by Anne Mather
Emma backed away a little disbelievingly. This couldn’t be happening to her! Not in the heart of Venice! And if they expected her to be a rich tourist they were going to be unpleasantly disappointed. She had spent the money Anna had given her and was only left with a few hundred lire in her purse.
Her back came up against the wall of the warehouse that blocked her escape, and she looked beyond the men helplessly, only to see that the curve of the narrow lane successfully hid them from view of the street.
One of the men said something in Italian to his partner, and the other man laughed loudly, and Emma wished she could understand the joke. Who were these men? And what did they want?
Then the man addressed himself to Emma in guttural Italian.
‘Non capisco,’ said Emma carefully.
‘Ah, Inglese,’ said the man, nodding, and coming closer to her. ‘The Signorina Maxwell, si?’
Emma frowned, bewilderedly, and nodded. She felt numb with fear, and she felt sure that were she given the opportunity to run she would not be able to do so.
‘Bene, bene!’ The man smiled, revealing black spaces where teeth were missing. What were left were decayed and yellow, and his breath smelt foully.
‘What do you want? Who are you?’ asked Emma desperately.
‘We have a message for the Signor Conte,’ said the man softly, thrusting his face close to Emma’s, while his companion leant against the wall beside them, watching closely.
‘A … a message!’ Emma thought she must sound half-witted.
‘Si, a message.’ The man drew out a knife from the pocket of his jacket, a long-bladed weapon that glinted in the sunlight. He smiled at Emma, as though he was about to present her with a much-desired present, and then he put the knife’s blade close against her cheek.
Emma thought she was going to faint. Her knees went weak, and all effort to speak or to scream seemed beyond her.
‘Si, a message,’ he repeated gently. ‘One he may heed more than he has heeded before.’
Emma tried to speak. ‘Are … are you going to k … kill me?’ she choked.
The man smiled wider. ‘Now, whatever put that into your head?’ he asked mockingly. He looked at the knife speculatively. ‘Ah, I see, the knife! It disturbs you, signorina. Many pardons.’
He stepped back a pace and the knife fell to his side as his arm dropped. Emma breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Wh … what is your message?’ she asked, attempting to regain her composure. Her only chance seemed to lie in keeping her head.
The other man said something to his companion, his eyes raking Emma mercilessly, and she thought that despite her trousers and sweater she felt naked. But obviously what he said did not appeal to the man with the knife, for he shook his head, gesturing violently, and saying something which Emma tried to understand. But their Italian was spoken in dialect and it was difficult to follow the swiftness of their speech, particularly as she was shivering quite violently herself. She caught the words: ‘abbiamo fretta … non ho tempo …’ which she knew conveyed that they were in a hurry, but even so they did not reassure her.
‘Now, signorina,’ said the man, the smile returning to his face. ‘I am prepared to believe you don’t know why you are here, but my message to Count Cesare he will understand very well….’
He came closer, grabbing a handful of hair to force her head back. Then, slowly and deliberately, he undid the top buttons of her sweater, revealing her bare shoulder, and with delicate precision he slit the smooth flesh with his knife quite callously. With a choked scream dying in her throat, Emma fainted dead away.
She came back to consciousness feeling giddy and sick. For a moment she lay on the cobbles of the lane not understanding where she could be, or why she should feel so ill. Then her memory returned and she managed to get on to her knees, staring about her like a frightened animal, but she was alone in the calle. She could feel a dampness about her neck and shoulder and putting up her hand she found it came away covered in blood.
The world swam around her momentarily, but with difficulty she staggered to her feet. with trembling fingers she pulled the sweater away from the stickiness of the blood, and looked down at her shoulder as best she could. The blood was drying now, and there was no fear of her dying of lack of it, but from what she could see the man seemed to have carved his initials on her skin.
