CHAPTER 17
It was, as Selena said, a pity, because the medical evidence had been in other respects most helpful. It had shown that the blow which killed Ned Watson had been one of great power and accuracy, which had driven some long and pointed blade at a single thrust into his heart. Save that the young man had evidently cut himself while shaving, there was no other wound of any kind.
The Vice-Quaestor had admitted that it was not a blow which would easily be inflicted by a woman; but women, he said, were strange creatures — in moments of passion they found amazing strength. Not, however, Timothy had suggested, even at their most passionate, an instant knowledge of anatomy — a subject of which Julia was entirely ignorant.
The Vice-Quaestor had said again that women were strange creatures. It was, he agreed, remarkable that she should have achieved such a blow. Less remarkable, however, than the suggestion that some entirely unknown person, with some altogether mysterious grudge against the Signor Watson, had entered the annexe on Friday morning, had lain in wait there on the uncertain chance of his victim returning unaccompanied, had stayed patiently in hiding while Julia and the Signor Watson enjoyed their pleasures and Julia fell asleep, had struck the fatal blow without disturbing her and had then remained hidden for a further five hours until darkness permitted him to escape by way of the canal. The Vice-Quaestor felt that this would be a very remarkable course of conduct. Quite apart from the unusual circumstance — as it seemed to the Vice-Quaestor, though if Timothy were to say that such a thing would in England be quite commonplace the Vice-Quaestor would naturally be obliged to believe him — the, as it seemed to him, unusual circumstance of a lady having risen from the side of her lover without observing that he was now a corpse.
“One would think,” said Ragwort, “that even Julia—”
“Yes,” said Cantrip. “Yes, one would.”
We went uncheerfully for lunch, Marylou remaining with us. We again made our way to the Corkscrew, where at lunchtime they offer quite an agreeable salad. Selena bought a bottle of Nierstein; but the meal lacked festivity. It was impossible to talk of anything but Julia’s difficulties; equally impossible to do so with any optimism.
“Well,” said Cantrip, “we’re left with the Bruce chap. I always said it was the Bruce chap.”
“No,” said Ragwort, “you said it was the Major.”
“What I always said was,” said Cantrip, “that if it wasn’t the Major, then it was the Bruce chap. And it wasn’t the Major, so it is the Bruce chap. This chap Bruce,” he added, for the enlightenment of Marylou, “was trying to nick something from Kenneth Dunfermline — we don’t know what it was, but something jolly valuable. So the way I see it is this. Bruce knows Friday’s his last chance, because everyone’s going back to London next day, and he weasels into the annexe at lunchtime, when he thinks the coast’s clear. But Dunfermline’s hidden this thing pretty carefully, and Bruce is still looking for it when Ned and Julia come back unexpectedly. So he hides in the wardrobe. When he thinks they’re both asleep, he comes out of the wardrobe with a view to making a swift getaway. But he stubs his toe against the bed or something and Ned wakes up again. So Bruce stabs him.”
“Why?” asked Ragwort. “Surely it would be more sensible simply to run away?”
“Right, the natural thing would just be to scarper. So what I reckon is that Bruce is someone Ned knew, and he’s got to stab him because he’s been recognized. He doesn’t need to stab Julia, because she’s asleep. Anyway, then he nips downstairs and sees all these chambermaids sitting round in the doorway and decides he can’t risk going past them. So he holes up somewhere in the annexe till it gets dark and then he swims for it.”
“Properly regarded,” said Selena, turning her wine glass between her fingers, “it is a by no means unconvincing theory. The difficulty is that we can’t find out who Bruce is. Well — I suppose the accuracy of the blow must suggest someone with a medical qualification: if we could persuade the Italian police to make a list of medical men registered as guests in hotels in Venice last week—” but the unlikelihood, on the present state of the evidence, of securing the Vice-Quaestor’s cooperation in such an enterprise discouraged even Selena.
Wearying of the sense of being at a funeral breakfast, I began to reread Timothy’s letter, at which earlier I had had time to glance only briefly. There continued round me a subdued discussion of ways of discovering the identity of Bruce; but I paid little heed to it. I imagined instead the terrace of the Cytherea, where Timothy, and earlier Julia, had sat and written their letters to Selena. I tried to imagine the passage and re-passage on Friday morning of various people across the bridge to the annexe. There was something about it, I knew, which my unconscious mind had already recognized as rather curious. I gave all the attention of my conscious mind to identifying what it was.
By the time I had drunk my second glass of Nierstein, it was clear to me what must be done.
“Marylou,” I said, “can you go back to Venice?”
Asked, perhaps, a trifle suddenly, the question briefly bewildered her. It took a little time to explain at greater length that I wished her to take the next available flight back to Venice. I realized, I said, that I was asking her to incur considerable trouble and expense without offering an explanation of its purpose; but the time for an explanation was unfortunately not yet ripe.
“Well,” said Marylou, “if you think it’s necessary, Professor Tamar—”
“I think that it is,” I said, “extremely desirable.”
“Then of course I’ll go,” said the admirable American girl. “I’ll go call the airline and find out when the next flight is.” She rose from her chair and moved towards the telephone. The little crowd of journalists who surrounded it parted in admiration of her elegance.
“Hilary,” said Selena, “have you the slightest idea what you’re doing? You’re asking that girl to spend a very large sum of money—”
“My dear Selena,” I said, “if Ragwort’s judgment is to be relied on, the fare to Venice is rather less than she would pay for a dress; and she has worn a different dress on every occasion that we have seen her.” I dissuaded Selena with some difficulty from any quixotic suggestion that we should contribute to the cost.
Marylou returned from the telephone to say that a seat was available on the plane leaving for Milan at six o’clock. From there she could go to Venice by train, either that night or on the following morning. She asked me anxiously if that would be all right.
“Excellent,” I said. “Spend the night in Milan. You should arrive in plenty of time to find accommodation. I should like you to be in Venice by eleven o’clock next morning; but the Italians have an excellent train service — there should be no difficulty. When your train gets to Venice, don’t take the
“Yes,” said Marylou, “Julia and I had a Campari soda there.”
“Sit down there and wait for Timothy. I shall send him a telegram, explaining where you will be. You have not, I know, met Timothy; but he will recognize you from my description. After that, simply do whatever Timothy tells you. The main thing is, until he arrives, to stay in the cafe by the Accademia Bridge. If he’s not there by two o’clock, there has been a breakdown of communications and you should go to the British Consulate — you’ll find it easily, it’s only about twenty yards away. But don’t on any account go back across the Grand Canal — stay in the Dorsodouro until Timothy is with you.”
The American girl, when I said this, looked at me with a certain apprehension; but said nothing.
It was agreed that she should return home, pack a small suitcase with such items as seemed necessary and return to 62 New Square, whence Selena would drive her to the airport. It was, Selena had said, with a rather severe glance at myself, the least she could do.
“What,” asked Ragwort, “will you tell your husband?”
“Well,” said Marylou, “there’s not too much empathy between Stanford and Julia. If I told Stanford
I was going to Venice to help Julia, I guess his reaction might be somewhat negative. So I figured I’d just leave a note saying my mother’s cousin Alice was very sick and I had to go to her. My mother’s cousin Alice is very into ecology and she lives in a farmhouse in Brittany, France, and doesn’t have a telephone.” She looked round anxiously, as if this proposed deception might incur censure. It did not.
“I say, Hilary,” said Cantrip, when she’d gone, “you aren’t having another of your loopy spells, are you? You’re sure it’ll do some good sending the poor grummit back to Venice?”
