The Venetian Venture (15 page)

Leaving the palazzo Rosy decided to return to the
pensione
before embarking for Hewson’s studio. That third glass of Prosecco had been a grave error and she could already feel the stirrings of an impending migraine. If she could get to the aspirin bottle and sit quietly in her room for half an hour it might be forestalled. There was plenty of time. Besides it would mean she could dump her earlier shopping: she had nearly left the bag at the palazzo and it would be silly to risk it again, especially as it contained such a beautiful silk headscarf!

Thus back in her room she threw down aspirin, drank two tumblers of water and lay on the bed rather wishing she could just drift off to sleep and forgo the studio visit. She closed her eyes and mused over the contents of Edward’s note and Cedric’s interpretation.

Was blackmail really what it had been about? At the time, persuaded by wine and the tone of Cedric’s conviction, it had seemed plausible; but now alone in her room and her mind soothed by the aspirin she was less certain.
Admittedly, as she herself had observed, the reference to the vase was curious. But there might be some perfectly simple explanation and the comments she had overheard between the siblings in the café of no relevance. She thought about Cedric and Felix: they were inveterate gossips and she sensed that they didn’t much care for the painter. Perhaps she had allowed herself to be too easily drawn into their speculative musings, had become absurdly collusive in their game of Cluedo. Cedric had termed her visit to Hewson’s studio a ‘reconnaissance’. How melodramatic!

Yes she would doubtless glance at the mantelpiece, but other than that she would treat the visit as no more than it surely was – a congenial afternoon among an artist’s paints and sketches admiring his work. She opened her eyes, and feeling much better started to get ready.

She was tempted to wear the headscarf she had bought that morning but it was so exquisitely wrapped and beribboned that it seemed a shame to open it just yet. Much nicer to wait till she returned home and present it to herself as a post-holiday gift. She opened the dressing-table drawer intending to stow it with the other things she had bought. Slightly to her surprise the postcards left in a neat pile on top were in some disorder. The drawer fitted badly and presumably they had been dislodged when she had pulled too roughly.

Resisting the urge to give the little china harlequin yet another doting inspection, she was about to deposit her new purchase when she stopped, puzzled. Where was the damned Horace for goodness’ sake? Surely she had put it there; it had been cluttering up the dressing table and she had wanted it out of the way. She scrabbled under the postcards and folded lace table mats. Nothing.

At first she assumed that her memory was playing tricks and that in her haste she had put it in some other ‘safe’ place – suitcase, wardrobe, underneath her maps and guidebook … It was in none of those places; and neither was it any of the other drawers. They stared up at her in barren mockery. Extraordinary!

What the hell had happened? She
knew
she had had it; and the more she brooded the more vivid was her memory of putting it away with the other things. She paced about the room, stared out of the window, picked up her handbag and put it down again, combed her hair, straightened the bedspread … Yes there were only two possible conclusions: either she was going mad and suffering delusions or someone had removed it.

On the whole she thought the first unlikely – as far as she was aware there had been no other symptoms. Presumably therefore it had been taken. When? What for? And
by whom
for God’s sake! Could it have been Angelina the chambermaid? It seemed unfair to immediately think of her, and besides what on earth would the girl want with a copy of Latin poems? Had Miss Witherington herself slipped into the room and deftly rifled the drawers? Unthinkable! One of the guests? Ridiculous; they were far too staid. She pulled open the other drawers again and examined them carefully. Any sign of rummaging? It was so hard to tell, she wasn’t the neatest of travellers. Still there was a pair of stockings and a jumper that seemed strangely out of place, and had she really left the clothes brush on top of the blue petticoat? The problem was she couldn’t be
sure
! But one thing was certain all right: the book was nowhere to be found.

She sat on the bed and stared blankly at the wall and
to her annoyance found she was feeling quite shaky. How stupid! People mislaid books every day. In the scale of things it was hardly something to get upset about; and it wasn’t as if it were of value. According to Carlo it was a total fake; so she didn’t need the damn thing anyway and Stanley certainly wouldn’t thank her for it. Yet she
was
upset. Unnerved, because she was convinced that she hadn’t mislaid the thing: it had been nicked – someone had sneaked into her bedroom, searched for it and taken it. She felt slightly sick.

But there was nothing to be done. It was out of the question to enquire of Miss Witherington or any of the guests as it might be thought she was making insinuations; and it would be unpardonable to accuse the maid. Rosy tried to comfort herself by thinking that since it had inexplicably disappeared perhaps it would just as miraculously reappear. Stranger things had happened – or so one heard. But of course that wasn’t really the point: the point was that someone had entered her room uninvited and taken one of her belongings. Beastly!

She heaved a sigh. There was no point getting in a panic, disturbing though it was. Presumably whoever it was had found what they were after and wouldn’t need to return to filch her underclothes! She suddenly giggled: perhaps it was the mythical man from the Bodleian. She checked her watch and realised she had better start to make tracks for Bill Hewson’s studio, and wondered vaguely what she should say if the host asked her opinion of the ‘scrambled egg’ pictures.

