Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  ‘And that was it?’

  Gaspare shrugged. ‘I’d love to say I had that much power, but apparently the police were only trying to scare you. They didn’t really believe what Johnny Ravenscourt said, but they’d lost touch with him – thought he was up to something – and put pressure on you to find out what it was.’

  ‘Up to something?’

  ‘Mr Ravenscourt’s known to the Art Fraud department. He has a record for smuggling fakes,’ Gaspare said, smiling. ‘It was a long time ago, and he’s not been active since, but it’s still on record.’ He paused. ‘How much did you tell the police?’

  Quickly Nino filled Gaspare in, pouring two glasses of brandy and passing one to the older man.

  ‘Ravenscourt tried to land me in it – which makes him look even more suspicious. If he’s copying Vespucci I reckon he picked me to be his scapegoat.’

  ‘Or he was just stirring up trouble,’ Gaspare offered, passing Nino a letter with his name on it. ‘When I got home, this had arrived.’

  Taking it, Nino read.

  Dear Mr Bergstrom,

  We met the other day and I would very much like to speak with you again – concerning Claudia Moroni. Perhaps you would like to call me on Tel. Norfolk 845 - 9851.

  Kindest regards,

  Hester Greyly (Mrs)

  Gaspare was looking at Nino with curiosity. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘It’s from Harold Greyly’s aunt. Perhaps she wants to tell me something he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Or perhaps she’s working with him to get you back to Norfolk?’

  ‘She asked me to ring her. Not visit.’

  Gaspare shrugged. ‘So ring. But don’t go back there.’

  Half an hour later Nino finally managed to get an answer on Hester Greyly’s phone. The receiver was picked up, but there was no greeting, just soft breathing down the line.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, concerned. ‘Mrs Greyly?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Nino hesitated, not recognising the man’s voice. ‘Mrs Greyly asked me to call her. Can I speak to her, please?’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Is she ill?’ Nino asked, uneasy. ‘I need to talk to her. She sent me a letter—’

  There was a rusting sound on the phone and someone else spoke. This time Nino recognised the voice immediately – it was Harold Greyly.

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Nino Bergstrom. Your aunt sent me a letter asking me to get in touch. Can I talk to her, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bergstrom, that won’t be possible,’ he replied, bone cold. ‘My aunt died this morning.’

  Nino’s mouth dried.

  ‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. So I’m afraid that no one will be speaking to her. And frankly I have nothing to say to you anyway, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t contact me or my family again.’ His manner was all crisp efficiency. ‘You came here under false pretences, Mr Bergstrom. I feel I should warn you that any further harassment will be reported to the police.’

  After putting down the phone, Nino took a long drink of his brandy and turned to Gaspare. ‘Hester Greyly died this morning.’

  ‘That was convenient.’

  ‘Her nephew said it was a fall …’ Nino paused, thinking back. ‘She was a nice lady. Old school. She had something to tell me, or show me. But you can bet that bastard’s emptied out her house, made sure I’ll never see anything I shouldn’t. I reckon he knew that she’d got in touch with me and I don’t believe she fell – I think Harold Greyly killed her.’ Nino finished his brandy, his hand shaking as he put down the glass. ‘I’m not sure he murdered the other women, but he certainly could have killed his aunt.’

  ‘But that would break the pattern. Vespucci killed four young women—’

  ‘I know. And he killed them on specific dates. The same dates as Seraphina, Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were killed. There’s only one anniversary left – the first of January.’ He held the old man’s gaze. ‘You think someone on a killing spree wouldn’t deviate from it? Maybe Harold Greyly was forced to act. Maybe Hester was about to give him away and he had to kill her.’

  ‘Or maybe Greyly didn’t kill the other women?’

  ‘Maybe not. But he could have done,’ Nino said quietly. ‘Greyly’s ex-Army, disciplined, unemotional. He hunts and kills for sport. He’s very aware of his status in life. I doubt he’d let anyone take that away from him without a fight. And there’s something else. When he told me his aunt was dead his voice was flat. No grief, not even a pretence of it. There was nothing. Jesus, he could have been telling me the time.’

