Closed Circle (18 page)

"Come, come. You are a handsome and charming young man. The beautiful Miss Charnwood will soon look for distractions in her self-imposed exile. So, all you have to do is cater for her needs. Entertain her. Satisfy her. Break down her de fences in whatever way seems most appropriate. I will meet your expenses. And, should you be successful... well, it is fair to say that your reward would make the sums we deal with in the honours trade appear trivial by comparison."

"Trivial, you say? Can such a large amount really be involved?"

"Oh, yes." He grew suddenly solemn. "The total is scarcely calculable. Numerous extremely wealthy people have an interest in this matter. Their collective loss is ... immense. Hence the in conceivability of its truly being lost."

I hesitated, painfully conscious that every principle of mine -every scruple had hitherto had its price. If I refused, Gregory would probably dispense with my services altogether. In a country of three million unemployed, with winter in the wings and all too few money-making ideas in my head, a grand gesture might swiftly lead to squalor and regret. And I had never had much taste for either commodity. Venice, Diana and the promise of riches constituted an irresistible alternative. Faraday and Gregory must have realized this. Indeed, they were relying on it. "Very well," I said at last. "You've persuaded me. Clearly, this game is worth the candle."

"Splendid." Gregory beamed approvingly at me. "I felt sure you'd see the merits of it in the end."

And so, stifling my misgivings, I prepared to play my part in a conspiracy of which I knew all too little. Gregory was keen for me to set off immediately, but I invented reasons why I could not do so and he relented. The truth was that I distrusted everyone and everything associated with my mission. I needed time in which to unearth as much reliable information as I could. But what I succeeded in obtaining did not in the end amount to much.

Ostensibly as a peace offering following the Atkinson-White debacle, I stood Trojan Doyle lunch at the Waldorf. He could tell me little about the scale of losses in Charnwood Investments or the identity of those suffering the losses.

"Lots of foreign money involved. Lots of secrecy. Rumour has it that the source of some of the cash wouldn't bear close scrutiny. Which might explain why the creditors are keeping so quiet. It must be galling for them. But what can they do? Charnwood's outwitted them from the grave."

About a different subject he offered, under the influence of brandy and cigars, to see what he could discover. A chum of his was financial correspondent for one of the national dailies. The Topical, we both reckoned, had closed some time in the early twenties, but enough of its staff survived on other papers for it to be ascertainable whether George Duggan had ever been one of its foreign correspondents. After what Gregory had said, Duggan's ramblings did not seem quite as aimless as I had first thought, so I had decided to find out just what his vaunted Fleet Street credentials were.

I did not write to Diana about my impending visit for fear she might withdraw her invitation. This also meant I did not have to decide what reason I would advance for following her until the last possible moment. Nor did I give Chief Inspector Hornby the chance either to object to my leaving the country or to query my choice of destination. I planned to post a letter to him on the morning of my departure stating where I was going and promising to inform the British Consul of my address at all times. He would then be free to make as much or as little of it as he pleased.

Gregory had booked me aboard the Orient Express leaving London on Sunday the twenty-seventh of September. By Friday, I had still heard nothing from Trojan about Duggan, so I called at his club early that evening, hoping to find him on the premises. I was in luck and he emerged from the bar to sign me in. In truth, my luck did not have to be considerable: his absence at such an hour would have been a major surprise, according to the porter.

"You want to know about the Topical hack, I suppose," Trojan chided me as we settled over our drinks. "Though God knows why."

"Our paths crossed recently. I simply wanted to check whether what he said was true."

"Been hanging round Clapham Common late at night, have you?"

"No. What do you mean?"

"Well, it seems George Duggan was a foreign correspondent for The Topical. Before the war. A rising star, even. Then there was a sudden fall from grace. He was caught by the police on Clapham Common one night buggering a sailor. A prison sentence put paid to his career with The Topical and he's not been seen or heard of in Fleet Street since."

"I see."

"Not sure I do. Something you want to confess, is there? Something I didn't get to hear about at Winchester?"

"No, on both counts." I forced a smile. "But thanks for the information."

