Murder in Venice Read online

  In the silence the man brought out his identity card.

  ‘I am the Chief of Police for Venice, Commissario Salvo Salvarocca. At your service, madam.’

  The man slowly put away his card. There was no sign of that nasty-looking gun being used, and no evidence of any handcuffs making an appearance. His juniors were still loitering a way away.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re “at my service”?’

  The Chief of Police stepped closer. For a second Posie thought he was about to take her arm in sympathy. His dark-skinned hands were enormous. Beneath the peaked gold-trimmed hat the Commissario had surprisingly kind hazel eyes. There was a deep sense of melancholy about the man, and up close sadness reeked off him like a strong perfume.

  He spoke very softly: ‘I can assure you my bark is worse than my bite, Miss Parker. You have nothing to fear on my account. Pay no notice to this uniform: the times we are living in, my dear lady. The times. One must learn to sink, or swim. And in a city made of water, like Venice, one chooses to swim. Capisci? You understand me?’

  One glance around was enough for Posie to see everyone in the station was still watching them. It was important to remain calm. ‘I understand.’

  In a split-second, the Commissario had ordered his men to come over, issuing a stream of commands in Italian, too quick for Posie to make any sense of. The men looped around and brought up the rear, behind the porter.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We will travel in our motoscafo, our police motor boat. It’s waiting just outside, on the Grand Canal.’

  ‘But what’s really happening? I’m here to get married for goodness’ sake. Where’s my fiancé?’

  This time the Commissario really did take Posie’s arm. He started to lead her through the hordes of people, the crowds splitting apart in panic. A multitude of pigeons, fluttering up as one, swept overhead. ‘I’m here simply to escort you. There’s been a fire.’

  Posie jerked the man’s grip away. ‘What? A fire?’

  ‘Yes. At the Palace of the Romagnoli family.’

  The bitterness and anger which had built up over the last twenty-four hours towards Alaric, ever since seeing that magazine cover, melted away in an instant, to be replaced by a terrible dread. Posie whispered slowly: ‘And what of Alaric?’

  ‘He’s fine. You’ll meet him later. Everyone staying at the Palace is fine. But the place itself is a ruin already. It went up like a box of fireworks.’

  ****

  Two

  Posie surged along. She held onto her carpet bag with one hand and tucked her other red-gloved hand firmly in her pocket, having successfully shaken off the arm of the Chief of Police.

  He led the way down some stone steps onto a packed terrace outside, leading out onto a crowded jetty with boats and gondolas tethered up next to it as far as the eye could see.

  The terrace was heaving in the dim half-light, as if for some sort of market, but it was presumably just normal Venetians going about their early evening business. Immaculate black-clad ladies and smart businessmen mixed together with more humdrum types: rough-looking men with conical baskets on their backs darting this way and that, bearing that day’s unsold wares away from the markets, the strong smells of fish and fruit rising unpleasantly in the air; tiny dirty boys, urchins really, holding fishing nets, gazing wide-eyed at their small procession, splitting apart to let them through.

  ‘Riff-raff!’ muttered Salvarocca. ‘These lads are water scavengers, Miss Parker. Watch your jewels.’

  Within seconds they were standing on a bobbing island of a boat stop, under a sign marked ‘FERROVIA’. A church with a green dome soared away on the left, but what really took the eye were the tall, thin, stone palaces lining the wide canal, one after another, each one fronted by candy-coloured striped mooring posts, topped with burning lanterns. A sharp stinging breath of sea hit them as a wind got up.

  ‘Welcome to Venice,’ Salvarocca said, smiling with only one corner of his mouth. ‘The Serenissima, the golden city. Get used to the cold wind.’

  Posie gawped. Boats were everywhere on the teeming waterway. Gondolas of course, but more: flimsy canoes bearing young men on urgent assignations; low-sunk barges carrying loads of coal and wood; an impressive big white boat powered by a waterwheel carrying what looked like simply hundreds of people. The Commissario followed the direction of Posie’s gaze.