  Venice, December 1555

  On 8 December a body was found suspended from one of the bridges which leads to the Jewish Quarter. I saw this, bore witness to it. The woman was hung by a rope slid under her arms, the end fastened to one of the iron lamps above. Her chest was stripped of skin, also her legs, a star of David hanging limply against the shredded flesh. She loomed out of the heavy mist suddenly. Shaken, a woman shielded her child’s eyes, and an old man crossed himself. In the wind which has not left us, the body swung like a side of beef, and from her toes, blood the colour of cranberries dripped into the canal below.

  I could hear the rope scrape against the iron lamp which held it; I could see the carcass, red-raw, waving like a bloodied flag. I heard some woman scream and footsteps running. I heard shouts coming from across the bridge, a tumult of activity, panic and distress.

  She didn’t mind them. Even when men caught hold of the rope and tried to pull her upwards, to swing her on to the bridge, even then. What little unmarked skin remained was white as a winter stoat; much more bloodied where the knife had done its work. I think she had been very young, this girl of Israel. Even before I knew for certain, there was something of the child about her.

  Three women are now dead. Yet this time Angelico Vespucci does not cringe, nor skirt the crowd. This time he is silky, Aretino telling all who listen that he is innocent. He was caught up with business, Aretino says. They were discussing their next venture. Vespucci was not abroad that night. The killer is not him. Look, says Aretino, I have the proof you seek.

  He thinks his brilliance fools; that no one knows that secretly he has long traded with Vespucci. No one suspects that paintings leave Titian’s studio bound for courts abroad, where fees demanded double the artist’s charge. For nearly a year Aretino has betrayed his comrade. Thrown in his lot with the merchant, shored up his wealth by robbing his oldest friend.

  But now the Devil has him by the tail. Aretino is off to Titian’s studio. Maybe he wants to study Vespucci’s portrait. To flatter the genius he tricked into immortalising a killer. And still I watch and wait. My time has not yet come. I have to stay my hand, wait to see what next occurs. For all his talent and his eloquence, Aretino cannot shield the merchant forever. Vespucci’s face is changing, growing slack with all the horrors he has seen. His hands shake with a tremor, his confidence a sham. Daily the kindness he once possessed gives way to a dank depravity; and the weather follows his mood.

  An awful stillness has come upon the city. The cold has had some part in it, but there is more, an undercurrent as dangerous as the sea snakes who swim in the depths at our feet.

  The name of the last victim was Lena Arranti. She came from Milan, arriving in Venice to work as a servant, her beauty taking her from the kitchens to the beds of famous men. On the day she died, it had been her birthday. She was fifteen years of age.

  And Angelico Vespucci’s lover.

  BOOK FOUR

  Painting done under pressure by artists without the necessary talent can only give rise to formlessness, as painting is a profession that requires peace of mind.

  Titian (1485–1576)

  36

  Venice

  Grabbing hold of Johnny Ravenscourt, Tom Morgan hustled him backwards into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Caught off guard, Ravenscourt put up his hands to ward the American off. />
  ‘Calm down!’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down, you fag!’ Tom replied, jabbing at the other man’s shoulder. ‘I want to talk to you. Seems like I’m not the only one either. Why did you leave London so suddenly?’ He pulled at Ravenscourt’s arm, navigating him towards an armchair and then pushing him into it. Although Ravenscourt was the bigger man, he was cowed by the show of aggression and began to blather.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’ he pleaded.

  Tom stood over him. He had lost some weight, and his exclusive clothes were creased, unkempt. A day’s growth of stubble and swollen eyes hinted at neglect, the smell of cannabis strong on his hands. And his feet were bare again, bloodless in the cold.

