Closed Circle (22 page)

"Everything."

"Why are you leaving?"

"Because I can't remain. Surely you see that?"

"Because Max is dead?"

"I can't forget him."

"Of course you can't. Neither can I. No more than I can forget what happened before he burst in. What it represented. What it signified. To me, anyway. To the police and to Aunt Vita as well, perhaps it may have sounded sordid and contemptible. But it wasn't, was it?"

"No. It wasn't."

"It can't be, can it? Not if there's more than ... physical desire."

"Love, you mean?"

"Yes. Love."

"Diana, !..."I turned away towards the window. Before I could continue, I felt her hand on my elbow. At the mere touch of her fingers through my sleeve, there burst into my mind the vision of her naked on the bed. Then I saw Max's face, stained with fury. And heard his voice in my ear. "Did you think I wouldn't follow you?"

"I didn't mean to kill him, Guy. Even the police believe me. Won't you?"

"I do believe you."

Then what's wrong?"

"We are. You and I. What we did drove Max to his death. Whatever the law says, we are to blame."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, Diana. I do."

Her hand fell from my elbow and I heard her move away. When she next spoke, her voice seemed to come from a greater distance than the room could contain. "In that case, you ought to leave. And I won't try to stop you."

I spent the rest of that day and most of the next alternately walking and drinking myself into a state of oblivion. Trapped like a fly in a bottle, I craved only the world beyond the glass, where I could seek out the truth on Max's behalf. But the glass could not be broken. Nor, until the Venetian magistratura gave their leisurely consent, could the cork be pulled. There was, for me, no escape.

Returning to the Casa di Pellicani late on Wednesday afternoon, I was surprised to be told that an Englishman had called in search of me and was waiting at the Oliva Nera, an unlovely local bar recommended to him by my landlady, whose brother was the proprietor. Wondering who my visitor might be, I went straight there, only to catch sight of him from some way off. He was sitting at an outside table, wearing a raincoat and trilby, peering suspiciously at a glass of fizzy beer and blending with the Venetian background about as effectively as a gondolier on the Serpentine.

"Chief Inspector Hornby?"

"Ah, Mr. Horton, there you are. Take a seat. Can I buy you a beer?"

"No thanks. Just coffee." I sat down and waited until my order had been taken, then lit a cigarette and offered Hornby one. He accepted, eagerly discarding the Italian brand he had been coughing over. "I'm sorry I was out. If I'd known you were coming .. ."

"I hardly knew myself. But, when we heard the news.. . Well, somebody had to come over to check the details." He flexed his shoulders. "And I didn't travel first-class, so don't think I'm pleased to be here." After a squint around the tiny square, he added: "Bognor's more to my taste."

"Couldn't you have left it to the locals? Max is dead. I should have thought that was all you wanted to know."

"Not quite. There's the question of how he managed to slip out of England."

"I can't help you there. He didn't tell me."

"Did he tell you anything? Where he's been since the murder, for instance?"

"No."

"Or what made him kill Charnwood?"

I wondered if I should respond by proclaiming Max's innocence. But Hornby's expression told me I would be wasting my breath. If I was to clear Max's name, it would be without assistance from the likes of a detective chief inspector who prefers Bognor to Venice. "He said nothing."

"Apart from accusing you and Miss Charnwood of treachery?"

I sipped my coffee and stared impassively at him. "Apart from that."

"I can see it must have been a real facer for him. His friend and his fiancee." The phrase was a virtual and quite possibly deliberate echo of one used by Varsini. But, if he was trying to rile me, I was determined he would not succeed. "Do you mind me asking .. . how long you and Miss Charnwood .. ."

"Is that really any of your business, Chief Inspector?"

"Strictly speaking, no. But it's only a matter of weeks since you were planning to stand as best man at their wedding. It doesn't look very ... loyal, does it?"

"No. It doesn't."

"How will you explain it to his parents? They'll be here tomorrow, you know."

"Will they?" I had not thought about the Wingates and what I would say to them. Now, suddenly, their arrival was imminent. And I could hardly tell them my disloyalty to Max was none of their business.

"I expect you'll think of something, Mr. Horton. You seem to be rather good at it."

"Do I?"

"Well, you've had the last laugh on me, haven't you? I promised you at Charnwood's funeral that I'd bring Wingate to trial and see him hanged for murder. But I was wrong. The case will close without a trial. And your friend will be buried in sanctified ground. So you see, you and Miss Charnwood have done him quite a favour. Haven't you?"

According to Hornby, the Wingates were booked into the Danieli (which he pronounced to rhyme with Philippi) and were expected about midday. Shortly after six o'clock, therefore, I presented myself at the desk, sober, smartly dressed and as well-prepared as I was ever likely to be. The concierge, who seemed to recognize me from my overnight stay the previous week but did not say so, telephoned their room. After he had given my name, there was a long and pregnant pause. Then the message came back: Signor Wingate would be down directly.

