Stone's Fall (68 page)

CHAPTER
17

There was much to do the next day, and it started badly. Awaiting me, along with my morning coffee, were two letters. One was a long, tearstained and emotional letter from Louise which gave me pause. She apologised wholeheartedly, blamed herself, begged for a second chance to explain everything. She was ashamed of what she had said. It was only her love for me, her fear of losing me, which had made her act the way she had. She had been happy for the first time in her life. She implored me to meet her and talk to her, if only so we could say farewell as friends. Could I bring myself? If so, she would be waiting at Cort’s palazzo at eleven. She didn’t want to go to our apartment anymore; she couldn’t face it. But the palazzo would be empty. We could talk there.

I almost crumpled the letter up and threw it into the fireplace, dismissing it and the writer from my mind. But my better side won out. I did owe her that, at least, otherwise everything would be tarnished by a few last, bitter words. I had no intention of revising my decision, but it would be mean and cruel not to give in to her request. She deserved that. I would go. And that would be the end of it.

Thus my decision, until I picked up the second letter. It was from Cardano.

“My dear Stone,” the letter began,

After my letter about Macintyre, I write again with some more information, trivial no doubt, but as I have managed to find out no more for you, this is the only additional news I can provide.

A day or so after the Laird’s meeting, I dined with John Delane, the editor of
The Times,
and was sitting next to Mrs. Jane Nevison, a charming lady and the wife of one of his correspondents. A very pleasant woman who, as is usual, valiantly tried to pretend some interest in matters financial to keep the conversation going. I, in turn, cast around for something to say which might engage her interest.

So I began to tell her about your sojourn in Venice—she had mentioned wishing to visit the city—and your impressions of the place. I mentioned that some people were actually buying property there, and referred to the Albemarles and your friend whom they had employed to restore it. I had hardly got started, however, when her face darkened, and her voice became quite icy.

Did she know this Mr. Cort? I asked when I saw her reaction. I added that you had a positive impression of the man. She said she did not, but had once employed the woman whom he married. It was quite a story and I pass it on to you unadorned. When she was engaged as a governess, Miss Louise Charlton, she said, had seemed meek and obedient, kindly and thoughtful to their two children. They admired her for her fortitude, as her previous employer had abused her terribly; she even showed them red weals on her forearm made with a rope, which he had inflicted when she said she was leaving the post.

What happened, however, is that very slowly a contented household descended into malevolent backbiting. Wife and husband fought because this woman dropped remarks about what one had said about the other. The children, previously devoted to each other, began to be jealous. They could not understand this, until it became clear that their devoted governess had been telling one child that her parents did not love her, and preferred the other. She was also terribly cruel to them, but in a way which for a long time passed unnoticed. The boy was frightened of the dark and enclosed places, so he would be punished by being locked in a cupboard for hours if he displeased her; the girl was mocked, told she was ugly, that no one would ever love her. The children were terrified, and did not dare say anything to their parents. The parents, meanwhile, were worried that the children would be upset if they lost the governess they loved so much.

It all ended, apparently, because she began to make eyes at one of Nevison’s young colleagues, and started telling him how cruel and abusive were her employers. How they beat her, half starved her… This was a mistake, as the young man was devoted to the family, and told them what she was saying. Then every thing came out, and she was dismissed immediately. But she had lasted in the job for nearly a year, and it apparently took some time for them all to recover from the experience. The last they heard was that she had ensnared this man Cort. How she man aged that Mrs. Nevison did not know, although she suspected that elaborate tales of their brutality had some influence on the matter. She said that, in her opinion, Cort would regret his foolishness very rapidly.

A pity he had not written this earlier, I thought. I remember that my mood was one of calm, of relief, even. I dismissed her from my mind forever, folded the letters carefully and ate my breakfast, thinking instead of Macintyre and his torpedo. When I was done, I prepared to go to his workshop, where I fully intended to spend the entire day.

Then there was a knock on the door, and Longman walked in.

“You got my message?” I asked.