  ‘Ah! Our famous vaporetto.’ He smiled. ‘Our city’s version of a taxi, or bus. No doubt you will use it yourself. Motor boats are very few and far between here. Only the police and the fire brigade have them at present.’

  Salvarocca indicated somewhere to his right and the motoscafo pulled in alongside them. Its dark wood glinted with polish in the half-light, and its white cover and little flags gleamed. It was marked ‘POLIZIE’. No wonder the Commissario was proud of it.

  Ignoring the proffered hand, Posie clutched at her carpet bag and stepped down into the motoscafo, taking her chances. The Chief of Police himself took her valise, packing it into the hold of the boat. Posie was about to give their porter a large tip when one of the junior policemen gave the man a cuff round the ear and sent him away empty-handed. But before Posie could protest they were off.

  Seething with anger at the junior policeman’s conduct, Posie stood just behind the police driver at the prow of the boat, the others squeezed in behind her. The boat rocked violently from side to side on the canal and started to pick up speed.

  Posie looked straight ahead into the blackness of the canal. Everything so far was a complete mess. She had desperately wanted to appreciate the beauty of Venice when she’d first got off the train; she’d wanted to embrace the romance the city was so famous for, and preferably with Alaric. Alone.

  Instead, there had been shock, and confusion, and a very public encounter with the fascists.

  Posie had known about the fascists, of course. For as long as she could remember now, since the Great War certainly, there had been small columns about them in the British newspapers every few days; stories about the violent Mr Mussolini and his formerly humorous-sounding party of blackshirts. But most journalists and English politicians had written the fascists off as being a loony party on the fringes of politics: moths to the flickering flame of power. They were thugs, the newspapers declared, bully boys: that was all. They’d never get into power.

  How wrong everyone had been.

  Everything had changed the previous year. In the October of 1922 Mr Mussolini had seized his moment and marched on the capital, Rome. The King, scared, had appointed him Prime Minister. And since then Mr Mussolini, or ‘Il Duce’, as many Italians called him, had seized political power by every means possible, violence being the most usual way. He had reorganised the institutions of Italy in his own image: the police, the army, the schools. The blackshirt movement had grown massively, and while most Italians weren’t fascists, Europe was watching in a slow, dazed horror at what might play out.

  Certainly Posie had hoped to avoid meeting any of Mr Mussolini’s supporters during her stay here. She had hoped the beauty and other-worldliness of Venice would not have been affected by the sheer nastiness of the politics which was infecting Italy.

  But it was obviously not the case.

  Sensing a movement behind her she turned to see the bulk of the Chief of Police squeezed right alongside her. A heavy drizzle had started up.

  ‘You didn’t ask where we’re going to, Miss Parker.’

  She shrugged. ‘I assumed I had no choice but to accompany you wherever you saw fit.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’ll act as your guide, then. This is the Grand Canal, the main and biggest waterway through the city, two miles long, always busy. The most splendid of the Venetian palaces are situated here. Two hundred of them. All of them beautiful, all of them mysterious, all of them decaying from within, from underneath. Can you smell the stink of rotting stone? This is a place built on impossible dreams.’

  Posie turned, mouth open in surprise but the Co
mmissario continued, matter-of-factly:

  ‘St Mark’s Square and Cathedral is at the far end. Up here you will see the Rialto Bridge, a drawbridge actually, one of only three bridges over the canal; the Rialto is the oldest part of the city. There are some lovely shops and squares here. But please, promise me not to take those jewels out with you again, Miss Parker. This is a pickpocket’s heaven, and without me, I fear you would be easy prey. You will give me sleepless nights, madam.’

  Posie was taking in the masses of people swarming over the Rialto Bridge, the colourful awnings of restaurants and the early diners fluttering into them. She touched her earlobes, feeling a bit silly now, feeling defensive.

  ‘So tell me: where are we off to?’