She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped the blood off her hands and dabbed at her neck. The material of her sweater was orange, and the blood did not look so terrible once she had managed to fasten the buttons again. She could not emerge from the lane looking as though she had been attacked, for that would certainly draw attention to her, and the polizia would be called, and then it was possible that that other knifing incident would be revealed and despite everything else, she could not allow that to happen. If the Count did not wish to make it known, she could not betray him.
So she combed her hair into some semblance of order with shaking hands; lifted her shopping basket, and walked slowly out of the lane. Her shoulder throbbed, and stung a little, but it was possible to act completely naturally if she really put her mind to it, and put out of her mind any thoughts of an unpleasant nature.
The Count was striding up and down the wharf impatiently, waiting for her, and came striding over to her when he saw her appear round the corner. He slicked back his cuff and showed her the hands of the gold watch on his wrist.
‘Dio!’ he said angrily. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting over an hour!’
‘An hour,?’ echoed Emma blankly. Had it been so long? ‘I’m sorry. I was delayed.’ She swayed a little and the Count instantly caught her arm.
‘What is wrong?’ Then he noticed the slightly darker stain on her sweater. ‘Mamma mia, you are hurt! Emma, you must tell me; what has happened?’
‘C … could we get in the boat … first,?’ she said weakly, and he nodded vigorously.
‘Of course. Come along.’
He thrust her basket into the launch, paid the boy who was still hanging around hopefully, and then helped Emma to climb in. He untied the painter, and then started the motor as he jumped in beside her.
Emma sank down on the wooden bench which ran along the side and tried to gather her scattered wits. Her nervousness had left her now that she was with Cesare again. He gave her confidence, and for the moment she relaxed completely. She accepted the already lighted cigarette he handed her, and drew on it thankfully.
‘Now,’ he said, leaning his back against the side of the wheel, and keeping a keen gaze on their passage through the quite thickly populated waters of the canal. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Emma related her experience as best she could in the circumstances. It all seemed quite fantastic now, and only the stinging sensation of her shoulder reminded her that it was no dream. When she had finished she said:
‘And so there was no message, after all.’
Cesare shook his head. ‘There was a message, signorina,’ he replied softly. ‘Or should it rather be called a warning? They knew I would understand, Emma.’
Emma dropped the end of her cigarette into the dark water. It was all incomprehensible to her, which was perhaps as well. Someone had a grudge against the Count Cesare, and her own involvement had been entirely coincidental. She had the feeling that had Celeste been with Cesare that morning, she would have been used instead.
She looked at Cesare now. ‘Don’t you think it is time I was told why these things have happened?’ she asked, feeling stronger and more capable of assimilating events.
His face was hard. ‘No. It will never be time,’ he returned, his voice cold. ‘The less you know, the better. Had these men thought you were in any way involved in this affair, you would be dead!’
‘You must be joking!’
‘But you are not laughing, signorina,’ he said harshly. ‘This is no game. And please, because you have been witness to several sets of circumstances, all completely apart, do not try to analyse
them, or put them together. Put the whole matter completely out of your mind. It will soon be over, I trust.’
Emma shook her head. ‘For goodness’ sake! I’m only human. How can I possibly explain this …’ she indicated her arm, ‘… to Celeste?’
‘Will you necessarily have to?’
Emma shrugged. ‘It needs attention.’
‘This it will have. Immediately. You may have noticed, we are not going directly to the Palazzo. I have a friend …’ His voice trailed away as he ducked under a low bridge which crossed the much narrower canal they were now negotiating.
They stopped beside a wharf which seemed to front a warehouse, but once through the wooden archway, Emma found herself in a stone courtyard, opening from which were several smaller vie, and alleyways. She followed Cesare down one of these vie, to where a gaunt, stone-fronted house faced a narrow street. It was not a very pleasing area, but when the Count opened the door of the house for her to enter she found herself in a carpeted hallway, with a crystal chandelier suspended over an extremely fine polished oak chest. The dark blue carpet spread up the shallow staircase which they ascended to a suite of rooms on the first floor.
A sign by the door of one of the rooms indicated ‘Dottore Luciano Domenico’, and Emma glanced at the Count curiously.