“Yes, I did. Mrs. Longman spent the night there, and was happy to help. The poor girl. She is a very sweet child, really, and devoted to her father. It’s a great shame.”

“And has Macintyre sobered up?”

“Yes, and gone to keep an appointment with Cort. How he managed it considering how drunk he was I don’t know. He must have the constitution of an elephant. He wouldn’t be stopped. He said he had promised, that he kept his word even if others didn’t. That’s partly what I’ve come to see you about, in fact. I’m afraid I’ve just had a very distressing interview with Mr. Cort.”

“Why?”

“I came across him this morning. Cort, that is. And he was in a very bad way. He looked quite murderous, I’ve never seen him looking so angry. He was really very offensive. I asked him how he was, you know how you do…”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “Please get on. I am a little preoccupied this morning.”

“Oh, indeed. Indeed. Well, you see, he snapped at me and told me to leave him alone. He knew all about me, and I was lucky he didn’t hit me, there in the street. He was shouting, you know. Made quite a scene.”

“What was it about?”

“I have no idea. I was too insulted to ask. I became very angry and walked away, and he just stood in the middle of the street, screaming abuse at my back. That I was a nasty, malevolent gossip, and much worse. I can tell you, I was shocked by his behaviour.”

He looked it too; merely recalling the incident made him shake and grow pale.

“He didn’t even give a hint what he was talking about?”

“No. But he was particularly rude about you.”

“Oh.”

“He said that if he ever cast eyes on you again, he was going to kill you. So I thought I’d better warn you.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“I very much hope not. But he looked perfectly capable of it. We know he can be violent, and if you’d seen the look on his face…”

She’d done it, I knew it. She’d told him. It was all too easy to imagine how much she’d enjoyed it. I felt an overwhelming tide of guilt sweep over me at the thought of that poor, tormented man, and how I had not only increased his anguish, but enjoyed doing so, seen myself almost as meting out deserved punishment. I had been Louise’s instrument, but I had become like her also. The realisation made me grow cold and numb; I tried to shake it off with a gratuitous, insulting concern for the man I had so wounded.

“You didn’t try to stop him? Reason with him?”

“Of course I did! But he was completely deranged. If you’d seen him…”

“So you have said.”

“He frightened me quite a bit, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Well, what do we do? I think we need to call on Dr. Marangoni again.”

“I’ve done that! Of course, that was the first thing that came into my mind. I told him to meet us at the palazzo. I’m fairly certain that’s where Cort was going.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Perhaps we should go there as well. Will you accompany me? I also sent a message to Drennan. He’s the sort who’s good in a crisis. I think Cort might need to be restrained, stopped from doing himself harm.”

And we left, as quickly as possible once I had prepared myself. I took a stout walking stick with me, I think because Longman had alarmed me with the thought of a murderous Cort. We walked through the rabbit warren of streets and passageways; I wish I could say we ran, but Longman was quite incapable of it. I was glad he was with me, even though his barely concealed pleasure at the possibility of some sort of scene irritated me. He had lived in Venice for years, and knew every street; for about the first time in my stay, I arrived at my destination without getting lost. Two workmen were standing outside the gate, which was closed. Drennan was also there, pushing against the door. He looked slightly concerned, which was alarming. Drennan never looked concerned about anything.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Apparently a few days ago Cort had asked Macintyre to come and help him knock down some pillar. Macintyre showed up about an hour ago and went inside. Some sort of argument started and Cort began screaming at him. Then he pushed all the workmen out and locked the doors.”

“What was it about?”

“They didn’t really understand it. But apparently Cort said something about people wanting to take his building as well.”

“As well?”

Drennan shrugged. “Look.”

He pointed at one of Cort’s workmen, who had a reddening, swelling eye and a look of fury on his face.

“That was Cort?” I asked incredulously.

“So it appears. Macintyre went into the building, and Cort became quite deranged. Started screaming at the men, pushing them, and when one protested, he hit him. Then he picked up a sledgehammer and ran at them with it. Calling them all thieves and traitors. So they retreated, not surprisingly. But they’re worried. They’re good people, and they like him, even though they think he’s a bit mad.”

