The Venetian Venture (5 page)

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 Felix 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.’

‘Er, not as such,’ Cedric murmured, ‘but she is eminently respectable.’

Lucia grimaced. ‘How sad,’ she sighed. ‘No Italian and eminently respectable. What on earth is she doing in Venice?’

‘As explained,’ Cedric replied stiffly, ‘seeking the Horace – and like thousands of others with or
without
Italian, admiring its beauty.’ The acerbic note was familiar to Felix and he felt pleased with his friend. That should settle her hash, he thought.

It didn’t of course. Lucia Borgino emitted an indulgent laugh, and patting her companion’s arm said, ‘Oh well I expect I can fix something – anything for you, Guy darling. Now let’s get going, we’ve
so
much to do. Come on!’ Without another word she started to walk away.

Her escort gave an apologetic smile. ‘She’s right, we are rather pressed. Her brother is coming to stay. But don’t worry. She’ll fix it with Carlo all right.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Rather influential you know.’

‘How nice,’ said Cedric coolly.

‘Worry?’ Felix expostulated after they had gone. ‘Who said anything about being worried? Frankly I couldn’t care a damn about that beastly book. If Rosy Gilchrist imagines I have come to Venice to be patronised by the likes of Lucretia Borgia or whatever her name is, she has got another thing coming. Really, it is too—’

‘Be fair. Miss Gilchrist has never met the woman and she didn’t exactly arrange this encounter.’

‘No,’ Felix retorted, ‘and I don’t exactly take the dog to the flower market every morning. We have been once, that’s all!’

Cedric smiled. ‘Ah but doubtless you will cultivate the habit … Now, let us pursue our plans that were so tiresomely interrupted: a peek at the Frari followed by a delicious late luncheon at Alfredo’s; and then, who knows, perhaps a fragrant visit to the two Marx Brothers. What could be nicer?’

Her hostess had been right. Unlike breakfast, supper at the Casa Witherington proved to be, if not garrulous, at least moderately animated. In their amiable gentility Rosy’s fellow guests made easy company and she listened with interest to their talk of Venice and its quirks and pleasures. Most were middle-aged and evidently habitués of the establishment, though there were a couple of young Germans who spent most of their time gazing at each other in rapt absorption. Clearly honeymooners.

‘Is this just a pleasure trip or are you here on dreary business?’ Mr Downing asked. ‘Last week we had a chap staying whose firm had something to do with London drains. Apparently he had been sent on a fact-finding mission connected with the Venice sewerage system. He said it was for purposes of comparison. I don’t think he saw a thing of the city above ground – a somewhat subterranean sojourn I should think; or, as the punsters might say, a bit of a waste!’

Rosy laughed. ‘Yes I am on business in a way, but my
pursuits are entirely above ground. I’m trying to trace a book of Latin verse for my boss at the British Museum.’

‘Ah, a
literary
mission; certainly more edifying than drains one would imagine.’ Mr Downing sniffed and helped himself to the last of the zucchini and shovelled up the penultimate tomato. Rosy felt sorry for his prep-school charges: poor little brats, probably all starving.

‘You don’t mean the Bodger book do you?’ Miss Witherington asked.

Rosy was surprised. ‘Yes, do you know it?’

‘I know
of
it, most people do – well a few at any rate. But it’s all such nonsense.’

‘What, the poetry? Oh but I should have thought … Though of course I gather the translation is unremarkable.’

‘No, no. Not the content; the price on its head. Well over a million I believe. Is that your interest?’

Rosy nearly dropped her fork. A
million
pounds for that book? She was astounded. Whatever was the woman talking about?

‘Er, well no,’ she stammered. ‘It’s Dr Stanley, my head of department. He’s mounting an exhibition of rare nineteenth-century first editions and wants to include it. He told me to offer twenty pounds for it – well guineas actually. I doubt that he had anything much higher in mind.’ She giggled. ‘So where is it and why does it cost a million?’

‘Its whereabouts are not known and much disputed. As to its value, that is not the price-tag but the amount of reward offered to the lucky finder.’

‘How extraordinary. So who on earth is offering such a sum?’

‘A man called Berenstein. Rather eccentric – as also, given the association, is his first name. It is a bold parent who christens his son Farinelli, but his did and he seems happy enough with it. The boy is now an elderly recluse living in Padua with warped tastes and childish humour. Hence the nonsense of a million pounds.’