  ‘As you know, your fiancé was staying at the Count’s residence, the Palace Romagnoli, on the Grand Canal, a block past the Accademia Bridge, opposite the Campo San Vio. Unfortunately, as I explained, the Palace Romagnoli has been evacuated and most of its occupants, the Count and Countess included, have now been taken across the canal, a distance of only a few metres, to the English Guesthouse. It is virtually opposite the Count’s now-ruined home. The proximity was felt to be most suitable.’

  ‘The English Guesthouse?’ Posie repeated incredulously. She wondered if she had heard the man quite correctly.

  ‘Yes. It’s Mrs Persimmon’s place. It’s next door to St George’s, the English church. It seemed the best thing to do, given the circumstances. Mrs Persimmon had space, naturally, it being out of season. And after all, the Countess is English. I gather most of her English family live with her. The brother of the Countess is a friend of your fiancé, isn’t he? Dickie Alladice?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Posie had actually never met Mr Alladice but had heard Alaric mention him on several occasions. In fact, Dickie Alladice was bankrolling a few of Alaric’s wilder projects just now, and it had actually been his invitation to stay at the Palace in Venice, rather than the Count’s, which had led Alaric and Posie out here.

  Salvo Salvarocca was looking out of the boat, his large brown eyes reflecting the orange glow of torches on water.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Persimmon will make them all very comfortable. It will be a home from home. Although, perhaps, not on such a grand scale as the Palace was.’

  Posie nodded her head in acquiescence, not wanting to express her thanks out loud to a man who was essentially a fascist thug, for all he had said about necessity.

  ‘But why couldn’t Alaric come to fetch me? If he’s not been hurt what’s he doing?’

  ‘The last I saw of Mr Boynton-Dale he was covered in soot and stinking of petrol. He was helping the firefighters and my own men at the Palace. Dickie Alladice had left an important item up in his room, apparently, and your fiancé gave him his word he would retrieve it; said he was used to danger and tough conditions. I didn’t want to worry you before.’

  Posie rolled her eyes in exasperation. How typically like Alaric that would be. Tough conditions indeed!

  ‘Mr Boynton-Dale asked me to come and get you. Personally. So I came.’

  Posie was cross and fearful for Alaric’s safety, of course, but her brain, in all the chaos – annoyingly as it sometimes did – had focused in on a strange detail which nagged at her.

  ‘Petrol? But why would Alaric smell of petrol, of all things?’

  The Commissario leant in closer and whispered:

  ‘The reason the place is crawling with my men as well as firefighters is that there has been foul play.’

  ‘With petrol? You mean arson?’

  ‘It’s looking that way, yes. But please keep that detail to yourself.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Posie bit her lip, frowning, wondering what sort of hell-hole she had arrived at. A wall of noise, mainly shouting, rose to greet them from somewhere up in front, along with a thick curtain of choking smoke. Posie fished out a handkerchief and held it to her face, warily.

  They only just managed to pass under a huge, ugly, flat iron bridge, lit up by torches in the darkness. The boat was juddering along more slowly now, and the driver suddenly cut the engine.

  ‘That was the Accademia Bridge, just behind us now, otherwise known as the “Porte Inglese”, and ahead of us you can see the dome of the Salute Church, and then the sweep of the Grand Canal opening out to the lagoon. Perfect, is it not, Miss Parker? Some would say that right here is the best view in all of Venice.’

  ‘It is certainly unforgettable in these circumstances, yes.’

  Posie looked back at the Accademia Bridge. There was a crowd of at least fifty people gathered on it, swarming and pushing like a mountain of ants, all trying, unsuccessfully, to get a glimpse of the spectacle beyond. Many were holding candle-lit lamps of an old-fashioned variety.

  ‘The usual ghouls,’ continued the Chief of Police as the boat coasted another block and then docked into a mooring spot on the right-hand side of the canal. ‘Here we are then.’ He indicated over to his left, on the opposite side of the canal. ‘The Palace of the Romagnoli family. Or what’s left of it, anyway.’

  Posie stared, sickened.