Cesare opened the door, and entered without ceremony, and they were in a large waiting-room which was completely empty. Cesare glanced around tautly and then walked across and knocked on the door of the inner room. Immediately a voice bade him enter, and he beckoned Emma to follow him.
Luciano Domenico was a man only a little older than Count Cesare himself. Not so tall, and more solidly built, he smiled easily, and Emma took an immediate liking to him.
‘Ah, Cesare,’ he said, in greeting, getting up from behind a huge desk, and coming to shake his hand. ‘Comé sta?’
Cesare spoke to the doctor in Italian, swift incisive sentences that drew the doctor’s attention to Emma, and then back again to himself. When Cesare had finished, and the doctor had asked several pertinent questions he turned to Emma herself.
‘Now, signorina,’ he said, in English. ‘You have hurt your arm?’
Emma glanced at Cesare. He nodded slightly and said: ‘Do not be afraid, Emma. The good doctor is a friend of mine. He will ask no unanswerable questions, I assure you.’
Emma breathed more freely, then she said: ‘You would like to see my shoulder?’
‘Of course.’ The doctor glanced at Cesare. ‘Perhaps you should wait outside, my friend,’ he said, half-smiling.
Cesare looked at Emma’s suddenly flushed cheeks, and nodded. After he had gone, the doctor helped her to remove her sweater and the full extent of the injury could be seen. Fortunately none of the cuts were very deep, although the doctor said she might be left with hairline scars.
‘I shall do my best to avoid this, of course,’ he said, adding some spirit to the sterilized cotton wool he was about to use to clean the cuts.
It stung like mad, and Emma gritted her teeth, and gripped the arm of the chair so hard that her knuckles turned white. But the spirit contained a kind of anaesthetic which after a moment dissolved the pain completely and she relaxed again.
As the doctor cleaned the dried blood away, and the cuts became clearly visible he suddenly exclaimed in astonishment, muttering something in his own language.
‘What’s wrong?’ Emma stared at him.
The doctor shook his head. ‘A moment, signorina,’ he said, and opening the door he called: ‘Cesare. Entrate, per favore.’
Emma’s eyes widened as Count Cesare returned, and she hastily snatched her sweater, holding it against her protectively.
‘Relax!’ he muttered, half irritatedly, as he passed her, and then the doctor was indicating her shoulder, and together they examined her cuts.
‘Si,’ said Cesare at last. ‘You are right, my friend.’
‘What is going on.’ Emma hunched her shoulders. ‘I think I have a right to know.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Cesare, his eyes narrowed as he studied the mess the man had made of the smooth skin of her shoulder. ‘But rest assured, Emma. The men who did this will get their just rewards. I personally will vouch for that!’ His voice was harsh.
‘Oh, please!’ Emma caught his hand. ‘Don’t go taking any risks on my account. I’m not seriously hurt; I was more frightened than anything. I’m only thankful I’m still alive!’
The Count studied her pale reflection gently, and then he released himself. ‘Do not worry, cara. I will take no risks. What happened the other evening was a piece of carelessness on my behalf.’
Emma glanced at the doctor anxiously, but the Count merely smiled.
‘You did not really imagine that Giulio dealt with my arm?’ he said disbelievingly.
‘Of course I did. Why shouldn’t I?’
The Count smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I should have reassured you.’
‘But your arm still pains you.’
‘So would yours with twenty stitches digging him every time he makes a wrong move,’ remarked the doctor dryly. ‘It was not a pretty sight.’
‘That I can believe,’ shuddered Emma. ‘Cesare, why didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘We are not on speaking terms, remember?’
Emma saw his expression and smiled a little herself. It seemed so ridiculous now, after the intimacy of the last hour.
Emma’s arm was dressed and bandaged, and they took their leave of Luciano Domenico. As they walked back along the lanes to the wharf where they had left the boat, Emma plucked Cesare’s sleeve.
‘What was it the doctor saw … on my arm?’ she asked. ‘Please!’
