The Venetian Venture

by Suzette A. Hill

  Without a word he disappeared into a back room and was gone for some time, presumably raking the dusty shelves. ‘Well,’ she said to herself, ‘couldn’t be simpler. Just shows, occasionally things do work. With a delayed report to Dr Stanley I can spin out another four days here in art and fun. And return with the goods!’ Grinning in triumph she glanced casually at the titles on a nearby table. These were not quite as she had expected – translations of Hank Janson, Frank Harris, Henry Miller, a lavishly illustrated Marquis de Sade, something called Tales My Mother Should Not Have Told Me and a book with no author but entitled Histoire d’O. She was about to see who O was but was interrupted by the return of Giuseppe with the Horace. He flourished the volume under her nose and immediately began to wrap it.

  ‘Just a moment, signor,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘if you don’t mind I’d like to take a look.’ She started to give it a cursory scan, and then stopped. The editor’s name was certainly Bodger but there was no sign of a signature or an inscription. She trawled the pages. Nothing. No handwriting anywhere, whether in quill, nib, or even pencil.

  She sighed. ‘I am so sorry, but this is not what I am looking for. It is essential I have the signed edition with its inscription. This has no mark at all.’

  He gave a blank stare and shrugged. ‘But there is no other, signora.’

  ‘But I gathered that there certainly was … Perhaps it got sent to another shop. I was told that—’

  ‘Who told you?’ the man interrupted sharply. ‘A person here in Venice?’ The obsequious tone had assumed a hostile edge.

  ‘Well, no. You see …’ She trailed off, knowing her Italian was not up to explaining the situation and doubting his English could cope. She rather suspected, too, that whatever lingo was adopted such efforts would be futile.

  ‘You want?’ he asked curtly, pointing to the book.

  ‘No, no I do not want,’ she replied firmly.

  He shrugged again, and reverting to Italian said indifferently, ‘Va bene. Grazie, signora. Buongiorno.’

  Sensing a dismissal she moved to the door, but as she turned the handle he called out in English: ‘Signora, I assure you no other copy. This one only. Do not look more.’ Rosy gave a brief nod and left the premises.

  ‘Lying,’ she muttered to herself as she retraced her steps along the cobbled alley. He might not have stocked the one she sought but how could he possibly be so sure that another did not exist? Of course he couldn’t. And as to his injunction to look no further, she very much doubted it had been prompted by concern for her feet or time. Not so much a piece of advice as an order. Damn cheek!

  She sat on a piece of wall and brooded. Fallen at the first fence. So what now? Presumably Plan B, i.e. visit the Castello establishment. She took out the map and checked its position. Yes, walkable: along the Riva degli Schiavoni in the direction of the Arsenale, on to the Via Garibaldi, turn left at the John Cabot house and with a bit of luck the Calle di Fiori should materialise somewhere on the right with the shop at the far end. Well at least she could combine business with pleasure. The route passed a whole gamut of famed landmarks: the Doge’s palace, the Bridge of Sighs, the celebrated Danieli, church of the Pietà … and oh, of course, the very house where Henry James had completed The Portrait of a Lady! A splendid itinerary, especially as she would have to walk through St Mark’s Piazza to reach the waterfront.

  She stood up, impatient to get going before the shop shut for lunch and to start her acquaintance with so lovely a city.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rosy’s curiosity had been more than satisfied by her morning ramble, the places she passed stirring her impatience for further pleasures.

  However, such pleasures did not include her time at the Castello bookshop, which lasted for approximately one minute. The place was closed; the notice in the window advising intending browsers that the owner was taking his annual holiday. The blinds were drawn and a mesh covered the door. Rosy was so frustrated that she stamped her foot – twice, an action which made her feel foolish. She glanced around hoping no one had witnessed so absurd a display, and then recalled that this was Italy not England: eyes were less alert to personal oddity. She started to go back the way she had come and then decided to cut to the right to explore more widely – at least something might be gained from the fruitless mission! She crossed a small campo, selected a street displaying a direction for San Zaccaria and found herself beside a narrow canal and a bridge.

