frowned and said: ‘In what way?’