I went down to the Embankment after leaving Trojan and walked slowly east towards Waterloo Bridge. Darkness was descending swiftly from the cloud-shrouded sky, turning the river to a wide and inky gulf. I paused by Cleopatra's Needle and stared down into the unreflecting surface of the water, reminding myself once more why common sense and self-interest dictated that I should go to Venice. My reservations were vague and insubstantial. Certainly it seemed best to ignore Duggan's allegations. I assumed they were about as reliable as his reputation. As for Max

I spun round, suddenly convinced I was being watched from close quarters. But there was nobody there. The pavement was empty. And, if anyone had been observing me from the gardens on the other side of the road, it was too dark to know. Beyond the gardens soared the night-etched outline of Adelphi Terrace, beneath which I had searched in vain for Max two weeks before. Was it him I had seen in the Strand? Was it his gaze I had just sensed resting on me? Surely not. Wherever he was hiding, it could not be close by. To have eluded the police as long as he had, he must have hidden himself well and far from me. Yet the suspicion the itch of a doubt I could not scratch away persisted. Perhaps my own flight was the answer. Perhaps Venice could be my refuge from a bad conscience or whatever it was that had dogged my footsteps in London.

"Your fault, Max," I muttered as I turned up my coat collar and started back towards Westminster. "Not mine."

CHAPTER

SEVEN

"Villa Primavera."

"Ah. Buon giorno. Could I speak to Miss Diana Charnwood, please?"

"La Signorina Charnwood? Chi par la

"Er.. . My name's Guy Horton."

"Signor Horton. Un attimo, per favore."

Rather more than a moment passed, then Diana's voice came on the line. "Hello? Guy?"

"Yes, Diana, it's me."

"But... you're so clear. I can hardly believe you're in England."

"I'm not. I'm here in Venice."

"In Venice? This is wonderful. I had no '

"I decided to take up your invitation. I hope it's still open."

"Of course it is. Where are you at the moment?"

The Danieli. I arrived yesterday."

"Then book out instantly. You must stay with us."

"Well, there's really no '

"I insist. And it's not gentlemanly to refuse a lady's request, so .. ."

"All right. I accept."

"Come over straightaway. In fact, better still, I'll come and meet you. Quadri's in the Piazza in an hour. How would that be?"

"It would be perfect. I'll see you there."

I put the telephone down and smiled at how easy it had been.

She had sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me and, now our re-acquaintance was imminent, I realized how much I was looking forward to seeing her again. I strolled to the window of my hotel room and opened it wide to the warm Adriatic air. Below, on the Riva degli Schiavoni, Venetians ambled between the news-stands and art-stalls, squinting in the late September sun. Gondolas bobbed at their moorings. A vaporetto chugged slowly away from its pontoon, heading out across the sparkling lagoon towards the Lido and Diana. Venice at its most benign stood ready to enchant us. And I for one was happy to let it do so. Now I was here far from England, my cheque red past and troublesome present I felt free of all the doubts and anxieties I had so long laboured under. They still existed, of course. I knew they did. But, for a little while, the illusion that they did not could be indulged.

The illusion was intact an hour later, as I sat in the sun at a table outside Quadri's Cafe, watching the pigeons and passers-by move and revolve in the Piazza San Marco. I stretched my legs and drew on a cigarette, wondering why coffee and tobacco seemed to taste so much better here than in London, why I seemed to feel so deliriously irresponsible. Basilicas, campaniles and associated architectural wonders generally leave me as cold as left-over stew, but there could be no doubt that some subtle brand of Venetian gaiety had crept into my soul since I had emerged from the railway station the previous afternoon and gazed about at the unchanging wonder of the Grand Canal.

I had been to Venice before, of course. Where the idle rich foregather, Max and I in our time had never been far behind. But it held no ghosts for me, no reproachful reminders of former misdeeds. The city's collective past lay treacle-thick all around. In the face of it, my memory and my conscience receded into the realms of forgetfulness.

"Hello, Guy."

I had been expecting Diana to approach from the Piazzetta and had angled my chair in that direction. Now I started at the sound of her voice, so close to my ear she might almost have stooped to whisper into it. Whirling round, I found her smiling down at me, amused by my confusion. The smile, the sunlight, the delicate pink dress and the broad-brimmed cream hat framed a sudden glimpse of her loveliness.