  Preoccupied by her recent frustration and envisaging a restorative drink, Rosy did not see the dog at first – but she heard it all right: an explosive throaty woof like a grumpy cannon. She jumped and nearly tripped up the steps of the bridge; and then looking down encountered the mournful eyes of a stout basset hound. It stood four-square gazing up at her, brows furrowed and feet splayed.

  She cleared her throat wondering vaguely what ‘good dog’ was in Italian. ‘Buono cane,’ she enunciated carefully, moving to circumvent it. Evidently it did not care for that, for it also moved and continued to impede her path. The expression (impassive) remained the same, as did the resolutely spread paws.

  ‘Oh come on,’ she protested in English, ‘do get out of the way!’

  ‘It won’t,’ a voice said from behind her, ‘whatever language you use.’

  She spun round and was confronted by Felix Smythe, holding a dangling lead and wearing the harassed look of one in pursuit of a dog.

  ‘Good Lord, Felix,’ she exclaimed, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask the same, Miss Gilchrist,’ Felix replied, ‘but as a general answer to your own enquiry I am here on holiday; more precisely I am trying to secure this hound. Would you be so kind as to hold its collar while I clip on the lead?’ This was less of a question than a directive, and Rosy did as she was bid while Felix bent to fumble with the creature’s neck. As he did so he received an absent-minded lick on the cheek. Felix recoiled. ‘Can’t think why it does that,’ he complained.

  ‘Obvious. He must like you,’ said Rosy. ‘Some dogs have peculiar preferences. I remember we once had a Labrador who—’

  Felix gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Fascinating I’m sure, but one doesn’t come to Venice to hear of the idiosyncrasies of your erstwhile pets Miss Gilchrist. Now, what exactly are you doing here? Don’t tell me the BM has dispensed with your services, I was given to understand you were its essential lynchpin, a veritable clerical sine qua non!’ He gave a sly titter.

  ‘Not by me, you weren’t,’ retorted Rosy, stung by his sarcasm. She shouldn’t have made the quip about canine tastes. Really, Felix Smythe could be so hoity-toity! She flashed him a dazzling smile and said sweetly, ‘Actually I am no more a clerk there than you are Eliza Doolittle. But tell me, how’s trade since the great accolade? I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you.’

  That did it as she knew it would. To have a ‘By Royal Appointment’ warrant displayed above the threshold of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms had been one of Felix’s dearest wishes and a source of endless hope and speculation. Its eventual award, just at the close of the grisly murder case they had all been involved in, could not have been better timed. Temporarily away from London, Rosy had been unable to congratulate him in person. But now was her chance and she made full use of it. ‘You must be thrilled,’ she exclaimed.

  Felix’s taut features relaxed, and leaning a nonchalant elbow on the stone parapet he proceeded to give an animated account of his triumph. ‘Yes,’ he said modestly, ‘it was most gracious of Her Majesty to remember me, most gracious. But then I’ve always thought that the dear Queen Mother and I have a special bond where flowers are concerned: she is very discerning you know.’

  He continued to enthuse for a while, and then prompted by a yawn from the dog stopped in mid-sentence, and said, ‘But what did you say you were doing in Venice?’

  Rosy started to explain and had just finished the bit about Bodger’s mediocre translation but distinguished commentary when the air was rent with an excruciating m
elange of leonine rumbles and peahen screeches. A small poodle and its large owner had mounted the steps, and the basset hound had clearly taken exception to both. The ensuing altercation, both human and canine, was raucous and embarrassing. However, peace and honour eventually restored the interlopers went on their way, the poodle casting scandalised glances over its shoulder.

  Felix mopped his brow and glared at his charge. ‘Bloody dogs,’ he observed, ‘the sooner I get back for a siesta the better! Tell you what, Miss Gilchrist, Cedric and I will meet you at Florian’s tomorrow evening at nine o’clock, they do the most wonderful cakes … You know it do you?’

  ‘Er, yes. It’s in the Piazza isn’t it? Underneath the arches,’ Rosy replied, slightly surprised by the invitation.

  ‘Yes, beneath the portici,’ Felix confirmed. ‘So we’ll meet there then. Good. Now I really must go and take a rest before Cedric returns from the Accademia demanding tea. One gets so exhausted …’ He yanked at the lead, and dog and minder trotted down the steps and were soon lost in the shadows of an archway.

