“Perhaps. Though I have to admit”—I checked for lurking waiters, then lowered my voice—“I’m not actually a guest here.” I pulled the stolen key out of my bag and laid it on the table, tucking some lira beneath it to cover the drinks I’d used it to purchase.
My new best friend Elsa thought that was the funniest thing she’d heard all that long and merry night. When she had her breath again, she gave my arm a shake.
“Honey, you come back tonight. Anyone who can bring the Honourable Terrence Shields-McClintock to heel like that has my vote.”
The Hon Terrence stood, grinning and tired, at her side. His father was the seventeenth-richest man in England, and Terry (as I had been instructed to call him) planned to stand for the next election. Elsa, chuckling, started to turn away, then paused. “Say, if you’re not staying here, do you have a way home?”
“The steamers will go—”
“Terry, run her home, that’s a darling. You’ll sleep better after anyway.”
His easy acquiescence made clear that when it came to an Elsa Maxwell command, one might as well argue with an avalanche.
Chapter Twenty-eight
OF COURSE, WHEN IT CAME to arguing with avalanches, I had far more experience than the Hon Terry. Had the man been inebriated, unwilling, or simply hard on the nerves, I’d have shed him the moment Elsa’s back was turned.
But he was amiable, and easy on the nerves (and frankly, eyes). He was even relatively sober. Of greater interest, however, was that he’d been a Lido regular longer than Elsa herself: I was not about to let this one go without picking his brain.
First, though, I was required to pay homage to his boat. It was, indeed, admirable, a long, sleek wooden vessel with two open cockpits, fore and aft, separated by a flat portion of what I took for decking until I realised that the engine lurked beneath it.
“You like her?” the Hon Terry asked proudly.
“It’s beautiful. Is it yours?”
“Indeed she is. It’s a Runabout. American. I had her shipped out a couple years ago, costs a small fortune keeping her up over the winter but it’s nice to have her when I’m here.” I permitted him to hand me on board, then watched him go back and forth turning on the running lights, which he managed without fumbling or falling into the water. He did seem to stumble as he came on board, his trailing foot lingering a moment on the docks, so I kept an eye as he stepped down behind the wheel and bent to adjust the mixture, quite like a motorcar. He did so without hesitation—and when he pushed the starter and set his hands on the wheel, I looked up to see that the little push his hesitation had given now brought our prow into precisely the angle of a clear path out. I grinned in appreciation, and listened to the throb of a well-maintained engine.
“That’s a big motor,” I said.
“Six-cylinder Packard, two hundred horses. Get you to Ravenna in a couple hours. Pretty mosaics there, you know?”
“So I understand.” I watched him edge the controls up, threading a path through the hotel’s small harbour into open lagoon.
To my relief, once out, he was content to putter his way towards the city itself, standing at the wheel so as to keep an eye for stray gondolas and packing crates, going just fast enough to ruffle his curls in a manner that would have tempted the fingers of most young women—but not enough to make speech difficult.
I did not run my fingers through his Byronic locks. I didn’t even look at him, only rested my forearms on the wind screen (my wayward bandeau securely looped around a wrist) and used the remnants of my strained voice to interrogate him. The dear boy imagined I was being friendly.
“You seem to know Venice well.”
“Been coming here since I was in short pants. I was a sickly thing. Weak lungs, you know? The Mater took me here and there, Switzerland and Spain and all over. Ended up on the Lido, and the old bronchials seemed to be happy at last. So we’d come here most summers, to set me up for another English winter.” There was no sign of congestion there now—certainly his broad chest gave no indication of chronic infirmity.
“You must have spent your childhood longing for June. When did you meet Elsa Maxwell?”
“Interesting creature, what? Few years back, three maybe, she and Dickie showed up, just when things were getting a bit monotonous. Walked in, looked us over, and came up with a party. She likes parties with what you might call themes. Pretend murder, find the culprit—or alphabetical treasure hunt—alpaca scarf, bottle of gin, champagne glass, dog collar. Another time she sent us on a scavenger hunt, nuttiest list of things you ever saw. ’Course, things do tend to get a bit out of hand, so she likes to keep a few friends with cheque-books to cover bail and repairs.”
“She doesn’t regard that as her responsibility?”
“Oh, Elsa hasn’t a sou. Well, maybe one or two, but not any real cash. All she has is energy and ideas. And you’ve met her—she’s contagious, wouldn’t you agree? There’s a rumour the hotel tears up her bill because she’s so good at bringing in the customers. I hope you’re coming to the party she’s getting up on Saturday? Ah, I say!” He reached down and switched off the big engine, which coughed in protest. “?‘We are even now at the point I meant, said Maddalo.’?”
He was looking at me expectantly. After a moment’s thought, I came up with a phrase. “?‘And bade the gondolieri cease to row’?”?
He beamed in approval, and swept his arm at the night. “?‘A windowless, deform’d and dreary pile, and on the top an open tower, where hung a bell.’?”
I peered out at a darker presence in the darkness. “?‘What we behold shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower.’ So is this the lunatic island that Byron showed Shelley?”
“The very same. Creepy, ain’t it?”
San Servolo was nothing but a faint presence—and far from iron-tongued bells or the prayers of maniacs, the only sound was the patter of tiny waves against wood.
“Hmm. Does it make a difference to know that a lot of the madness they dealt with—still do, for that matter—is because of pellagra? That as soon as the patients began to eat something other than maize, they got better?”
He thought for a moment. “That should help, but I don’t know that it does, much. Poor blighters.”
We rocked and listened to the night for a minute.
“There can’t be any city in the world quieter than Venice,” he said in a soft voice.
“Once one gets away from the Lido.”
“Does rather bang at the ears, doesn’t it?”
“Hard to think of Byron and Shelley riding horses along the beach.”
“Vaulting the chaises and dodging the balloon-men? One can still ride, though further down, past all the hotels. I’ll take you one morning, if you like.”
“I’m not much of a horsewoman.”
“They’re not much of horses.”
“We’d be well matched, then.”
“What about breakfast? You hungry?”
“What, now? I’m not sure that there’s anything open in the city.”
“Sure to be, down at the port—but no, I was thinking of Chioggia.”
“Isn’t that at the far end of the lagoon?”
“Be down there just as the cafés open. What do you say?”
“Terry, sorry dear boy, but my husband…”
“Yes, of course,” he said instantly, and reached down for the starter. The engine sputtered, nearly caught, then to my relief, started cleanly. The Hon Terry spun the wheel in the direction of San Marco and raised the speed—but I touched his arm lightly. “No need to rush. This has been a lovely night—and we wouldn’t want to come across any modern-day Byrons swimming towards the Grand Canal.”