Island of the Mad (Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes #15)

The Lido is a long, narrow sand-bar of an island that vaguely resembles a femur warped by rickets—slightly ironic, considering that large portions of it were devoted to Germanic hospitals and spas for skin diseases. In Shelley’s day, it was a stretch of sand and thistle, inhabited by lizards, useful for a morning gallop with one’s aristocratic poet friends. Now, to judge by the maps and what people said about the place, it was not likely that a poet could get his horse to a gallop without smashing into trams, pigeons, and sellers of lemon ices.

The Lido’s eastern shore, facing the open Adriatic, was where its beaches lay, and where expensive hotels had been built to house visitors like those two bronzed young Englishmen. For those staying in Venice proper, a vaporetto remedied the problem by flitting directly from the Riva degli Schiavoni to the Lido, without having to bother with any of the islands between. When we had tied up, eager beach-goers jostled past me towards the electric tram, which crossed the narrow patch of land before trundling down the waterfront to the Hotel Excelsior, one of the most expensive establishments in all of Europe.

I did not join the surge, choosing instead to stroll along the shops, gardens, and cafés towards the shops, terraces, and cafés of the public beaches. There were not only trams on the Lido, there were cars—and delivery lorries, vendors’ carts, bicycles, and all manner of transport that Venice itself lacked. It was busy, and noisy. The streets were crowded—and when I reached the shore, I found the beach even more so. Come August, the sand would be hidden beneath a pulsating mass of burning flesh, swimming costumes, and straw hats. As the road and tram-lines turned south, so did I: down the serried backs of a kilometre of bathing-huts, the sea visible in brief glimpses between them.

Then the road and tram-lines gave a jog, accompanied by a sharp division between the four-lira-a-day hired huts and the wide luxury cabanas that came with a room at one of the most fashionable hotels in Europe, where a night’s stay cost more than twice what Holmes and I were paying across the laguna.

The Grand Hotel Excelsior was the Queen of the Adriatic, a vast Moorish pleasure palace, the darling of the modern set. Cupolas and colonnades, tennis courts and cabaret, cocktails and fireworks, sun and sin—and although June was early for the English contingent, the London Season still being under way, I thought the Prohibition-racked Americans might be eager to start things early.

Today’s venture was by way of reconnaissance, since I anticipated that—despite the well-tanned skins of its two representatives at dinner last night—the Lido set would be more night-owl than sun-lark. I stood before the domes, flags, and minarets of the Excelsior, trying to make myself into the kind of person who would stay there.

It might have been simpler to walk up to the desk and ask for a room. However, if it turned out that the hotel was full, I risked being recognised as a non-resident in future visits. Anonymous enquiry was one thing, but for today, I would depend on attitude…along with a blatant but casual flaunting of wealth.

I reached down to adjust the heavy bracelet I wore: a sizeable cluster of emeralds and gold, that was actually a necklace left me by my mother, wrapped several times around my right wrist. From a distance, it looked like an amusing piece of costume jewellery. Up close, when the quality came into view, my blithe display of something that would pay for a London terrace house could not fail to impress. The shock lay in the attitude.

No one questioned me as I strolled into the hotel’s vast and wind-swept foyer, my right arm reaching up as I passed through the beams of sunlight, green sparks blazing in all directions. I continued across the space to the beach-side doors, where I stood outside for a moment as if searching for a friend.

The beach-front play-ground before me was made up of groomed sand, substantial bathing-huts, bright canopies—and a strong wire fence down into the water that marked the southern border of the hotel’s property. The private beach had been raked clean of seaweed and looked to be as much broken shell as it was sand, making a pleasant sound underfoot. The cabanas with their striped awnings were arranged in a semi-circle, and it was easy to see that the closer one came to the water, the more luxurious the fittings and attentive the service. The northern border of the beach was a long, well-maintained pier, while directly off-shore was moored a floating island, occupied with lounging figures. All up and down the coast-line, I could see a number of long, thin jetties stretching out into the water, to provide for diving-platforms and, more prosaically, to eke a few more grains of sand from each passing wave.

When I saw a quartet of crop-haired women dressed in brightly-patterned silken pyjamas and bejewelled sandals walk laughing out onto the beach, I knew I was in the right place.

At the third display of daytime pyjamas, I looked down at the frock I wore. Time for another set of shops.

* * *



I am not sure who was the more startled when I returned to the Beau Rivage that evening: the concierge as I came through the lobby, or Holmes, when I walked into the room.

Both, being gentlemen, hid their consternation behind one minutely lifted eyebrow, but only to Holmes did I explain myself.

“Adaptive plumage, Holmes.”

“Ah.”

“But also surprisingly practical as beach wear. The only sun-burn I have is along the tops of my feet.” I gazed admiringly down at the peacock hues of my voluminous and assertively expensive silk pyjamas, light and loose as a personal tent. “They say beach pyjamas will soon be all the fashion.”

“Russell, are you quite well?”

I laughed. “I know. But in fact, once I had these on, no one thought to question me. I spent the day flitting from one group of bright young things to the next—many of whom are hardly young, and most of whom are none too bright. Still, that made it all the easier to make an impression.”

“To what end?” Holmes asked, then added, “And by the way, I hope you do not plan on wearing…those down to the dining room?”

I spread the outer seams of the twin tents, which between them could have given shelter to a Bedouin and his flock of goats. “A tad informal for the Beau Rivage, I agree. Let me go scrub off the sun-oil. I’ll be right with you.”

I was working the sand from my toe-nails when the bath-room door opened and Holmes entered with a pair of slender glasses. He set one on a small table beside the marble tub. Tiny bubbles suggested the Italian sparkling wine called Prosecco, dry on the tongue and perfect after a day in the sun. I took a deep swallow, then submerged entirely to remove the salt from my hair.

When I broke the surface, Holmes spoke. “Do we cross to the Lido tonight, then?”

“Actually, Holmes, I don’t think so. Neither of us has the appropriate plumage to make an impression on the beau monde. You need at the very least a bright waistcoat, and I need…I don’t know what I need, but I know it’s not yet hanging in the wardrobe.”

He made no attempt at hiding his look of relief at the stay of punishment.

“What was your day like?” I asked him.

“I’d thought it was tedious, until you trumped it with yours. I did establish with some certainty that Lady Vivian has not pawned or sold the necklace here in Venice.” He had done so in a typically Holmesian fashion: by assembling a platoon of Venetian Irregulars. “The gondolieri are a proud and independent confederation. They go everywhere, see everything, and tell no one but each other—and their families. But if one makes them a proposition that appeals to their pride and their sense of humour, and particularly if one brings their sons and daughters into the matter, they can be an invaluable source of inside knowledge.”

“You offered a reward for information about the necklace?”

“I did. What’s more, I offered a reward for a lack of information as well.”

“Really? How much will that cost us?”

“In money? Very little. In pride and laundry costs? Potentially a great deal.”

I studied his downcast eyes. “You made a bet? With a gondolier?”

“I may have offered a small wager.”

“Do I want to know what it involves?”

“Probably best not to concern yourself yet.”