  Undecided whether to be pleased or disturbed by the encounter Rosy bought an ice cream, sat in the sun and brooded. It was not that she disliked Felix and Cedric, simply that she felt no particular affinity – a negative which she sensed was reciprocated. Until the business of her aunt they had been little more than passing acquaintances – figures occasionally encountered at a cocktail party or a private view, where exchanges had been polite yet distant. But the business of her aunt’s murder with all its attendant horror and embarrassment had perforce pulled them into a mutual orbit. For a period she had been thrust into a collusive intimacy and shared a knowledge it would have been rash to reveal … Mercifully that was all over now, and the painful phase firmly (if not deeply) buried. Nevertheless did she really want to rekindle false intimacies, to renew a link which had been none of their choosing?

  She licked the cornet’s melting dollop, savoured its silky texture and decided that on the whole she did not … And yet even as she reached that conclusion she knew full well that come the following evening she would sally forth to Florian’s eager for chat and gaiety, however brittle. Already, like thousands of such neophytes, she had fully succumbed to the Venetian spell; and also like many was content to absorb the city’s charms alone. But it was content not averse to companionship; and the prospect of sharing cocktails and a moonlit Piazza, even with Felix and Cedric, did have a certain appeal. Besides, who knew, they might suggest something useful re the errant Horace!

  ‘So why on earth is Rosy Gilchrist in Venice?’ enquired Cedric. ‘I should have thought Frinton would be more her style.’ He flashed a superior smile.

  ‘Something to do with tracing a book I gather. That Dr Stanley person sent her here.’

  ‘Really? What sort of book?’

  Felix frowned. ‘Uhm … not sure. Something called Hodge’s Boris I think: a collection of poetry. Can’t say it sounded frightfully exciting but she seemed keen. I wasn’t really listening as Caruso was squaring up to attack a poodle and I had to throttle him while being charming to its owner. Quite a manoeuvre and I really couldn’t attend to a third party as well.’

  ‘Hodge’s Boris? Whatever’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

  Felix shrugged. ‘Well dear boy, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of everything, but that’s what she said. I am merely relaying information.’

  ‘Hmm. Ought we to ask her here for a drink? It would be a civil gesture I suppose. Is she alone?’

  ‘She is alone and I have already done that – well not here but to Florian’s. Tomorrow evening at nine.’

  ‘Florian’s? That’s a bit excessive isn’t it, even for Miss Gilchrist. Should she wish for a second zabaglione I trust you will be the one doing the honours.’

  ‘Oh come now, Cedric, we’re in Venice not penny-pinching in Mayfair! I think we can permit Miss Gilchrist a second drink on the house – our house. And anyway you know how I adore Florian’s; any excuse to dally at one of those little gilt tables.’

  ‘Or indeed to dally with the little gilt waiters.’ Despite the acerbic tone Cedric lowered his left eyelid. Such ocular gestures were rare with the professor and Felix giggled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The two friends had rapidly taken to their new abode (and indeed its glorious context); while even Caruso was proving less of a penalty than Cedric had feared, being on the whole fairly cooperative. Thus a few days into their sojourn they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast on the veranda before gathering themselves to visit the Frari, leaving the dog to dream of bones and arias in the autumn sun.

  ‘We don’t have to stay long,’ Felix said, ‘there’s so much stuff there it might be indigestible. I suggest we stagger our visits, just a bit at a time. Today could be a little aperitivo as it were.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Cedric, ‘but we must make time for the two great Titians. First things first. And then of course we might just glance at—’

  ‘The barber shop? What a good idea.’

  Cedric was startled. ‘Er, I was going to say the Bellini Madonna and Child in the sacristy, but if you have a hankering for a haircut I suppose that must take precedence.’ He broke off and sighed. ‘Ah, light dawns: it’s not a hankering for a haircut as such but a yen to inspect the premises of the two gents we met in that bar last night. What were their names? Paolo and Pucci or some such. A bit Marx Brotherish I thought, especially the one with frizzy hair, a sort of taller version of Harpo.’ He gave a mild chuckle.

