The Venetian Venture (20 page)

Rosy and Carlo watched her in silence. And then, as one, slumped on to the ancient settle outside what had been Hope-Landers’ quarters. Carlo took out a cigarette
case, offered Rosy an Abdulla, took one himself and flicked open his lighter. In the half-light his features looked drawn – as, according to Violet, were Rosy’s own. For a little while they smoked in silence each immersed in private thoughts … although actually Rosy was not thinking at all. Her mind was stripped of everything, a state she found remarkably soothing. She rather wished she could stay like that all night or what was left of it. How pleasant to sit in the dark on that hard bench, just puffing slowly and not having to move or speak. Bliss.

But just as it seemed she was on the edge of sleep, a thought did strike her – rather a vital one. ‘My God,’ she said slowly, ‘Guy had those two things he was taking to Farinelli Berenstein, the vase and the
book
. They’ll still be in the boat with him, in that canvas bag!’ She sighed ruefully. ‘Oh well I suppose that’s the end of my Bodger search. Dr Stanley won’t be very happy … Still, do you realise that if the boat doesn’t capsize before it’s spotted and the police recognise the two items and latch on to their significance I assume somebody could be a millionaire.’

‘No they couldn’t,’ said Carlo. ‘They will find only one item and that’s the trashy vase. I’ve got the other here.’ He tapped the inner pocket of his raincoat.

Rosy took the cigarette from her mouth and with her heel absently ground the butt on the stone floor. She cleared her throat, and turning to him said, ‘I see. So when did you get hold of that?’

‘When you were all throwing down the drink. You may recall that it was then that I went down to inspect the boat: to remove the tarpaulin and to ensure all was shipshape. As you say, the holdall was of course with him and naturally I removed the book.’

‘Yet ignored the vase.’

Carlo gave a light laugh. ‘You think I ought to brandish the pair at the idiot in Padua and claim the prize? The man’s in his dotage – always was really, and flaky with it as you English would say. He has his pet lawyers naturally, but I very much doubt if the arrangement has much legal validity. He would wriggle out of his commitment somehow, if only by saying he didn’t recognise the objects. Besides it would mean I lost the Bodger Horace.’

‘So you wouldn’t trade the Horace for that amount of money? Is it really so special to you?’ Rosy asked in some wonder.

‘If I were a poor man I would indeed consider yielding it for that sum. Probably jump at the chance. But mercifully I am not poor. Not rich, you understand, but sufficiently comfortable not to have to worry too much about life’s necessities – or indeed about its little pleasures. I have the wherewithal for my books, my domestic comforts, my music, my friends; and I live happily in this beneficent city. Why should I so desperately require a million pounds? As we used to say in the Sussex POW camp, it’s not worth the flipping haddock!’

Rosy considered his words and then said wryly, ‘Well you will have made somebody happy: Miss Witherington, my landlady. She has a bet on that the two things won’t be produced by the prescribed date and is terrified they might turn up.’ She grinned to herself, and added, ‘Although I suppose it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the vase is recovered from the boat when they find it and that I simultaneously suggest someone burgle your apartment.’

‘Ah I thought of that,’ he replied gravely. ‘I gave it a tap with a mallet. There was one lying in the stern; most handy. Belt and blooming braces as—’

‘Your sergeant major would say?’

‘Exactly. And now Miss Gilchrist, if you will forgive me I must go home. Your friends the professor and Mr Smythe will be back at any minute, and delightful though they are I do not feel I am in a fit state to renew their acquaintance just yet. Sleep summons. But one thing I ask: please do not forget my invitation for tea and toast before
you embark for England. It would be a great honour. I will contact you shortly, i.e. once I have regained my equilibrium.’ Carlo rose from the bench, walked to the palazzo door and slipped out into the mist of a Venetian dawn.

Ah well, out goes the Bodger I suppose, Rosy mused ruefully … And two minutes later, dank and whey-faced, in came Felix and Cedric, mission accomplished.

When she returned to the
pensione
after midday it was to be greeted by Miss Witherington full of sly giggles. ‘I suppose you’ve been on the tiles have you? I hope he was nice!’

‘Er … well I, I uhm …’ Rosy was flustered, having given little thought to an explanation and being ill-prepared.

‘Oh don’t worry, my dear; I was awful at your age. Awful!’ Miss Witherington clapped her hands in nostalgic mirth. ‘But I tell you what,’ she said conspiratorially, ‘I told Mr Downing that you were struck down with a migraine.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Oh when he saw you were not at dinner last night or here later this morning he was
most
concerned.’ She lowered her voice further: ‘Between you and me I think he has a bit of a pash on you!’ There were more knowing giggles.

Rosy closed her eyes. That was all she needed! ‘I am perfectly well,’ she said, ‘but I
am
quite tired. I think I will go and rest in my room.’

‘Very sensible. One always needs to be soothed afterwards.’ Afterwards? Rosy was startled, but escaped thankfully to her room where she got into bed and slept for five hours. It was obviously a very persistent migraine.