  ‘What d’you know about Seraphina’s death?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘You hired someone to look into it. Which is odd, seeing as how I was interviewed by the same man, sent by Seraphina’s family.’ His voice took on a warning tone. ‘I never liked you, Johnny. I always thought you were a bad influence on my wife—’

  ‘I knew your wife long before you came into her life! I was her oldest friend.’

  ‘You were an emotional leech,’ Tom snapped. He was jumpy, jerky in his movements. ‘I know you were always trying to turn her against me. You wanted me gone and Seraphina to yourself. And now she’s dead – and I want to know why you’re poking your fucking nose into my business.’

  ‘Your business isn’t doing too well,’ Ravenscourt said snidely, straightening his jacket. ‘Don’t forget who helped you out when you needed it—’

  ‘I never asked Seraphina to go to you! You were the last person I’d have asked for help.’

  ‘But she did ask me, didn’t she?’ Ravenscourt countered. ‘And I did help you, Tom Morgan. Helped you save your bloody skin. One word from me to your employers and they’d have tossed your drugged arse out of the window in an instant.’

  ‘You want to watch what you say.’

  But the steam had gone out of Tom Morgan and his anger had given way to a craving for a joint. A smoke would calm him down, he told himself. Life had been hell lately. Who could blame him for wanting to settle his nerves? Hurriedly he moved over to a cabinet and rolled a joint. Lighting it and inhaling deeply soothed him in seconds, as he slid on to the window seat.

  He could see the canal below, the lamplight stippling the water, a knot of mangy ducks paddling under the bridge. It was true: his business was in trouble, and the old apartment he had once shared with Seraphina would soon have to go on the market. All the past was leaving him, all the memories of his wife disappearing with the home they had once shared. All that remained of Seraphina was the photographs and the papers and the numerous articles about her death.

  ‘I don’t know why Seraphina loved you,’ Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘She could have done so much better.’

  Tom turned to him. ‘What are you up to, you fat bastard? Why leave London in such a hurry? Are you on the run from the police?’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you, Seraphina said you had a colourful history.’

  ‘I was bored in London. I just wanted to come back to Venice. It was a rush decision.’

  ‘I bet,’ Tom replied, inhaling again, then blowing the smoke slowly between his lips. ‘I miss her. I miss my wife.’

  ‘I miss her too.’

  ‘I was her husband.’

  ‘Yes, and I was her friend!’ Ravenscourt snapped back. ‘You didn’t … you didn’t have anything to do with her death, did you?’

  To his amazement, Tom laughed. ‘Funny, I was just going to ask you the same thing …’ He stared out of the window. ‘She was different when she came back from her trip to London. Something had happened – d’you know what?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she used to talk to you. Even more than she talked to me,’ Tom continued. ‘And you hung out together a lot in the days before she died. Why?’

  ‘She was my friend—’

  ‘No! That wasn’t it. It know you, Ravenscourt – you don’t rate friendship that highly. You were stalking her—’

  ‘Rubbish! We went out for meals, we went shopping!’

  ‘But Seraphina didn’t want to see you!’ Tom snapped back. ‘She told me that. She said you were making her uneasy. Asking her questions about her trip, quizzing her. Why?’

  ‘I don’t believe she said any of that,’ Ravenscourt insisted, pouting. ‘We were very close. She needed me. She confided in me—’

  ‘What did she confide?’

  ‘That she was pregnant.’

  Tom waved the words away with his hand. ‘The whole family knew that.’

  ‘But did the family know that you didn’t want the baby? That you told Seraphina to get an abortion?’

  The words struck home.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seraphina told me all about it,’ Ravenscourt went on. ‘How she wanted to have the child, but you were against it—’

  ‘But I wasn’t! It was the other way round! I wanted the baby, she didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Ravenscourt replied, but he was obviously shaken. ‘Why would she lie about it? Seraphina never told lies, and certainly not about anything as important as that.’ Pausing, he turned away from Tom, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘She swore blind that you didn’t want the child. She said it was a bad time, that you couldn’t afford to support a family.’