  The Palace was the focus of frenzied activity. Many red boats were tethered up outside its mooring lot and the building itself was lit up by blue-coloured beacons in the now smothering smoky darkness. Flames and smoke were still belching out from the very top floor and the sky arching above it was a brilliant orange. Flakes of burning material were falling all around them into the sooty canal like gruesome confetti.

  ‘My gosh! A fire on water. But how is it possible?’

  ‘Oh, I can assure you, Miss Parker, we have many fires in Venice. It’s a fairly regular occurrence, actually. Our Fire Brigade are often called out.’

  Teams of men on ladders were dragging out heavy coils of hoses and crawling all over the façade.

  Beneath this snakes-and-ladders game-board of activity, glimpses of the stone Palace revealed it to be an obviously grand building, a pale-blue colour, six storeys high at least, and impossibly ornate. Its typically long Venetian windows, and the matching balconies on every floor, resplendent with flags, were all now burnt irreparably. The dark diamond-leaded windows, where the glass remained, glittered menacingly. But there was something about the blue Palace which stopped it from being beautiful, or enticing. Even without the fire, Posie was beginning to wonder whether the Romagnoli Palace would have been a welcoming sort of a place to stay in.

  Posie was questioning how on earth the man at her side could have allowed Alaric to go into that burning mess of a house at all, and she was about to give him a piece of her mind, when the Commissario seemed to guess what she was thinking:

  ‘The Countess had rooms on the second floor, at the front, above the main piano nobile. As did all the guests.’

  ‘I see. And her brother’s rooms were on the same floor?’

  ‘Yes. But his rooms were at the back, in a part of the house unaffected by the fire, and can be accessed by a metal ladder network behind the building. Otherwise I would not have allowed Mr Boynton-Dale to enter, it goes without saying. Can I help you disembark?’

  Posie realised suddenly that she was the only person remaining in the motor boat, alongside the driver.

  ‘Of course not.’ She wobbled out of the boat and stood warily on the little jetty belonging to a dark, narrow, cobbled square. The two junior policemen were standing gawking at the fire opposite.

  ‘This is the Campo San Vio. See the English church just there?’

  Salvarocca pointed at a small, white, marble building, tucked in tight alongside its less celestial neighbours on one side of the square. It was neat-looking but unremarkable, its only real feature being a small bench outside the heavy front door, which had become home to a family of stray black cats. In fact, there were cats everywhere.

  There were a few scrubby trees in the Campo, and an iron-capped stone well at its centre.

  ‘Mrs Persimmon’s is on the left. Just here.’

  Posie saw a tall nar
row house, one side facing right onto the canal. Lights were glowing behind dark shutters. A group of men scampered by, all dressed in grotesque huge-nosed masks and matching cloaks of some bright shimmery material.

  ‘Tourists!’ groaned Salvarocca. ‘Off to some Casino, I shouldn’t wonder. But you’d better get used to a crush of noisy tourists and city-dwellers passing by here. Tomorrow is the Festival of the Salute, or the Festa della Salute, when the Venetians celebrate deliverance from an ancient plague. The city provides a temporary bridge over the water, giving direct access. But the pilgrims will still traipse along here, day and night, for twenty-four hours, in order to get to the Salute Church, further up.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for the warning.’

  Posie couldn’t stand to stay in the narrow square any longer, and she gathered herself together, clutching at her carpet bag and the small valise, desperate to restore some sort of order on things.

  ‘I can manage now. I will make my own way to the guesthouse.’

  Effectively dismissed, Salvarocca nodded uncertainly, and made a mock bow. ‘Let me at least get the door for you.’

  He belted across from the jetty, fast for such a big man, rang a huge bronze bell, and stepped back. The door opened just as Posie reached it, a cosy amber light spilling out over the cobblestones, a uniformed manservant revealing himself there by way of welcome.

  The Commissario stepped back, into the darkness, but as he did so Posie heard him mutter: ‘He was right. God, but you’re beautiful, aren’t you?’