As she crossed the courtyard she bumped into Miss Witherington who evidently also had the pictures in
mind. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘what do you think of our new acquisitions on the landing? I am not sure if they are
quite
what one would have personally chosen but he seemed so keen it seemed rude to decline.’

‘William Hewson’s paintings? Uhm, interesting,’ Rosy said. And then feeling something more was required added, ‘Very bright.’

‘Ye-es,’ Miss Witherington replied looking doubtful, ‘that’s what I thought but he seemed to think they would enliven a dull area. I had suggested the vestibule downstairs but he was clearly determined they should be hung up there. I suppose artists know about such matters … light and perspective and all that sort of thing.’

Rosy was puzzled. ‘So you bought them did you?’

‘Oh no. They are on a long loan – although I am not too sure what “long” signifies: until we get tired of them I suppose – or someone complains! He does this occasionally, asks friends to display his pictures in the hope that they will get exposure and hence a sale. Saves the costs of exhibitions let alone gallery commissions. Generally he hangs them himself but this time he sent one of his framers to do it.
Not
the most meticulous of workmen, he left an awful mess with dust and bits everywhere! It was Angelina’s day off but Dr Burgess was most kind and offered to hoover it up. So we are all spick and span again.’ She paused and then added wryly, ‘Naturally Mr Downing made a complaint about the hammering, but for one who snores so heavily it did strike me as being a mite unjust.’

Rosy smiled and was just about to open the patio door when the other said, ‘I say, how are your researches going? I do trust there is no news of the book otherwise I may lose my bet. Not long to go now!’

Ruefully Rosy assured her that the likelihood of its now being found was distinctly remote and that the bet was probably in the bag. ‘But you never know,’ she teased, ‘a
deus ex machina
might still suddenly pop up from under the floorboards with Horace in one hand and the glass goblet in the other.’

‘Perish the thought!’ Miss Witherington cried.

Rosy went on her way to Hewson’s studio amused by Miss Witherington’s anxiety over her bet. And then abruptly she stopped walking and stopped feeling amused. Good Lord, she thought, supposing the old girl
had
taken the thing! Maybe she was slightly crazed and had become utterly obsessed by her prospective visit to Longchamp. Could it be that the image of Paris and the fun of the racetrack had taken such a hold of her hopes that she was prepared to go to any lengths to ensure that she won her bet?

Rosy considered the possibility and tried to put herself in Miss Witherington’s shoes. Here was a lady of presumably adequate but limited means whose moderately successful guest house, while ensuring a stable income, did not permit much in the way of costly treats. Yet from what Rosy had deduced, at one time Miss Witherington had led a life of some liveliness and style. Did she now yearn to recapture a slice of that long lost gaiety, to relive her youth wearing scandalous hats and tippling Pol Roger amidst the sporting glitterati? Was this to be the final fling before the unsparing seepage of health and decline into dotage? If so, to have a guest clearly intent on finding the book just when she wanted it so securely lost must have been worrying. The chance of the Murano vase being simultaneously found with the book was remote, but one never
knew
. One
couldn’t take the risk: best to scupper the Horace at least!

Rosy brooded. Might that really be the answer: the snoopings of an anxious old lady determined not to be cheated out of her racing swansong? If so, perhaps if she learnt from Daphne Blanchett that it was the wrong edition the next time Rosy looked she might find it neatly replaced!

However, by now she had reached her destination and thoughts of Miss Witherington and the purloined Horace were put aside as she searched for Hewson’s bell. Rather to her surprise the answering voice on the intercom was female.

Lucia Borgino had not banked on there being other people in Bill Hewson’s studio that afternoon. Using some pretext she had intended to drop in casually when he was there alone, and if the chance arose have a swift scout round for the vase. Indeed she had confidently hoped that if she played her cards right she would be able to wheedle it out of him there and then.

Thus when she arrived and found several visitors including Dr Burgess and the rather stuffy Blanchett woman, she was distinctly peeved. A general tea party had not been her idea at all! But as always with such social gatherings she adapted accordingly and assumed her customary air of patronage and brittle charm. Sympathy over her recent bereavement was met with brave smiles and a stoical shrug.

The apartment intercom had buzzed: and busy with guests Hewson asked if she would mind answering it. The voice at the other end was female and English. She surmised it might be the British Museum person. All the more the less merry, she thought irritably.

As she had guessed, it was indeed the Gilchrist woman. Lucia appraised her. Quite attractive in a rather pallid way she supposed. Legs were good as were the features, but the straight hair and shortish stature was hardly
Vogue
material. A good six inches taller and willowy in black, Lucia flashed the newcomer a superior smile and then drifted away hoping to catch sight of the vase.

A large area, and cluttered as it was with people and painting paraphernalia, the studio did not lend itself to easy surveillance. To Lucia’s frustration a couple of easels draped in dust sheets now stood in front of the mantelpiece – as did Dr Burgess and some other man. They were deep in conversation. She tried to get a glimpse of the wall behind them but her vision was entirely blocked. Maddening! She hovered by the window waiting for them to move away. Perhaps then she could edge round the easels and take a quick peek; although quite possibly it wouldn’t be there anyway – it was nearly two months since she had last been at the studio and Hewson could well have moved it. She glanced across the room to where the painter was talking volubly to the Gilchrist girl. The latter looked a bit bemused and Lucia guessed he might be explaining one of his pet theories. Hewson had a lot of pet theories and in Lucia’s estimation few of them held much water.