“Macintyre can look after himself, though,” Longman said uncertainly.

“Maybe. But can Cort?” Drennan replied.

“Perhaps we should try shouting over the wall,” Longman suggested. And so we did, but it was no use. The entrance to the building was many yards back across the courtyard, the wall was high, the door thick. Had either Macintyre or Cort been outside, they would have heard. But not if they were inside.

Drennan and I looked at each other. “What do you think?”

Drennan shrugged. “I don’t imagine anything really bad can happen. I can’t imagine Cort really picking a fight with Macintyre. He’s half his size.”

“There’s several boxes of explosives in there, though,” one of the men said. “The big Englishman brought them two days ago. We were told they were dangerous, and weren’t allowed to go near them.”

Then Drennan took charge. He talked to the men, and one of them turned and left. The other gestured for us both to follow him.

“He’s got a boat. We can row round to the front of the palace on the canal, and see if we can get in through the main door. It’s probably locked, though.”

“What’s the other one doing?”

“I sent him to get Marangoni to hurry up.”

We walked down the alleyway to the canal, and in a few moments the little boat came along, rowed by one of the workmen, who looked remarkably placid, considering how agitated we were. He was a good rower and a taciturn one. He gestured to us to get in, then he rowed us, swiftly and silently, along a tiny inlet and then out into the canal which went past the main entrance of the palazzo.

I recognised it immediately; it was the building the old man had sung below; I could see the window, the place where the torch had flickered; I looked back and saw the bridge that I had been standing on. Under normal circumstances, I would have been impressed. Seen from water level, it seemed huge, four storeys high with complex Gothic windows on the main floor, neglected and imposing even in its decrepit state. Covered with stucco which had once been painted a rich red, but was now blotchy and with weeds growing out of the crevices in the brickwork. It loomed over you like some vast, polychrome monolith. The main door was large and covered in a heavy iron grille which, although rusting, was more than strong enough to keep us out. It would need specialist tools or an expert locksmith to open it.

Drennan pointed at a small hole in the side of the building, only about five feet high, the place where, once, supplies had been brought in. It was a dark, forbidding place, only just higher than our heads as we sat in the boat. The rower obediently dipped his oars into the water once more and propelled us towards it.

The ceiling of the corridor which ran along the left side of the house was dank and slimy, and the darkness was total until our eyes adjusted. But we soon enough made out a little landing stage, over to the right. Beyond it there seemed to be the faintest outline of a door. We slipped and stumbled our way out of the boat, and onto the slimy stone, Drennan in the lead and me following. He got to the door first and fumbled for a latch. A clunking, scratching sound told me he’d found it. Then I heard him grunt, and the crack of old wood as he put his shoulder against the door and pushed.

A splinter of light. Dark by normal standards, but almost blinding to our eyes. And a great relief as well. We were in. Drennan led the way through, and I came after him, bumping into his back when he stopped to listen. It was all completely quiet. Not a sound could be heard, not even the water lapping against the landing behind us.

“Cort!” I shouted. “Macintyre? Where are you?”

No reply. Drennan started moving again, his feet on the stone floor making no noise at all, and I became preoccupied with the loud clatter of my boots as I followed. Drennan seemed to know what he was doing; he walked a few steps, then stopped, his head cocked, to listen. Then he walked a few more. After one longer pause, he turned to me and pointed. We crept quietly up a short stone staircase, into a huge room, which must have been about the same size as the great reception rooms on the floors above. There we came across a terrible sight.

Macintyre was lying on the ground, one arm above his head, blood trickling from a wound in the back of his skull. Not serious, perhaps; there was not much blood, but the blood had been enough to knock him unconscious. Cort was sitting on a rickety wooden chair beside him, a flame in one hand, chin resting on the other. In between was a column of masonry reaching perhaps fifteen feet into the air. And around it were half a dozen packages, with a long string coming out of the side, curled round into neat circles and lying on the floor.