sitting together on the plane. Everything after that suggests at least an acquaintance. A marriage, if one of mere fiscal convenience, they might well choose not to publicize; but that’s another matter.”
“Even if you were right,” said Timothy, “would it get us anywhere?”
“No,” said Selena, absentmindedly, “no, I suppose not. But one can’t help thinking, can one, about that conversation between Kenneth and Eleanor, when he seems to have been insisting on carrying on with some plan or other against her wishes. Some plan involving a friend of his. And at the Lido, Ned says that Kenneth has plans to make both their fortunes. It rather sounds, doesn’t it, as if Kenneth were engaged in some kind of commercial enterprise which he expected to be profitable — and in which, for some reason, Ned was an essential participant. Of course,” said Selena, in a manner so casual as to suggest that she had almost lost interest in the subject, “if Eleanor had married Kenneth for reasons of fiscal advantage and he were then, after all, to earn a large sum of money, the effect on her tax position would be quite catastrophic.”
The suggestion that Eleanor Frostfield had done away with Ned to safeguard the marginal tax advantage of a hypothetical marriage to Kenneth Dunfermline may seem to my readers, seeing it in the coldness of print, too fanciful to be entertained for a moment. My readers, however, have not been exposed to the oblique seductiveness of Selena’s advocacy.
“My dear Selena,” said Timothy, “it is a most attractive and ingenious hypothesis. It might even, I suppose, be right. But would you care to estimate my chances of persuading the Italian police that it is probable? No, Selena, it won’t do. Remember, we don’t have to find out who did the murder — all that matters as far as we’re concerned is satisfying the police that Julia didn’t. But if I do have to start suggesting alternative suspects, I’d rather it was someone reasonably obvious.”
“By all means,” said Selena. “But there isn’t anyone obvious.”
“Oh surely,” said Timothy. “Statistics show, I gather, that if one is going to be murdered it will probably be by one’s spouse or lover. Presumably there’s no doubt, in Ned’s case, that that means Kenneth Dunfermline? It’s difficult to imagine any other reason why two such dissimilar young men should be travelling together.”
The possibility that Kenneth had committed the crime had long since occurred to me. But I had misgivings: Venice is a sophisticated and cosmopolitan city — her police force, I felt, would not take a less than worldly view of Ned’s connection with Kenneth, nor would they be unfamiliar with the criminal statistics. I feared, if they did not regard Kenneth as the obvious suspect, that they must have some excellent reason not to suspect him at all.
The public address system announced the arrival of the flight from Venice. We began to give closer attention to the stream of returning passengers.
“They won’t be out for ages,” said Cantrip. “They’ll have to hang about for their luggage to come through on that turntable thing.”
But it was only a few minutes later that we caught sight of a rather subdued little group which seemed to correspond to Julia’s description of the Art Lovers: a handsome, middle-aged woman, whose figure had that unyielding symmetry achieved only by a substantial corset; a muscular young man, sombre of feature; a pretty girl with pale blonde hair; and, close beside her, another young man, square-shouldered, who gave the impression of a certain aggressiveness towards the world.
“I say,” asked Cantrip, “do you think that’s them?”
“Certainly,” said Selena. “Those labels on their hand luggage — they’re the same kind as the travel agents gave Julia. But where’s the Major?”
“I think,” said Timothy, “that the Major must have undertaken to act as porter. If he’s collecting all their suitcases from the conveyor belt, that would explain how the rest of them have got through Customs so quickly. It looks as if they’re coming up here to wait for him.”
The Art Lovers came up the staircase and through the door of the bar. At our first unobstructed view of the American girl, Ragwort gave what sounded almost like a whistle. We regarded him with surprise: Ragwort is notoriously unsusceptible.
“The dress,” said Ragwort, “is Yves St. Laurent. The shoes and handbag are Gucci. The scarf is Hermes. And if that young woman,” said Ragwort, admiration for her elegance contending with puritan disapproval of its cost, “is wearing a penny less than six hundred pounds on her back, I’ll be — I shall be very much surprised.”
The Art Lovers sat down several tables away, too far for us to hear any conversation between them. Not that it would have been informative: apart from telling Stanford what they would like from the bar — at any rate, he went off there and returned with a tray of drinks — they hardly exchanged a word: it was plainly not a festive gathering.
Better placed than they for this purpose, we perceived before they did the arrival in the area below of a tall man pushing a loaded baggage trolley: he was deeply suntanned; he had a white moustache; he was wearing Bermuda shorts.
“Ah,” said Cantrip, “there’s the Major.”
The scholar must miss no occasion for acquiring knowledge, no matter how suddenly and briefly it arises. “Quick, Cantrip,” I said, “get down before them and see if you can get their addresses from the luggage labels. Pretend you think your suitcase might be on the Major’s trolley.”
For any enterprise savouring of the illicit, Cantrip is the man. He did not pause to argue the proprieties. By the time the Major’s waving hand had attracted the attention of his fellow Art Lovers, Cantrip, slipping like a needle through the crowd, was already crouched beside the trolley.
The Major said something. Cantrip said something. Watching, we followed without difficulty the gist of their remarks: the Major was telling Cantrip that his suitcase was not on the trolley; Cantrip, with a nicely judged impression of imperfect sobriety, was insisting on making sure.
The first of the Art Lovers to join them was Kenneth Dunfermline, who showed a perfect indifference to their argument. He took the suitcase offered him by the Major and walked rather slowly away. He was a powerfully built young man, and the suitcase not unduly large: the weight of it, I thought, unless filled with granite, could not alone account for his dragging step and the weariness of his movements. But whether it was grief alone or some yet greater burden that weighed so heavily on the sculptor’s muscular shoulders — that was a question beyond Scholarship to determine.
The next to reach the trolley was Eleanor Frostfield. Again, though we could not hear what was said, Eleanor’s opinion of drunken young men who had mislaid their luggage, and apparently could not even remember whether it was a pigskin suitcase or a canvas holdall, was entirely clear to us. Cantrip, looking apologetic, persisted in his search.
Eventually, though glancing back suspiciously, the Major lifted two suitcases from the trolley and escorted Eleanor towards the taxi rank. Cantrip, completing his researches, sensibly continued to wander in apparent search for his luggage. He was scribbling surreptitiously on the cuff of his shirt — a sacrifice on the part of the
The return of the Major from the taxi rank coincided with the Americans’ arrival beside the trolley. Stanford was already carrying a valise, presumably containing his wife’s Venetian acquisitions; but he lifted, without apparent difficulty, two large pigskin cases and carried them towards the exit. Marylou lingered to say something, no doubt a few words of thanks and farewell, to the Major. Then she followed her husband. The only luggage remaining on the trolley was a large, rather battered suitcase and a small canvas holdall: the Major, after a few moments, picked them up and walked briskly away. Cantrip returned to the bar.
“Did you get all the addresses?” I asked anxiously. “Yes,” said Cantrip. “And I saw something jolly funny, too. Bet you can’t guess.”
“Don’t let us guess,” said Selena. “Tell us.”
“You know that holdall thing the Major went off with? Well, it’s not his. It belongs to the Revenue chap.”
“How very odd,” said Selena. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It had his name on the label. Edward Watson, with the same address as the sculptor chap. And what I think is,” said Cantrip, striking an uncharacteristic note of high morality, “when a chap’s been done in, it’s a bit off for some other chap to start nicking his luggage.”
CHAPTER 8