  ‘But there was money coming,’ Tom replied. ‘Soon we’d have been loaded, more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. There was a windfall on its way, Ravenscourt … You didn’t know that, did you?’ He grinned unpleasantly. ‘Seems Seraphina didn’t tell you that much after all. Kept the real goodies to herself. We had it all planned out and soon I’d never need your help – or anyone’s help – again. Fuck the business, we weren’t going to need it. We were going to be rich.’

  His throat constricting, Ravenscourt struggled to control himself.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come on! I know she told you—’

  ‘About what?’

  Inhaling, Tom sucked at the joint. His mind was floating, all fury and frustration gone. The peace wouldn’t last, he knew that. But for a while he could linger, just above reality.

  ‘What are you talking about!’ Ravenscourt repeated, his bulk rising out of the chair, his heavy features flushed. ‘What did Seraphina say?’

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ Tom began, looking out of the window again. ‘There was a girl called Seraphina. She came from an old Venetian family, who weren’t quite as powerful as they had once been. Well, Seraphina met a handsome prince in the USA,’ he spelt it out, taunting Ravenscourt – ‘and they fell in love. He was rich, but – as with her family – it didn’t last. So Seraphina was looking for an opportunity …’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Listen to the fucking story!’ Tom retorted. ‘And lo and behold, a golden opportunity fell into her lap. Well, her hands anyway. By pure chance she found a painting worth millions.’ He paused, grinding out his joint and tossing the stub out of the window. The ducks hurried towards it, then, disappointed, moved off again. ‘What a lucky girl. She left it with a trustworthy old dealer, a man called Gaspare Reni, knowing it would be safe with him until we could figure a way to smuggle it to Venice. That’s where you came in, Johnny.’ He paused, but when there was no reply, he carried on. ‘You had a history of smuggling and Seraphina relied on that. On being able to convince you to help her. You two being so close … She was getting it all planned, all organised. The day before she died she was about to bring you in on it. We’d have given you a cut of the proceeds, you know. After all, there’d have been plenty to go around.’

  Ravenscourt was watching him with despair. Cheated, desperate despair. ‘But she died before—’

  ‘Yeah, Seraphina was killed before she could talk to you. Before we could get the Titian from London to Venice.’ Tom paused, staring at Ravenscourt. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’


  ‘Like what?’ he croaked.

  ‘Like you think I killed her.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Before we got the painting? No, that wouldn’t make sense,’ Tom replied, moving over to the big man. ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘No! I was in London when she died.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s not true, is it?’ Tom said. ‘I saw you in Venice the following day. You could easily have come back the night before … Of course, I could get the police to check it out.’

  Ravenscourt’s natural guile came back into play.

  ‘And bring more attention on yourself? I don’t think so. Remember the husband’s always the prime suspect.’ Standing up, he moved to the door. ‘I’m leaving now.’

  ‘I would. It’s beginning to get dark and it’s easy to get lost in Venice.’ Tom turned back to the window. ‘Oh, and mind the fog, Johnny. They say it’s going to be bad tonight.’

  37

  London, 14 December

  It wasn’t going to be the usual kind of Christmas. It wasn’t going to be any kind of Christmas because Harriet Forbes was dead and her family couldn’t come to terms with her loss. There was to be no tree, no celebration dinner, no festive decoration of the house. Christmas cards would not be sent, presents not bought, because none of it mattered. Besides, there were no grandchildren to cater for – Harriet had never married and Louisa was not the maternal type.

  Unable to cope with the despair in her parents’ house, Louisa Forbes took action. Applying for compassionate leave from work, she waited until the police – working with the Japanese force – had inspected her sister’s flat and then, painstakingly, she went through every item herself. The action calmed her, and when it was done she rang all of Harriet’s business contacts and friends. Someone knew something – it was just a question of finding out who. One letter, one note, one book, one article of clothing, one word – she didn’t know what it would be, but something would lead her to Harriet’s killer.