Murder in Venice Read online

  Murder in Venice

  -A Posie Parker Mystery-

  L.B. Hathaway

  WHITEHAVEN MAN PRESS

  London

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Whitehaven Man Press, London

  Copyright © L.B. Hathaway 2018

  (http://www.lbhathaway.com, email: [email protected])

  The moral right of the author, L.B. Hathaway, has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Sale or provision of this publication by any bookshop, retailer or e-book platform or website without the express written permission of the author is in direct breach of copyright and the author’s moral rights, and such rights will be enforced legally. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (e-book:) 978-0-9955694-4-7

  ISBN (paperback:) 978-0-9955694-5-4

  Jacket illustration by Red Gate Arts.

  Formatting and design by J.D. Smith.

  For Sidonia

  Also by L.B. Hathaway

  The Posie Parker Mystery Series

  1. Murder Offstage

  2. The Tomb of the Honey Bee

  3. Murder at Maypole Manor

  4. The Vanishing of Dr Winter

  5. Murder of a Movie Star

  The stand-alone novella, A Christmas Case

  6. Murder in Venice

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by L.B. Hathaway

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: VENICE (Tuesday 20th November, 1923)

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  PART TWO: VENICE (Wednesday 21st November, 1923) Festa della Madonna della Salute

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  PART THREE: VENICE (Thursday 22nd November, 1923)

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  EPILOGUE: LONDON

  Thank you for joining Posie Parker and her friends

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements and Further Reading

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  He was a man you’d leave everything for. Ice-blonde, with chiselled features, mysterious as the night.

  ‘My gosh!’ Posie Parker, Private Detective, narrowed her eyes, gripping at her table. ‘Can it be him? After all this time?’

  She’d felt immediately drawn to him the first and only time they’d met, almost two years before. And here he was again, pulling her like iron filaments to a magnet. Was it even possible?

  Posie had been staring out through the window of the first-class Orient Express lounge at Victoria Station when she’d spotted him. Commuters hadn’t been able to get in to London because of the snow, and the place was like a ghost town. Below the soaring glass ceiling, home to thousands of pigeons, and across the empty sets of tracks Posie could see into a platform café directly opposite.

  It looked inviting, the lamps glowing warmly through the gloom, like some sort of early Christmas beacon. A woman was mopping the floor, a blue rag around her head. A bald, fat man, the owner perhaps, was counting change behind the roll-top counter, and their single customer was sipping tea or coffee at the one table in the window, his head bowed, hidden behind his newspaper.

  There had been a sudden flash of bright blonde hair in the yellow light and the man had looked over in Posie’s direction. Their eyes had met in a searing moment of raw disbelief.

  ‘It is you!’

  She stood up now, involuntarily grabbing at her carpet bag, pulling on her brand-new scarlet woollen coat, about to leave the first-class lounge and run across to join him. It would take but a matter of seconds.

  There was a sudden tap on her shoulder. ‘Miss Parker?’

  Posie turned, caught by surprise. ‘Oh!’

  Blowing out her cheeks, she abandoned thoughts of running anywhere. ‘Oh, it’s only you, Miss Babner.’

  ‘Is everything quite all right, Miss Parker? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  The train company had allocated Heather Babner – an excitable, buxom young woman with all the subtlety of Captain Hook’s ticking crocodile – as Posie’s travel companion in the shared sleeper on the way to Venice, where Miss Babner was going to take up the role of Governess to a rich English family. She was standing at their table now, her plain black dress shiny with age under the bright overhead lights, her three chins quivering, looking concerned. She had just returned from getting refreshments.

  Posie looked across the tracks again. ‘No. No ghosts. Far from it. It’s just…’

  The table in the café was now empty, and the man had vanished.

  ‘I think my mind must be playing tricks on me.’ Posie smiled, slightly rattled, and sat down. A sense of sickly unease washed over her.

  Nothing had gone to plan so far.

  England was in the grip of freezing fogs, and snowdrifts covered train lines out of London. Everything had come to a standstill, even the Orient Express. And now this lounge, a shiny-smart blur of a place, mirrors everywhere, was crowded with angry people clutching monogrammed vanity bags, brandishing train timetables which didn’t apply anymore. The train should have left at three o’clock. It was now almost two hours late. It was all very unhelpful. Especially if you were off to get married and needed things to run on time.

  Posie’s wedding to Alaric Boynton-Dale, the famous explorer and aviator, was supposed to be taking place three days hence, on Thursday, in Venice. Alaric would be arriving in the romantic Italian city of water tonight, and the plan had been that they would be reunited tomorrow, when Posie’s train arrived at Venice’s main station, Santa Lucia, after two whole months apart. Eight weeks which had felt like forever.

  Posie was brought back to earth as Heather Babner set down a plate of iced buns with a bang. She was also bearing a stack of penny magazines under one capable arm.

  ‘French fancy? Chocolate eclair?’

  Posie was partial to a cake or two, or four. ‘I shouldn’t. But thank you.’