‘What’s wrong with Farinelli?’ Rosy asked.

‘Nothing at all, in fact a very illustrious name – though as a schoolboy in the playground the bearer stands the risk of being dubbed Il Castrato. Evidently you are not a follower of opera, Miss Gilchrist.’

Rosy acknowledged that she wasn’t; and was about to ask why Farinelli Berenstein was so ready to dispense a million pounds for a poorly translated volume of Latin poems, when Miss Witherington exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, I must flee: the orange soufflés will have hit the ceiling!’ She leapt to her feet and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.

‘She’s good at those soufflés,’ observed Downing musingly, ‘but frankly I prefer the tortiglione … although of course her great triumph is the Monte Bianco. Now that really does take the biscuit! Unfortunately they don’t make it in England, it’s a speciality of …’

But Rosy was as indifferent to Mr Downing’s culinary preferences as she was to Signor Farinelli’s deficiencies. What mattered was the Horace and the man’s involvement with it. She must find out more. Perhaps after supper with the drama of the soufflés subsided she could pin her hostess down to further revelation.

And then of course she remembered. No she couldn’t buttonhole Miss Witherington after supper, she was due at Florian’s to meet Felix and Cedric. Still, with luck she could corner her after breakfast. Meanwhile the prospect
of a wander to the Piazza San Marco and a nightcap in stylish surroundings was rather appealing. She could wear the filigree silver earrings bought earlier in the day. Felix, at least, might appreciate them.

With time in hand she had taken the opportunity to stroll along the Zattere before striking inwards towards San Marco. The mid-October night was mild, warm even, and the Giudecca straits so smooth that the moored boats scarcely moved, only rarely the rhythmic slap of wood on water breaking the silence. One or two people were still about, dog-walkers and the occasional strolling couple, but in their quiet meanderings these somehow deepened rather than dispelled the tranquillity. Rosy gazed around at the dark waters and the distant gleams from the Giudecca, smelling the hints of late jasmine wafted from an unseen garden. She wished she could stay longer; but to the east the twinkling lights beckoned, and obediently she quickened her pace to reach the Gesuati church and take the left turn which would lead her to the Ponte Accademia and onwards to the Piazza.

She walked past the Campo Sant’Agnese lit only by stars and a gas lamp, and would have continued straight on but was stalled by a cat who seemed intent on making her acquaintance. Doubtless it was full of fleas, but it was rather a cute, fluffy little thing and she couldn’t resist stooping to tickle its ears.

As she bent down whispering coaxing words she heard voices a little further ahead, and looking up saw a couple of men standing by a bench. They were engaged in lively conversation – heated really, as she could hear one of them insisting, ‘
Rivedi il tuo prezzo! Fai pagare di
più l’Americano
, molto
di più
,’ while the other gave what sounded like an oath and threw his cigarette to the ground.

‘
Impossibile
,’ he retorted.

‘
Si, si
,’ the other urged.

They broke off at her approach and muttered a peremptory ‘
Buonasera
.’ Rosy responded politely and was about to walk on briskly, when the shorter of the two suddenly cried, ‘Ah, it is the English signora who come to my shop! You wanted book, you want Horatius. You remember me?’ She most certainly did, and he was no more appealing in the dark than he had been in daylight. She gave a cool smile of recognition.

‘Madam has found her book?’ he enquired slyly.

‘Er, no not yet,’ Rosy replied. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘Excuse me, I am in rather a hurry.’

‘Perhaps the lovely lady has a date?’ the other man had the cheek to ask; and added, ‘Dates more fun than silly poems. Forget it, pretty girl!’ He leered.

Rosy said nothing, sidestepped smartly and walked off. The air behind remained mute but she could feel them staring after her. She marched on – or as much as one could march in high heels. She had worn them to spend an elegant evening in Florian’s, not to hobnob with frightful men in dark corners! Suddenly the prospect of seeing Cedric and Felix became oddly reassuring.

‘Presumably she
will
come,’ Cedric said, ‘one never quite knows with Rosy Gilchrist: one of those contrary types whose intentions are difficult to assess.’

‘You mean like me?’ his companion asked coyly.