"I don't always use direct routes," she said with a laugh. "Consider this a warning."

I joined in her laugh and rose to kiss her. "I'm not complaining. One surprise deserves another."

"You mean your 'phone call?" She sat down beside me. "It was a surprise. But a very welcome one." She glanced around the Piazza and I found myself studying the play of light and shade on her neck. "I didn't think you'd come. I didn't think you'd regard it as .. . well, I don't know, proper." She looked back at me, her eyes clear and dark and disturbingly perceptive. "I'm glad you did, though."

"It didn't take more than a few wintry days in London to persuade me. I would have written, but ... I thought you might have changed your mind."

"Silly."

"We men often are." The waiter appeared beside us. Diana ordered chocolate and I another coffee. When he had gone, I lit a cigarette for her, waited a moment, then said: "To be honest, the weather wasn't the only thing depressing me."

"Max?"

I nodded. "And everything he's ruined. Our friendship. Your family. People's lives."

She looked down into her lap. "He broke my heart, Guy. But I don't want it to heal by hardening. Aunt Vita's a dear, of course, but I've felt so ..." She raised her head. "I can't mourn any longer. Papa wouldn't have wanted me to. I didn't come here to forget. I came here to let go. Of all of it."

"I suppose that's why I came too."

"Good." The dazzling smile returned to her lips. "Because, until I heard your voice on the telephone this morning, I didn't think it was going to work."

"And now?"

"I rather think it might."

We made no early departure for the Lido. Diana suggested a stroll through the alleys and squares to the Rialto and I was happy to agree. On the way, she let me buy her a silk scarf that caught her eye as well as mine. We savoured the view from the Rialto Bridge, then retreated to a nearby restaurant for lunch. We talked of Venice and the Venetians, of Byron and Casanova, of journeys and arrivals. After lunch, we took a gondola back round the Grand

Canal to the Riva degli Schiavoni. Diana gazed at the pastel-hued pa lazzi on either side, while I pretended to do the same, but actually looked at her. Around the time we passed under the Accademia Bridge, I realized a startling truth. Given similar weather, I would have been as happy and as sensually fulfilled aboard a barge on the Manchester Ship Canal so long as Diana was beside me.

We took tea at the Danieli. Then, while I was booking out, Diana telephoned the villa and asked for the speed-boat to be sent over to collect us. Soon, we were sitting together in its stern as it crashed back through the spraying wakes of other craft, Venice diminishing behind us into a golden horizon. The chill as of a fine chablis had entered the afternoon, herald of a perfect evening. Glancing at Diana as, hat in hand, she let her hair stream out behind her in the wind, I could not help wishing that Vita was not waiting at the villa, that only solitude and however we might choose to fill it -lay ahead.

But Vita was waiting. And so was the Villa Primavera. It stood salmon-pink and creeper-clad in lush gardens beside one of the canals that thread across the Lido. An attentive staff came with the hire of the place. After they had taken my luggage away, I was ushered into a large and ornately decorated drawing-room in which Vita looked more at home than any tweedy English spinster had a right to. Diana had deserted me to bath and change and my heart sank at the prospect of spending an hour closeted with her aunt. But I need not have worried. Venice had worked its magic on her also. The bustling good cheer she had displayed aboard the Empress of Britain had been revived.

"I'm delighted you're here, Guy. Company of her own age or at any rate closer to it than her decrepit old aunt is just the tonic Diana needs. You will be staying for more than a few days, won't you?"

"Well ... I'm not sure."

"Do, please, if you possibly can. Take Diana out. Put a smile back on her face. Stop her brooding."

"I'll do my best."

"I've managed to persuade her to go to the opera on Saturday. You must have my ticket and escort her."

That's very kind, but '

"Opera bores me rigid, so you'll be doing me a favour. I only arranged the evening to entertain Diana, which you can do much more readily than me."

"In that case," I said with a grin, 'it would be an honour."

"Splendid. Now, before she returns .. ." She patted the cushion next to her on the sofa and I sat down obediently in the appointed place. Her voice dropped to a murmur. "What have they been saying about poor Fabian in England?"