  ‘I would if I was you, Miss Parker. When our train finally does get running, there’s no Pullman attached, so we won’t get a hot dinner until we’re on the boat, past Dover. Go on!’

  Posie bit into a delicious cake, not enjoying it for a second: the wedding outfit which was in her small valise had already been on the snug side when she had last tried it on a couple of days ago; the cream wool of the coat-dress fitting beautifully, but only just. Straining at the s
ilver seams, more like.

  Heather was chattering away. ‘They say we should be on the move in about thirty minutes, Miss Parker. Seems they’ve cleared the worst of the snow. And we’ll be able to link up to the French Orient Express at the Gare de Lyon in Paris about eleven o’clock tonight. It’s going to wait for us.’

  ‘How splendid.’

  Heather grinned with excitement. She had never been to Italy before, still less travelled first-class. Their route would carry them through some of the most stunning scenery and romantic towns of Europe, albeit a lot of it would be lost to darkness: Paris, Zurich, Innsbruck, the Brenner Pass, the Dolomites…all of these would be rolling pictures outside their curtained windows.

  ‘We’ll be in Venice this time tomorrow, Miss Parker. Or just slightly earlier. About four o’clock, they say.’

  ‘Thank goodness. This whole arrangement was cutting it a bit fine for my liking. What have you got there?’

  Heather had sat down at the table and was spreading copies of The Bystander magazine about, the brightly-coloured covers on display. ‘I grabbed these to pass the time. Do you want one, Miss Parker?’

  ‘No thank you, I’ve got my book with me.’ Posie indicated her copy of the very recent bestselling novel, Whose Body? by Dorothy L. Sayers, which was sitting on the table, unread and immaculate. Posie went back to thinking about the blonde man, and the strangeness of seeing him here. She had glanced only briefly at the magazines, but suddenly a horrible image lodged itself in her mind.

  ‘Hang on a minute…that magazine!’

  One copy of The Bystander had the heading ‘CAPERS IN CONSTANTINOPLE’; its title picked out in lurid splashes of red and yellow. Heart pounding, Posie picked up the journal and shook it out in full. She stared at the picture on the cover.

  ‘My gosh!’

  Capers in Constantinople…

  Indeed.

  Alaric had been planning on going to India before their wedding in Venice, but he had changed his plans at the last minute, back in August, travelling instead to Constantinople in Turkey where the University there had begged him to act as an honorary temporary lecturer, promising him a fat fee. He had accepted the job, explaining to the University he would leave in late November, when he had been invited to stay as a house guest at a Venetian Palace, the home of the Count Romagnoli. And where, incidentally, he would be getting married to Posie. It had all been arranged very neatly.

  Alaric had been out in Constantinople for two months now, with the occasional postcard sent, and the odd telephone call put through to Posie’s Detective Agency on Grape Street to alleviate the distance.

  Posie felt a cold mist close around her heart.

  The red and yellow magazine cover in question was all taken up with a very blonde girl in sunglasses and a wide straw hat. A Valkyrie of a girl. A famous girl, too. In fact, she had been Posie’s last high-profile client. It was the movie star, Silvia Hanro.

  Silvia was standing laughing in the foreground, lipstick fresh, and there, just behind her, in front of a splendid domed mosque, was Alaric.

  He was laughing alongside Silvia, smouldering almost, and they were perfectly matched: he seemed like a movie star himself, with his lean good looks and his shimmering white linen clothes, a cigarette held nonchalantly in his hand and a silken travel scarf fluttering in the breeze.

  Had they known they were being photographed for the magazine? It looked like a private moment, the two of them caught unawares, mid-joke. But Silvia Hanro was a woman with no doubts as to her beauty, or her power, and Posie was well aware that she seldom did anything by accident.

  Posie felt sick to the pit of her stomach. She twisted her Cartier engagement ring and it almost tore into her flesh. She checked the date and saw the magazine was six weeks old. Very much the past, now.

  Why hadn’t Alaric said anything? Told her Silvia was with him six weeks previously? She had spoken to him several times since then. She tore the cover from the magazine and stuffed it in her dress pocket.

  It didn’t look good. Should Posie turn around now and head for home and forgo her dreams of marrying Alaric? Was she being played for a fool? But Alaric was hers: she loved him, didn’t she? And she would fight for him, movie star or no movie star. Tears came unbidden to her eyes and she blinked them away.

  ‘Is everything quite okay, Miss Parker?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Posie smiled tightly. ‘It’s all going to be just fine, Miss Babner.’

  But was it? Was it really? That sense of unease came over her yet again. Posie had a horrible feeling that it had all been arranged very neatly.

  Too neatly.

  ****

  PART ONE

  VENICE

  (Tuesday 20th November, 1923)

  One

  What hit you first was the noise. The calls of porters, the whistles of the guards and the hopeful shouting of guides and picture-postcard sellers. The smell, too: burnt chocolate and ground coffee mixed together, masking something altogether more unpleasant; a seeping, rotting damp.