When she emerged she found a note waiting for her in the vestibule. It was from Carlo inviting her to meet him at Quadri’s the following day. Evidently he had found his equilibrium more quickly than she had found hers.

She met him at one o’clock. Thankfully there was no tea; but they did indeed eat toast – spread liberally with a luscious duck pâté and accompanied by oysters from the lagoon and a bottle of pink Billecart-Salmon. Considering the ordeal of less than twenty-four hours previously Carlo looked exceedingly well and spruce … doubtless the result of getting his hands on the Bodger again, Rosy thought rather sourly.

By tacit agreement they made no mention of the night’s activities but talked easily of more agreeable things, wandering over a range of topics from literature (specifically English comics which he had so loved as a prisoner of war) to Venetian baroque music and the newly released Fellini film
La Strada
.

But as they neared the end of the wine Rosy broached the subject of his library collection. ‘Have you finished the cataloguing yet?’ she enquired. ‘You must be pleased to be able to include the Bodger in your inventory,’ and added teasingly, ‘I trust you haven’t left it on somebody’s table this time. That would be too bad!’

He assured her it was perfectly safe and that he had taken much pleasure in examining and handling the thing. ‘As we know, the translations themselves are unremarkable, a trifle stilted I would say but the notes are perceptive and it has been interesting to see the actual signature and dwell on the inscription. A pompous man, but it was a work of love all the same: a privilege to have owned it for a while.’ He smiled and called for coffee.

As they were leaving he said how much he had enjoyed Rosy’s company and that were she ever in Venice again, free and at leisure, he would be delighted to be her guide. ‘But this time,’ he added wryly, ‘you can be assured I would deflect you away from any dubious bookshops.’

He gave a little bow and presented her with a crumpled paper bag … containing, of course, the Bodger.

‘So you see, Dr Stanley,’ Rosy explained down an unusually clear line, ‘all being well I shall be in on Monday with the Horace.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘How much did it cost?’

‘Cost? Er – oh nothing really. Or at least, nothing of any consequence.’

‘Hah! That’s a mercy. I shan’t have to do battle with the accounts department. You’ve no idea how difficult they are. Now tell me Rosy, you
are
absolutely sure it is the right one? It would be most unfortunate if you had blundered … Oh and by the way, did that bastard from the Bodleian ever show up?’

She assured him she had not blundered and that the bastard had never appeared.

There was a dark chuckle. ‘Probably still wandering around the back streets looking for the damn thing. Bad luck for some!’

Rosy agreed that it was indeed bad luck for some. And she thought of William Hewson, Guy Hope-Landers and Edward Jones.

‘Well,’ he said graciously, ‘on the whole I think you’ve done rather well. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Tell you what, when I’m in hospital with my hip you can have my lunch vouchers, a pity to waste them.’

She thanked him for his generosity and was about to put the receiver down, when he added, ‘You see – I told you it wouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you did tell me.’

Bolstered by champagne and First Class cushions on the
Simplon-Orient
, Cedric and Felix reflected upon their Venetian venture. They agreed that it had been singularly diverting but not something that they would care to repeat, or certainly not for a considerable time.

‘Rather fatiguing, wouldn’t you say?’ Cedric remarked.

‘Taxing I would say,’ Felix replied, ‘and then some!’

There was silence as each dwelt upon the various aspects of the experience. ‘I was a tremendous hit with Caruso you know,’ mused Felix. ‘I am clearly the sort of person he has a natural affinity with.’

‘Oh clearly,’ Cedric agreed. ‘Tell me: did you prefer him to the corgis?’

Felix closed his eyes and shuddered. ‘Much.’

A further silence ensued as they gazed out of the window admiring the darkening Swiss scenery with its neatness, order, and reassuring safety.

‘Do you know,’ Cedric mused, ‘I dealt with that matter most adroitly. A little heavy but it slipped into the water without a hitch, hardly a bubble.’

There was the merest hesitation and then Felix said, ‘Well … the gondola did nearly capsize, but other than that I think you showed remarkable deftness. The ladies were very impressed too. I heard one of them say that even their father couldn’t have done better. High praise I think coming from that pair. Oh by the way, they said something about coming to London in the spring.’

‘What!’ Cedric cried dropping his newspaper. ‘We must decamp to Hunstanton!’

‘I think Deauville might be preferable,’ suggested Felix, ‘very salubrious and safe. A chic guest house on the promenade would be ideal. Sand, surf and ozone – most refreshing. One can have rather too much of palazzos and canals.’

Cedric nodded. ‘Just a little,’ he said.

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S
UZETTE
H
ILL
was born in East Sussex, and spent much of her childhood playing spies and smugglers on Beachy Head and picnicking at the foot of the Long Man of Wilmington. Hill worked as a teacher in both public school and adult education before retiring in 1999. She now lives in Ledbury, Herefordshire. At the age of sixty-four and on a whim, she took up a pen and began writing. Hill has since published seven novels, including the Reverend Oughterard series.

www.suzetteahill.co.uk

A Little Murder

The Venetian Venture