YOUNG MASTER BEACONSFIELD WAS SCREAMING again. The nurse had given notice and decamped for Brighton. Ronnie plopped him into the perambulator he’d long outgrown and we took to the streets.
It did quieten him. He sat upright, gripping the vehicle’s sides and imperiously surveying the passing scenery like a maharaja in his sedan chair, around the Paddington Basin and down Sussex Gardens towards the park.
It calmed Ronnie as well—either the walking or the fact that her son was not voicing complaint. Or, I realised as we strolled along talking about inconsequentials, simply the chance at conversation with another adult. To judge by the state of her living quarters, she was doing without a housemaid or cook—and, by the look of her hastily-bound hair, unplucked eyebrows, and blunt-cut finger-nails, without her regular visits to the salon. All of which suggested she had put friends on the back burner as well.
She was probably sorely tempted to go home to Selwick—either that or beg for shelter in the unwelcoming Fitzwarren household. Both, clearly, were unpalatable—but pride did not pay the bills.
I nearly asked her outright: Ronnie, aren’t you lonely? I had enough sense not to say it aloud, because of course she was: her husband dead, her mother far away, her friends put off by her own embarrassment. And now the lack of a nanny would keep her from looking for some kind of employment. She was, as were many women of her class, using no skills beyond the maternal.
It was an uncomfortable realisation, because I should have seen it long before. However, at least this was one problem I could solve. More troublesome was the question that had brought us back in touch in the first place. We crossed over to Hyde Park and were within sight of the Serpentine before I spoke again.
“I always forget that you and your aunt are so close in age.”
“Yes, she’s almost like an elder sister.”
“It must have been so difficult when she started having problems.”
“Vivian was always a bit odd. It was what I loved about her—that she wasn’t like anyone else I knew. But seeing her in pain like that was hard. I was seventeen the first time she was taken away. And when she tried to kill herself…oh, Mary, it was so awful! I kept thinking, There’s got to be something I can do to keep her safe. But there wasn’t.”
Simon had twisted around at the tension in her voice, a dubious expression on his face. But before the storm clouds could gather, I scooped up a branch with some ancient cypress cones on it and distracted him with it, then asked Ronnie the next sensitive question.
“Do you know anything about your aunt’s will? Who is the beneficiary, and whether she’s re-written it recently?”
“Her will? Why on earth would you ask about that? Do you think—?”
“Ronnie, I’m sure you’ve considered the possibility of her suicide. But if she hasn’t recently reviewed her will, I’d say the chances are good she’s just gone away.”
Absurd, of course—and if Ronnie were thinking correctly, she’d never have given it serious consideration. Fortunately, mothers of young children rarely have sufficient energy to think correctly, so she took my reassurance at face value.
“She and I have the same solicitor. I’ll ring him when we get back to the flat, and ask if she’s made any changes.”
“Good idea.”
“It sounds as if you’re no closer to finding her.”
“Actually, I think I may be. Could she have gone to Venice, do you think?”
Forward progress stopped. “Good heavens, Mary—is that where she’s gone? Oh, what a lovely thought! Auntie Vee adored Venice. When we were young, she used to tell me stories about it. That’s why Miles and I went there on our honeymoon—she gave us the money for it.”
I touched her elbow to keep us moving forward, lest His Majesty grow fractious.
“If she did go there, Ronnie, have you any idea where she’d stay?”
“I think she hired rooms in a palazzo—you do know this was a long time ago, before the War?”
“I saw the dates in her sketch-books, yes.”
“She did arrange for an hotel for Miles and me—the Danieli—but I didn’t get the impression she’d stayed there herself.” The Danieli was the most expensive hotel along the open waterfront, a place foreigners picked when they had the money and wanted no risk of encountering a concierge who did not understand English—or, when they wanted perfection for a beloved niece’s honeymoon. “I understand the Lido has become quite the hot place for night-life, although when we were there it was pretty quiet.
“So: how do you suggest I find her? It’s summer, I can take Simon along, no trouble at all, but I’m not sure where to look.”
Why is guilt such a powerful force? Guilt over an aunt’s suicide attempt, guilt over a friend’s unrecognised need. How could I compound it by letting Ronnie know how badly she’d failed to protect her aunt from the Marquess’ greed?
The moment I’d looked down at Mycroft’s book of maps, I knew what it would take to assuage my own regrets. I put on the very perkiest of grins and lifted my head.
“Good heavens, no. I’ve been dying for an excuse to go to Venice again. I have nothing going at present, so I’ll just pop down on the train. I’m sure to come across her in a day or two—though it’s probably best not to tell anyone about it, until we’re sure. So, shall I bring you back a scarf, from that little place on the Piazza? Or a leather bag?”
Ronnie knew me well enough to see through the cheerfulness. But she also knew that she was in no position to turn me down. The look she gave me, of gratitude and camaraderie and hope, was sufficient reward.
“What about a toy lion, for the young man?”
Chapter Eighteen
“SHERLOCK, YOU ARE GOING TO Venice with Mary, I trust?”
“Why on earth would I do that? Russell is quite capable of travelling across Europe without an escort. And I have that case involving the Americans that Lestrade asked me to look into.”
“I need you to go.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Rome would be better, but Venice will have to do.”
“I’m not one of your flunkies, Mycroft. You have agents to do your bidding.”
“I know you dislike Venice—”
“With good reason, may I point out?”
“That was years ago, Sherlock. And the principals of that case are long dead.”
“Am I not permitted my own preferences?”
“Not when I need you. Not when your country needs you.”
“Mycroft, you cannot think that particular exhortation will work with me.”
“Nonetheless, it is true—none of my people has your eyes. Or your experience.”
“I am not one of your agents.”
“No, you’re my brother. And I am asking for your help with this. Look, Sherlock, you know how it goes. In the early stages of any case, be it one of your crimes or one of my political situations, there is no evidence upon which one can lay one’s finger. What did you tell Watson—that it is like the trembling of a spider’s web?”
“You know very well I was talking about Moriarty, not myself.”
“You might as well have been referring to your own methods—or to mine. Sherlock, I cannot go, and I cannot yet tell one of my agents what to look for. I need you to go and get a feel for the place. I swear to you, these Fascists will be trouble—and it won’t be confined to Italy.”
“I admit I’m a bit surprised that you aren’t more sympathetic to the Fascist message.”
“If there were an actual message, you might be right, since one can talk to a man with firm principles even if one doesn’t agree with him. But the Fascisti are less concerned with theory than they are with raw power. If one plays on fear, takes away any remotely complicated ideas, and offers people a sense of confidence and right, one’s followers will beat to death any enemy they are pointed at.”
“So where is their weak place?”
“I don’t know. Which means I can’t set plans in motion to counter them. You and I are both fully aware there will be another war before the century is out. I’d like to ensure that we survive that one, too. Preferably by a somewhat wider margin than the last.”