“Some of them will remember the fear. Venice took a lot of bombs.”
And in ten or thirty years, when the resentments and unresolved issues of the War built into another one, these lads would no doubt be the first to urge their fellows to punish those who had made them lose face. Their mock drill ended with them setting down the butts of their wooden guns with a chorus of cracks, then raising their hands in an odd, straight-armed salute and shouting some unintelligible chant. Guns up again, they marched off down one of the calli—only to come backing out in confusion, ejected from the narrow passage by two men carrying a large set of drawers.
Our Camparis arrived, followed by a platter of fried objects. I took a grateful swallow, chose something from the plate that did not have too many appendages, and turned my mind from a dark future to a matter closer to hand: to see what my informant could tell me about Venice’s lesbian demimonde.
“I had a cousin who adored Campari!” (Need I say that I had no such cousin?) “She used to bring a bottle of it when she came to visit, although I was too young to be permitted more than a sip. I wonder what happened to good old Sylvia? Last I knew, she was living somewhere in Italy. And she did adore Venice, I remember that.”
“You should try to find her,” la signorina suggested in her charming and perfect English.
“I really should. The problem is, she’s…shall we say, she’s rather the dark sheep of the family. Do you know that phrase—dark sheep? She developed a…a sort of friendship. With another woman. Sylvia always was a bit too easily influenced. I never thought she was particularly fond of that woman, and I figured that sooner or later, she’d come to her senses. But when the family wrote her off, it meant—well, where could she go? Poor thing! I wonder if the time has come to, I don’t know. Make contact again?”
Signorina Barbarigo, though disapproving, was clearly taken with the prospect of rescuing this fictional Campari-loving cousin from the clutches of a wicked lesbian.
I looked up from my glass of blood-red liquid, eyes going wide. “Say, I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a…a bar or cabaret that caters to that kind of person, here in Venice? Not that you’d have been there personally,” I hastened to add, “but you seem to know the city so well, you might have heard of such a place…?”
She had not. But the way I presented the question saved her from taking offence—and me from appearing to have a personal interest in lesbian cabarets. She told me she would ask her friends—and now, we had an hour before the shops began to close, what did I think about shoes?
When my stern taskmistress deposited me back at the Beau Rivage, she was every bit as energetic as she had been that morning, while I longed only to soak my sore feet and sleep.
And when I attempted to pull out my cheque-book, she would not let me.
“It was my pleasure, Signora,” she said. “I will return in a day or two and see if the things meet your approval. And,” she lowered her voice, “to tell you if I have any information about…the other.”
And with a click-click-click of the precarious heels that she had not slipped off all day, she was gone.
Surveying the garments in the privacy of our rooms, I honestly had no idea what to make of them. That they were expensive, I had no doubt. That they fit me, I could see in the mirror. But were they what the Lido set would consider fashionable?
Not a clue.
Fortunately, the Signorina had provided me with a written list of what dress, or perhaps garment, was to be worn with which shoes, bag, hat, or scarf. As I puzzled over it, I wondered if she had got them mixed up—but no, she had taken scrupulous care over noting the precise details of each item before permitting the shop-keeper to bundle it up for delivery. Her instructions were such that even I could not mistake them, no matter how much I might wish to.
So yes: that long, silken orange-and-umber scarf was to be worn with the grey-and-umber dress—not as a scarf, but as a belt, so low upon the hips as to feel near to falling off. And the scarlet frock with the fringe hem? In the shop I had not realised that it was essentially a tunic with tassels, and that the moment I walked (or bent down, or sat—or breathed, really) my legs would be extremely…visible.
There was one I rather liked. What was more, I thought I could wear it without being overly self-conscious or uncomfortable. The fabric was a blue and silver lamé, the same blue as my eyes, and it was deceptively generous in its coverage, permitting mere glimpses of skin to slip in and out of view in slits along the half-sleeves and hem, but with sufficient fabric on the top that my various scars were out of sight. With it, she had assigned me an intricately beaded bandeau with a pert sprig of feathers, in various shades of the same tone.
Low black heels for the feet, a small black beaded bag for the wrist, and a silky wrap that she’d assured me would be warm enough even on the boat back—plus a touch of powder, kohl, and lipstick—and I was set.
An unattached woman in a Lido hotel would be a conundrum, no matter how I played it. My goal here was to play it to the mysterious hilt, with the object of establishing myself as the sort of puzzle one longed to solve.
As for the spectacles, well, those could just be another idiosyncrasy.
* * *
—
Holmes had not appeared, which might mean he was having trouble ingratiating himself with the Cole Porters. Cheered at his failure, I tripped through the hotel and across the promenade to the vaporetto stop, piling on board with an assortment of tired workers headed home and excited partygoers headed for the bright lights. Night was fast approaching, and we grabbed for hand-holds as the waves of another boat jostled us up and down. I smiled at the girl standing almost on my toes, who looked fourteen beneath the paint of a thirty-year-old. I firmed up my grasp, checked that the bag was still swinging from my wrist, and looked out at the busy water. A similar vessel approached, headed towards the city proper, this one filled with comprehensively burnt beach-goers, tired workers headed home to supper, a trio of brightly-dressed girls, and by way of grim contrast, two men in the unrelieved black of the Milizia Nazionale, their wide faces betraying how overheated they—
I lunged forward so hard I nearly sent the painted child overboard, elbowing people aside, forcing my way to the vaporetto’s railing to lean out over the passing waves, trying to see…
But I was too late. If I’d jumped over and swum to shore in the other steamer’s wake, I would still have been too late.
It couldn’t have been he—merely a trick of waning light on a half-seen face, a silly consequence of my preoccupied mind. I apologised to my fellow passengers, settled my wrap, tugged at my lacy gloves. Impossible.
In any event, what would he be doing here—and of all things, dressed as a Blackshirt? It was a different man. A man who just happened to resemble Edward, Eighth Marquess of Selwick. Ronnie’s uncle, Vivian’s brother.
Must have been.
Chapter Twenty-six
SHERLOCK HOLMES, ONE SHOULDER HOLDING up the wall of the balcony, watched his young wife and the Venetian girl bustle away into the morning. Russell looked remarkably cheerful for a person who claimed to loathe shopping for clothing. He smiled, and took out his cigarette case.