“I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
“Just as well. Italian prisons are not places of comfort. I should be honoured to assist in your felonious pursuits, my dear Russell.”
“If we’re lucky, it will only be trespass.”
“I have never found ‘luck’ a dependable companion,” Holmes noted calmly, and tucked into his soup.
In between intrusions from the waiters and the passing-by of other diners, I told Holmes about my day and the discovery of Bongo Farquart-Sitherleigh’s beloved Cinderella.
“I think it’s Vivian and Nurse Trevisan.”
He frowned. “How does this involve your proposed felony?”
“The young man was smitten by her. When I finally tracked him down this afternoon, he told me that he’d run after her, and saw her boat pulling out of the harbour. But he was interested enough to follow as far as the lagoon, so he saw what direction she was going.”
“And you think that narrows things down?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“We need to ensure that she goes nowhere near Ca’ Rezzonico on Saturday. No, she’s not on the list, although there are various names that could be she. However, the Capitano has asked permission to bring a guest. An English guest.”
“The Marquess?”
“The name was not provided, merely the nationality.”
“If it is him, the last thing we want is for Vivian to walk in. But she’s already been once at the Lido, chances are she’ll be there again tomorrow night instead. Oh, why haven’t we heard from Mycroft?” I complained. “I suppose this means you’ll need to remain there the whole time, rather than come by the Excelsior first.”
“It would be difficult to watch Ca’ Rezzonico from the Lido.”
“Even for a man of your skills. And you’re certain the Marquess doesn’t know you?”
“We have not met in person, and my present face does not look like the images that have been in the press.”
He’d touched up his hair again, to an even sleeker black, and his moustache was so precisely shaped it might have been drawn on with ink. He’d also done something to his eyes that made them seem darker.
I pulled my thoughts back to the task at hand. “Shall we have coffee?”
“I suspect we will need it, before this night is gone.”
“And what about your day, Holmes? Was it a success?”
“I am not certain that word describes it, but yes, I have a considerable amount of information to hand over to my brother.”
“So we may not need to commit a second dose of trespass there?”
“Compounded by breaking and entering? Into the Fascists’ headquarters? Perhaps not.”
Looking better and better.
After dinner, Holmes and I went for a stroll up the Riva degli Schiavoni, leaning over a canal for a time while he smoked and we both thought our thoughts. We saw no Blackshirts. On our way back through the hotel, I wrote out a message to my intrepid gondoliers and gave it to the bellman to deliver. Then Holmes and I retreated upstairs to change into dark clothing.
We left the hotel just before eleven o’clock, silken burglars’ masks and small electric torches in one pocket, pick-locks in the other.
Giovanni and Carlo were waiting.
I introduced the three men, then took my seat on the cushions. Holmes settled beside me. Giovanni and Carlo hung dim lanterns on either end of the craft, and we pushed out into the darkened San Marco Basin. I was pleased to find a slight breeze up—not enough to affect their rowing, but sufficient to clear the mist. Another pair of visitors to La Serenissima might have found the quarter-moon overhead romantic; we found it useful.
Shortly after midnight, we stepped off the gondola, walked a short distance in the direction of the Excelsior’s wild racket, and peered into the little harbour, half-full of expensive boats of many sizes. When I spotted our target, I pointed it out to Holmes, then worked my way through the shadows while he went to create a small diversion. When he joined me, I hit the ignition and eased away, as the night-watchman dealt with a very minor and easily extinguished blaze at the other side of the gardens.
Out in the lagoon, Holmes switched on the lamps and I turned the Runabout’s prow towards the quarantine island-turned-cult-headquarters, Poveglia.
Going south along the Lido, we passed through a series of distant cacophonies: jazz from Chez Vous; a Gershwin band from the Grand H?tel des Bains; something sedate from one of the lesser hotels; and finally, women’s shrieks, men’s laughter, and the indistinct gramophone crackle of “Yes Sir! That’s My Baby” from the veranda of a house on the lagoon.
Then even that died away, and the low beat of the motor was the only thing to be heard above the breeze.
Keeping well back from the island lest our motor attract attention, I described a circle around Poveglia. Holmes peered through the field glasses. It was mostly dark, other than some navigation lights, but when we rounded the hexagonal part at the south, we saw lights from one of the buildings inland.
Before leaving the hotel, Holmes and I had studied the general maps and my slightly more detailed sketch of this tripartite island. The boat-house, on the southern of the two dividing canals, faced the abandoned military hexagon, but was close to the area where I had seen signs of work—precisely the area where we now saw lights from behind a shuttered window.
But I kept us moving, as slowly as the big motor would permit, until we had circled around to the northern end again. “The eastern side?” I suggested, and felt more than saw his assenting nod. We doused our running lights, and by the thin glow of the moon steered towards the opening of the upper canal. I shut off the motor and reached for a paddle. When we were close enough, Holmes scrambled to shore with the tie-rope, fastening us to a convenient tree.
He led the way down the narrow stone path along the edge of the island, which was light enough to show in the night, but a dozen steps down it I slowed, then stopped altogether. “Holmes, I smell something very dead. Do we want to risk walking through it?”
“I’d rather not use our torches.”
“Can we try the other direction?” That was where the buildings lay, but on the other hand, the place was hardly overpopulated.
We doubled back, to walk the canal-side path-way as far as the foot-bridge. To our left a wide path stretched into the island’s centre, which, as the other had been, was little more than a lighter area of ground in the darkness. This one was wider, and went in the direction of the building in which we had seen lights. We took that, pleased to find it firm and silent underfoot. Ahead, a black tower against the night suggested the church; to its right, a faint glow, well above the ground.
It proved to be a couple of upper-storey windows, shuttered against the night. I leaned against Holmes’ arm, to breathe. “I don’t see any way to look inside, do you?”
Again came the sensation of his shaking head, and we moved on.
The path widened to a sort of tree-dotted campo, or maybe orchard, but we kept to the left and found a smaller way circling the church end of the long building. As we came around it, I heard the patter of water against hard stone: this was the small canal that divided central Poveglia from its octagon.
The surface became firmer beneath the weeds. Best of all, the light spilling out from the far end of the building clearly came from ground-floor shutters. We crept past the church, then the high middle portion that had three or four storeys. Dim rectangles glowed above us—suggesting either heavy curtains, or lights from an adjoining inner room.