  The train had spilled its passengers and they now jostled up the narrow Orient Express platform of the imposing Santa Lucia Station, through the train’s dying puffs of steam and smoke.

  Improbably, a welcoming string quartet had been placed on the narrow platform, forcing the tired passengers and their porters into single file. The quartet had just struck up a rendition of ‘The Blue Danube’.

  And quite suddenly, out of all this strangeness, Posie found herself staring across at probably the most frightening man she had ever clapped eyes on.

  ‘Golly,’ she whispered to herself, almost stopping. ‘What an ogre.’

  The ogre was middle-aged, standing with crossed, beefy arms just past the barrier, by a central meeting-point, where a small crowd of people in smart winter coats were waiting for their loved ones off the continental train. The man was absolutely huge in every direction, and wearing a fancy black uniform, its gold braids and buttons glittering in the bright electric strips of light overhead. The silver of his pistol gleamed threateningly at his belt. Two men in less showy uniforms stood on either side of him, flanking him, their arms crossed in the same menacing manner.

  ‘Fascist police,’ Posie muttered under her breath in disgust. ‘Of course. How utterly sickening.’

  Posie noticed how the waiting crowd were giving the man and his officers a wide berth, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. The station was frantically busy, but everyone in the place seemed aware of the trio. Even two chestnut sellers who had been fighting over the same lucrative pitch were casting nervous glances at the policemen. It seemed that fear was contagious.

  Posie continued striding forwards, looking around for someone considerably easier on the eye, and normally less worrisome. But Alaric was nowhere to be seen.

  She came to an abrupt halt, forgetting that Heather Babner was just behind her, causing their shared porter to drop their bags. Other passengers, like a herd of stampeding elephants behind, were also forced into stopping way back down the line. Shouting began in earnest. Posie didn’t give two hoots.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she huffed, more to herself than anyone in particular. ‘Hold your horses.’

  She looked left and right again, controlling her panic. And then came a sharp flash of anger. Where on earth was he?

  ‘Miss Parker?’ Suddenly the huge ogre of a policeman stepped forwards. Up close you could see he was only about forty, and it was simply his enormous size which made him look much older.

  ‘Yes?’ Posie snapped her head around in the policeman’s direction.

  ‘Step this way please, madam. It’s urgent.’

  She frowned, caught off guard, both by the man himself and also, bizarrely, by his impeccable English. She was aware that a gruesomely expectant hush had fallen over the whole station, a sort of heavy, thankful relief mixed with a ghoulish relish at witnessing someone else’s misfortune. For Posie now realised that was exactly what she had stepped into.

  But what
had she done wrong? She fought to contain her fright.

  Scanning the station, she saw that even the string quartet had ceased to play, and the musicians had turned in their seats, goggling quite openly. The Orient Express train guards and ticket collectors in their smart blue-and-gold were also staring, open-mouthed. It took but a second for Posie to realise that, in fact, hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching her: women just off the train clutching at their jewellery boxes; waiters holding their order pads mid-air in the busy station cafés; customers at the little bookstalls dotted around the place. All waiting for something to happen.

  She had the certain notion that Heather Babner was stepping backwards, keen to put a definite distance between herself and her former travel companion. Posie sensed, rather than heard, Heather’s relief at spotting someone from the family who were employing her, and the Governess predictably melted away into the crowd without saying goodbye.

  ‘Over here, please.’

  Posie was led to a dark, empty archway which held nothing but a series of large left-luggage lockers, most of which were unused, their heart-shaped keys hanging mournfully on long maroon ribbons, and two modern vending machines: one selling bars of milk chocolate and the other selling cigarettes, with a large gaudy sign in English proclaiming that this was the ‘ONLY PLACE IN VENICE TO PURCHASE MUGHAL CIGARETTES! GET YOURS HERE!’

  The porter followed at a snail’s pace, carrying Posie’s one small valise in a dejected manner.

  Was she under arrest? And if so, what for? In her brief glance around Santa Lucia Station she had noted that men in black shirts with gold buttons and braids were dotted all over the place: the supporting rank-and-file of Mussolini’s new police force. There were two standing nearby, near the chocolate machine, firm of jaw and resolute of stance. Were they here for her too? Posie recovered her nerve and pulled up the mink collar of her red coat.

  ‘Who are you exactly? And what do you want with me? What’s so urgent? Am I in trouble?’

  The huge man fumbled in his inside jacket pocket.

  Posie was suddenly and ridiculously glad she had piled on all of her wedding jewellery when getting off the train. Posie’s usual string of pearls and her engagement ring had been joined by a pair of the most exquisite drop earrings from Bond Street: huge teardrops of Indian night-sky sapphires dotted about with tiny clusters of diamonds. These comprised both the ‘something blue’ and the ‘something new’ for her big day; a ridiculously generous wedding present from her good friends Rufus and Dolly, the Earl and Countess of Cardigeon. She was aware she was flashing like a lit-up Christmas tree but at least she was making an impression on the ogre: she was a woman of importance, of means. Posie touched a sapphire drop as if for reassurance.