The Count hesitated for a moment, and then said softly, ‘It is of no use to try to keep it a secret. It will become evident to you when the scars have healed sufficiently for you to remove the bandage.’ He looked down at her. ‘There is a number on your arm, cara, that is all. A number.’
Emma’s eyes were enormous in her small face. ‘A number!’ she echoed. ‘But why? I don’t understand. Why should they carve a number on my arm?’
‘Would you try to understand if I told you that it is better if you don’t know?’
Emma compressed her lips for a moment. She felt near to tears. The events of the morning were so unexpected and confused, and the numbness was leaving her arm gradually and a throbbing ache was taking its place. She felt nervous and disturbed, and still a little frightened. What did it all mean? How could it be fair to expect her to accept everything that had happened without showing any curiosity? She was only human, and if there were dangers to face she ought to have some awareness of what form they might take.
CHAPTER TEN
THE journey back to the Palazzo was accomplished in silence. Emma did not trust herself to speak for fear of making a fool of herself, while the Count seemed engrossed in his own thoughts, and from the dark expression he wore she thought they could not be pleasant ones.
Although it had been early when they left it was now afternoon and Emma dreaded the possible row Celeste might create. It would be awkward, too, gaining access to her room to change her sweater without meeting either Celeste or the Contessa.
However, as they neared the mooring, Cesare turned the launch into a very narrow waterway, flanked on both sides by high stone walls. Grilled windows could be seen a little above the waterline, and it was dark and quite eerie. They approached a low archway which only just allowed the boat to slide through, and then they had to bend their heads until they came out into a dark, cavernlike cellar, piled with crates and boxes, and smelling rather damp and musty.
‘Where are we?’ she asked curiously. ‘Is this the cellar of the Palazzo?’
He nodded. ‘Part of it. A convenient escape route in case of danger in years gone by.’
They left the boat, and climbed a flight of wooden stairs to a door which opened into a huge chamber with a massive sink and rusting taps, and a long wooden tabl
e, now mouldering with age.
Cesare was carrying Emma’s shopping basket, but even so, she soon tired, and he had to keep stopping to allow her to compose herself. They left the chamber by means of another door which led on to a narrow flight of stairs.
Emma was tired by the time they reached the top, and Cesare opened double doors into a long gallery, which Emma thankfully recognized as part of the gallery from which the furnished apartments opened. The Count closed the doors, and said:
‘Well? We’re almost there. We will enter through the kitchen quarters. There is a passage which leads from there to your bedroom. You should have no difficulty in entering without being noticed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma, rather dryly. ‘But Anna wanted these vegetables for lunch. She will have been waiting for them so long. Perhaps she has had to do without them. Whatever will the Contessa say?’
‘The Contessa need never know,’ replied Cesare smoothly. ‘You can leave the things with Anna as we pass through. I myself will speak to her.’
Anna showed little surprise when they entered by way of the kitchen, but stopped Emma a moment, to say:
‘The Signora Vaughan has been asking for you this past hour. I told her you had gone shopping for me, but … ah, I don’t think she believed me.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Emma grimaced, forgetting her injury for a minute. ‘Oh, well, if she asks now, you can tell her I’m changing for lunch.’
‘Si, signorina.’
Count Cesare’s eyes were enigmatic as he watched Emma leave them to go to her room, and Emma couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Their association had become so intimate in some ways, and yet so distant in others. She thought he treated her indulgently in many ways; like a spoilt child when she argued with him; and yet there were times when something seemed to spark to life between them, igniting the already disturbed emotions he had aroused in her. Kismet, fate, chance, whatever you cared to call it, seemed determined to throw them together, intermingling their lives without thought as to the consequences, while Celeste watched, like a malevolent spirit, holding all the cards, and capable of playing them to win. Whatever Count Cesare might think of her, Emma, and whatever it was it was certainly not love, Celeste would become the next Contessa Cesare, and with her resources the Palazzo would be restored to its former magnificence.