‘Dear boy, your intentions are invariably transparent and just occasionally charming.’

Felix smirked, lit a cigarette and settled into his chair. Perhaps Rosy Gilchrist’s presence might be a trifle otiose after all …

‘Ah,’ Cedric announced, ‘here she is.’ He waved towards one of the glass doors where Rosy stood diffidently, surveying the maze of velvet alcoves. It was a few months since Cedric had seen her and he felt that on the whole she passed muster. Rather smart in fact. He stood up, ushered her to their table and signalled the waiter.

Felix executed a neat bow and said, ‘We rather like sidecars after dinner but have anything you choose – lemonade if you must.’

Rosy laughed, relaxed by the warm lights and convivial ambience. ‘I think I can manage without the lemonade thank you. A sidecar would be delicious.’

Like all visitors to Venice inevitably they talked of the city: their impressions, experiences and favourite places. Or at least Cedric and Felix did. Rosy, newly arrived and diverted by her task, had less to contribute but she listened eagerly to their views and anecdotes. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed, ‘I haven’t even been inside St Mark’s yet, so goodness knows when I’ll be able to fit in anything else. Dr Stanley wants me back by the end of the week complete with the wretched book!’

‘Oh ditch the book and admit defeat,’ counselled Felix, ‘Torcello at dusk and San Giorgio at sunset are surely worth more than some Victorian hash of the Horace person! Spend your time wisely Miss Gilchrist.’

‘Actually – you won’t believe this and I hardly do myself – but that Victorian hash as you call it may be worth a great deal of money. Stupendous in fact.’

‘Stupendous?’ queried Cedric sceptically. ‘And what might that mean – five hundred?’

Rosy shook her head. ‘A million.’

Cedric was not easily shocked (or at least generally contrived to conceal such reaction) but at Rosy’s words he almost did the nose trick into his cocktail. Felix too gave a gasp of incredulity, and then turning to Cedric rather thoughtlessly blurted, ‘She’s got it wrong!’

‘No she has
not
got it wrong,’ Rosy retorted, stung by his dismissal. ‘I am merely passing on what my landlady told me this evening. Apparently there’s some crank tycoon in Padua who …’ And she proceeded to give them the few details she knew.

Felix tittered. ‘Well that does put a different complexion on things. I think for a million one might consider missing both Torcello and San Giorgio!’

‘So typical,’ Cedric sighed. ‘I always knew you were a philistine at heart.’

‘Ah, but think of the exquisite paintings that could be purchased for one’s own private delectation – to gaze upon daily if one chose and without the hordes getting in the way.’

There ensued an animated discussion as to which paintings might be selected and indeed whether such possession would justify the transaction. The issue remained unresolved and the topic concluded by another round of sidecars.

‘Just think,’ Felix said to Rosy, ‘when you find the thing you and your boss will be able to retire early and live in clover – though I am sure you won’t forget old friends in such good fortune.’ He winked.

Rosy suspected that the wink contained a pinch of
seriousness.
Old friends?
That was a new term all right!

‘Yes but she won’t find it,’ said Cedric coolly. ‘If what the landlady says is true others will have already looked; and if nothing has so far emerged then I can’t see why it suddenly should now. It’s a dead duck.’ He looked at Rosy: ‘Felix is right. Forget the thing and enjoy Venice – or as the ineffable Horace would say,
carpe diem
!’

‘Well I’d like to
carpe diem
with some zabagliones and coffee,’ his friend declared.

‘Good idea,’ agreed Cedric. ‘And then we’ll escort the millionairess back to her lodging and a good night’s rest. Pursuit of Art and Mammon is always fatiguing, don’t you find Miss Gilchrist?’ He gave a benign smile.

Rosy was grateful for the suggestion. Normally she wouldn’t have thought twice about walking back on her own, but despite the distraction of Florian’s and her companions’ good humour, she still retained the image of Giuseppe Pacelli and his sidekick being mocking in the darkened square.

‘Well that’s a fine tale,’ Felix laughed as he and Cedric made their way back to the palazzo. ‘Do you think there’s anything in it?’

‘Not a jot. The landlady is probably batty and spinning her a line. Or it’s one of those old canards that periodically flourish when nothing much else is going on, something to lighten the damp evenings when the tourists have left. The Venetians are noted for their inventiveness …’