She returned her gaze to the pair by the far wall. Good, they were moving off. She weaved her way towards the easels and took a quick glance sideways … Yes! Amazingly the vase was still there and displaying a wilted geranium stalk and a couple of pencils. Nobody was looking. If she was quick she could sweep the whole lot into her straw holdall
and it would be gone in a trice. She unclipped the fastening.

‘Ah, Lucia,’ cried Daphne Blanchett. ‘How nice to see you; thought you might have left for your poor brother’s funeral.’

‘My flight is tomorrow,’ replied Lucia soberly, hating the Blanchett woman with all her being.

Meanwhile Rosy was rather enjoying herself. Like Lucia, she had been surprised by the crowd; but in a way was glad. Amusing though he could be she felt Hewson’s extravert personality was something to be taken in small doses; and after the recent ‘tantrum’ at lunch she wondered if he was quite as carefree as he seemed. Thus the presence of others (English and Italian mostly) made for a relaxing diversion. A few were obviously prospective purchasers, but like herself most were there simply out of interest or were friends who had dropped in for a casual chat. Among the latter she was glad to see Mrs Blanchett and Dr Burgess who were helpful in making introductions.

‘We don’t know him terribly well,’ Daphne Blanchett said, ‘but I did once buy one of his early paintings of Torcello at dusk which pleases me very much; although,’ she added lowering her voice, ‘I have to say that his later work is not entirely to my taste.’

‘She means,’ Burgess explained, ‘those pictures outside your bedroom – or for that matter those over there.’ He gestured towards a couple of indeterminate abstracts propped against the wall. ‘He
says
they are all about form and texture.’

‘And then what?’ asked Rosy.

‘Exactly. And then what?’ Burgess echoed.

She wandered around eying some of the unfinished canvases and inspecting the completed ones displayed on the walls. Like Daphne Blanchett, she found the occasional one distinctly compelling, whereas the majority struck her as a trifle bland and the recent ones raucous. There seemed a curious lack of direction and she wondered if Hewson would have done well to follow the habit of established musicians and retain the guidance of a professional mentor.

She asked him about his current work and was given a fulsome account of its concept and aim. His words were not especially enlightening but she assumed the fault lay with herself rather than the confident exponent. Despite Cedric’s suspicion and the cryptic nature of Edward’s note, Rosy felt that there was a frankness and lack of subtlety about Bill Hewson which made him an unlikely target for blackmail. Still, as directed, she would endeavour to carry out a ‘reconnaissance’ for the wretched Murano thing. According to Lucia’s remark in Tonelli’s it was supposed to be on the mantelpiece. Well, she would take a look once that tiresome woman had got out of the way.

She stared across the room at Lucia Borgino standing by one of the draped easels. The cool aplomb with which she had greeted Rosy at the door seemed to have entirely vanished. She looked strangely ruffled, agitated in fact. The pale cheeks were flushed and she bore the look of a punter whose horse had fallen in the last lap. Huh! Rosy thought, with luck someone has snubbed her. At that moment there was a tap on her shoulder. ‘Hello,’ said Guy Hope-Landers, ‘good to see you again.’

Having been variously waylaid by other guests and forced to listen to more condolences re her brother, it had taken Lucia
some while to regain her original position by the mantelpiece. When she did so she had the shock of her life: the bloody thing wasn’t there! Where the vase had been there was now only the geranium stalk and a single pencil – the other having fallen on the floor. She stared in angry astonishment. What had happened? Surely that old fool Hewson hadn’t suddenly taken it into his head to put it somewhere else. That seemed hardly likely at a time like this with everyone milling around and chatting inanely. Besides he was being the genial impresario and showing off the paintings and answering earnest questions about his technique; he would scarcely have had a moment on his own. And in any case why suddenly decide to conceal the damn thing now? Could it have been Daphne and her sidekick Burgess? Possible but unlikely: far too smug and staid to pilfer their host’s paltry ornament!

She glared across the room and saw the Gilchrist girl talking to Guy who had come in late still wearing that awful old reefer jacket he kept for his sailing trips. She regarded it with distaste. She would make sure he got rid of it once they were together – and the awful boat with it! But what about the girl smiling up at him so angelically? Being after the Bodger book maybe she too was aiming at the vase. A million pounds would set her up for life and she wouldn’t have to work in that stuffy museum any more … Lucia’s eye swept the room taking in the twenty or so other guests. Hell it could have been any of them!

For a few seconds she seethed with angry frustration and then gave a careless shrug: nothing to be done now. She must get home and pack for the flight and the funeral … and also plan how she was going to curry
favour with her grandfather to see if she couldn’t squeeze a little more money out of the old miser. Thus snapping her handbag shut (it had been reopened in preparation for the vase) she bid goodbye to her host; and smiling coldly at Rosy and blowing a lavish kiss at the intended fiancé, removed herself from the scene.