“But you didn’t outright refuse, either. Did you?”
“I merely promised to keep my ears open. And—and,” he repeated firmly to interrupt my protest, “I did tell him that if breaking in were required, I would send for the assistance of some younger, and no doubt fitter, agents.”
“Really?”
“I should not wish to be the cause of my brother’s murder at the hands of my wife. Or, widow.”
“Holmes, that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said for days. But honestly, is that why you came? Because Mycroft wants a report on Fascism?”
“Kindly do not permit your voice to carry down to the pavements, Russell. Yes, my brother anticipates trouble in coming years from the followers of Il Duce. But since the rest of His Majesty’s government find nothing wrong with an Italian dictatorship—and indeed, are following the movement with considerable interest—Mycroft requires a reason to start up an open enquiry.”
“A reason such as, some fact his brother happened to come across during a completely unrelated trip to Venice?”
“More or less. In any event, breaking into the Venice headquarters would be absurd, since any important memoranda would surely be immediately sent to Rome.” He resumed eating his roll. “Tell me about your admirer, the young man with the speed-boat.”
“Speed-boat, yes; admirer—well, Platonic, perhaps. It’s fairly clear the Honourable Terry’s preferences run firmly in the other direction. He has a nice boat and pleasant manners, and more to the point, he let spout with a few rather predictable passages from Shelley that reminded me: the Venice lagoon has its own island madhouse.”
He grumbled something too low to hear, no doubt along the lines of all Venice being a madhouse. I ignored him, pointing off at the water where an island stood between us and the Lido. “San Servolo is a lunatic asylum. I wonder if it’s worth asking if a former Bedlam nurse has shown up there looking for employment.”
“Not at San Servolo.”
“Why not?” I responded, trying not to give way to irritation.
“Because the patients there are male. For a madwoman, one needs look to San Clemente.”
How on earth did he learn these things? “Very well, I shall look to San Clemente.”
“I shouldn’t bother, they have neither admitted an Englishwoman nor hired a nurse since April.”
I glared at him. “It’s your gondolieri, isn’t it? You got them talking.”
“Gondolieri are the cabdrivers of Venice. They are everywhere, at all hours, crossing the lagoon even when the steamers have ceased operation. And when waiting for fares, they have nothing to do but smoke and gossip, like housewives around the village well.”
“That and ogle passing girls.”
“And not one of them has noticed a small blonde Englishwoman with a tall dark-haired companion.”
“Holmes, Vivian and the nurse can’t have been here for much more than a week.”
“Still, it is suggestive.”
“In the sense of suggesting she’s not here? You may be right, but we’ve only begun to look. In her position, I’d have gone to ground for a time. And besides, your taxi drivers may have missed something. What if the two women have their own boat? What if they walk everywhere?”
His eyebrow twitched, one of his more maddening habits, and he shifted as if about to rise.
“Something else, Holmes.” He subsided. “On the steamer last night, going over to the Lido, we passed an incoming boat with two Blackshirt passengers. One of them looked remarkably like the Marquess of Selwick.” Before he could calculate the timing or ask the question, I gave it. “I’m afraid it’s possible, just. I saw Ronnie on Monday. And I had to ask if she could think of any place in Venice where her aunt might have gone. I did tell her not to mention to anyone that I’d asked, but I didn’t stress it because…well, I couldn’t bring myself to say outright that her uncle might be stealing from Vivian. Might even be a threat to her. So Ronnie knew we were coming here. And I’m afraid that, being Ronnie, she might have mentioned it to her mother.”
“Who in turn could have told her brother-in-law.”
“It’s possible. And if he left immediately, he could have been here for nearly a week.”
“How certain—”
“Not at all. It was dusk, it was a momentary glimpse of the side of his face, and his body was mostly hidden by other passengers. He only caught my eye because the two of them looked so out of place, but he was already in the process of turning away.”
“Did he notice you?”
“I don’t see how he could have. My vaporetto was even more crowded than his—and it could as easily be pure imagination, since he’s been on my mind. But I did want to tell you, just in case.”
His steepled fingers tapped at his chin a few times, then he stood. “My appointment with Mr Porter is at noon. He wishes to challenge my violin skills, to see if I am up to his needs for the Saturday party.”
“Have fun, Holmes.” I followed the sounds of his dressing with half an ear, staring out over the busy waterway. Steamers coming and going, gondoliers shouting, laden boats of all shapes and sizes weaving comfortably along—and closer in, along this singular section of waterfront promenade, a cross-section of the world’s peoples.
For a thousand years, Venice was a cross-roads for commercial and military power. When it fell to Napoleon and became a pawn in the game of empires, the skills of that millennium did not die, but slipped beneath the surface. Its people, like any conquered group, learned to hide their true faces from rulers and clients alike. Outwardly welcoming, warm, and inclusive, in fact they were as insular and tribal as the inhabitants of any mountain fastness.
The gondolieri would take Holmes’ money, they would give him good value for it, but they would not mistake contractual arrangements for family loyalties. They would sell him truth, but an edited version of it, appropriate to an outsider.
Some questions were better asked directly, of a person whose reactions one could see.
I spent some time with my maps and guide-books, then dressed, pushing aside my bright new costumes in favour of the wardrobe’s more conservative contents. I added sensible shoes and a wide-brimmed hat and left the hotel—but rather than cross the Riva degli Schiavoni and hire one of the waiting boats, I joined the tide washing into the Piazza, and from there, into the shopping streets with the men out front waving bright goods and spraying us all with scent. I stopped in the place with the brightest window-decoration between the Piazza and the Rialto Bridge, and ordered three more beach costumes that I hoped Holmes would never have to see me in.
After that, I retreated into the nearest calle, to search out one of the clans of gondoliers that gathered along the inner canals.
The Venetian gondola was a form of transportation, yes—but by 1925, it was equally a Romance. Invariably, the more handsome the oarsman and the better his singing, the more substantial his tips from giggling visitors. My first congregation of men in the distinctive wide hat and blouse-like shirt of the gondolier was unsuccessful: every one of them eyed my approach with something resembling a leer, and despite my sensible dress, whistles followed my retreat down the fondamenta. The second such gathering was the same, underscored with a sotto voce joke that triggered male guffaws. At the third, I had to brace myself to walk in the direction of the half-dozen loitering figures—but then I saw my ideal: short, ugly, untidy, and built like a fire plug, with all his mass at the top.
He looked up in astonishment as I passed by his physical superiors to stop in front of him, assembling a question in hesitant Italian. “Parla inglese, Signore?”
“I spik some Englis’, Signorina.”
“Good. You look strong enough to row the lagoon, yes?”
“No problem, Signorina. I go to Lido, Burano, Mestre—Chioggia, even, with two.”
“You have a partner, then? Er, il compagno? For a second oar?”
“Si, si—Carlo, la signorina ha bisogno di un secondo.”