  ‘But you must admit they were very charming; and they did say we should drop in any time we were passing.’

  ‘But we shan’t be passing, the shop is in the opposite direction from the Frari.’

  ‘Oh only a few bridges away,’ Felix said dismissively, ‘and besides don’t you want some more of that Fontini cologne?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then: pictures then scent – or should that be pittore poi profumo?’ Felix leered and tilted his panama.

  But their schedule was to be interrupted. As they approached the Accademia Bridge, seeking espressos prior to the Frari, Guy Hope-Landers came down the steps accompanied by a slim tawny-haired young woman, striking in cream Capri pants, matching ballerina pumps and cerise sweater. She was twirling a long cigarette holder and talking animatedly to her companion.

  ‘Ah,’ muttered Felix, ‘our fellow resident. Too early in the day for niceties, perhaps we can circumvent …’

  ‘Too late, he’s seen us. Prepare to charm.’ They composed their features.

  Hope-Landers gave an expansive wave. ‘Hello,’ he exclaimed, ‘the custodians. All goes well I trust? No problems – escaping gas, escaping dog, boiler buggered?’

  They assured him that everything was exactly as they might wish, and smiled politely at the lady.

  The man launched into introductions. ‘This is Lucia Borgino,’ he explained, ‘granddaughter of the venerable Gideon Vaughan, he of the splendid Mayfair art gallery. Lucia has inherited his eye – always on the qui vive for new talent. And just like grandpa, a word from her can make or break any budding Picasso.’ He shot her a glance half mocking, half reverent.

  The discerning Lucia gave a casual shrug, and, inserting a cigarette into her holder, observed that with so much dross flooding the market it was as well that somebody was prepared to take a stand. ‘Although actually,’ she confided, ‘it’s not so much the would-be Picassos that you have to watch but those dreary suburban flower painters whose pathetic offerings cram the Summer Exhibition year after year … God how I loathe vapid lilies, in whatever medium, alive or framed. They are always the same: pale, etiolated and totally uninteresting.’ She gave an affected sigh and with perfectly formed lips did a fair imitation of a Brigitte Bardot pout. Felix, who harboured a passion for lilies and a distaste for Miss Bardot, hated her immediately.

  It was too bad of Cedric. But baulked of his morning caffeine and seeking alternative stimulus, he said casually, ‘Oh F
elix adores lilies, an expert in fact. I can tell you that since our arrival the Palazzo Reiss has turned into a veritable giardino dei gigli; so fragrant, and the dog loves it. He and Felix visit the flower market every morning and come back laden with the things.’

  Lucia raised an already perfectly arched eyebrow and, regarding Felix with polite disdain, remarked, ‘How quaint.’

  There was a brief silence, during which a cat screeched and Felix scowled. And then Hope-Landers said, ‘As a matter of fact I was just telling Lucia about your friend and her quest for the Horace book. At least I assume that’s the one Mr Smythe was referring to yesterday, the Horation odes as edited by R. D. M. Bodger.’ (Felix nodded vaguely.) ‘Lucia thinks she might know the man who has it and could make an introduction.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Cedric replied with sudden interest. ‘That would be helpful. One gathers Miss Gilchrist is becoming just a mite agitato about the whole thing. Thinks she is letting her boss down if she returns to the BM empty-handed. Felix thought she was distinctly on edge about it. We will probably be seeing her from time to time so if the matter could be resolved it might be of universal relief. Wouldn’t you say so, Felix?’

  But Felix, still stung by the attitude of the lily-hating Lucia, affected not to hear, being too engrossed in the scudding clouds over the dome of the distant Salute.

  ‘Well,’ Hope-Landers replied genially, ‘I daresay something can be arranged. We can probably fix a meeting with Carlo, assuming that he actually does have the thing. Not that that in itself means anything. By all accounts he can be quite tricky – well, according to Lucia he is.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was tricky,’ Lucia corrected him, ‘merely that he is fastidious as to whom he deals with.’ Her glance hovered briefly in the direction of Felix, and then addressing Cedric, she said, ‘I mean, what exactly is this lady like? Presumably she speaks Italian.’