He looked immensely weary as he descended the staircase, his face lined and drawn. He did not smile, of course, but a mechanical shake of my hand represented a concession of sorts.

"Shall we go into the bar, sir?" I asked.

"No. I'd prefer to talk outside."

I followed him through the revolving doors and out onto the Riva degli Schiavoni. A cloud-barred sunset was spreading its pink glow across the lagoon and the faces of the passers-by. A magical serenity offered itself freely to every stray human. But neither of us felt able to embrace it.

We started walking slowly east. Aubrey Wingate stared straight ahead, his chin raised, as if he were scanning the horizon for a sight of something or of someone. As we reached the first bridge, I said, "I am so very sorry about all this, sir." He did not reply or glance towards me. "For you and Mrs. Wingate, it must have come as ... a terrible shock. I can only express my .. . deepest regret."

As we cleared the bridge, he veered away towards the water's edge. He stopped by a bollard and rested against it, rubbing his forehead for a few moments. Then he folded his arms and looked at me. "I don't know what to say to you, Guy. Cecily is distraught. She still thinks of Max as a baby and feels as if her child has been snatched away from her. But I can't help thinking of what would have happened if he'd been arrested, tried and convicted. The anguish. The shame. The sheer horror of it." He shook his head. "Max let us down in a great many ways. But we never turned him away. The letter he wrote.. . I'm not sure I believed it. I simply had to behave as if I did. God damn it, why did you have to prove him right? Why did you have to betray him? To the police I could have understood, even approved. But with this girl?"

"I'm not sure I can explain far less excuse what I did."

"She's beautiful, I'm told."

"Yes. She is."

"Is that the reason, then? That and nothing else?"

I sighed. "Probably."

"The war ruined you two. It made you greedy and selfish. But for those years in Macedonia, you'd have grown into fine young men. I'm sure of it. But as it is .. ."

"I am sorry."

"And is the Charnwood girl sorry?"

"Yes."

"It's still not good enough, though, is it? Tomorrow, they'll bury my son. Here, in a foreign land. They'll bury him and forget him. But we won't."

"Neither will I, sir."

He inhaled sharply and seemed to bite back some response. Then he pushed himself upright and stared out across the lagoon towards the Lido. "I don't want her at the funeral. It would be too much for Cecily. I've sent a message to that effect via the Consulate. But they didn't seem to know your address, so .. ."

"You've been trying to contact me?"

He nodded. "With the same message." He turned to look at me, stiffening his jaw. "We'll say goodbye to our son for all his faults in our own way. But we don't want to have to do it in the company of those who betrayed him. We don't want you there, Guy. Either of you."

I gaped at him in disbelief. "You're forbidding me to attend Max's funeral?"

"I can't forbid anything. I can only ask."

"But .. . Max was my best and oldest friend."

"So you say. But were you his?" He ground his teeth. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I've said too much. I must go back to the hotel. We'll be leaving on Saturday. As far as I'm concerned, there's no reason for us to meet again before then."

"No. I suppose there isn't."

"So, I'll say goodbye, Guy."

"Goodbye, sir." I extended my hand towards him, but he either ignored it or failed to notice as he moved swiftly past me and marched off towards the Danieli. I did not watch him go, but turned to gaze, as he had, into the sun-gilded distance. This, I supposed, was the final humiliation my conduct had invited: to be excluded even from Max's funeral. "Very well," I whispered to myself and to my forever absent friend. "So be it. I won't be there when they bury you, Max. But this isn't going to end with your funeral. I promise."

I did not, of course, know what time next day Max would be buried. Deliberately, I made no effort to find out. But fate was determined to ensure I should not remain safe in my ignorance. I rose late and badly hungover on a brilliantly clear morning, oppressed more than ever by the knowledge that I could not leave the maze of claustrophobic alleys to which Venice had been reduced in my mind. Bursting out of the Casa di Pellicani in a violently restless mood, I made for Riva Schiavoni, hoping an aimless vaporetto ride might calm me down.

But even as I emerged onto the riva and glanced towards the Danieli, I realized my mistake. There, nosing out of the side-canal serving the hotel, was a black funeral launch, with the sombrely clad figures of Mr. and Mrs. Wingate recognizable through the window of the cabin. I watched, transfixed, as it moved slowly out into the channel and set off on its journey to the cemetery island of San Michele. As it passed the spot where I stood, I thought of the other vessel, with a coffin aboard, that would be steering for the same destination. I was not allowed to follow either. All I could do was keep my eyes trained on the gleaming black prow of the launch as it slid through the water and utter a silent prayer for

"Faraday," I murmured, as his smiling face came between me and the distant shape of the launch. He was standing a few yards away, patiently waiting, it seemed, for my gaze to reach him.

"Good morning, Horton. Not going to the funeral?"

"No."

"Warned off, I take it like poor Diana?"

"Something like that."

He nodded. "I thought as much. So, I don't find you busy?"

"What do you want, Faraday?"

"The information you agreed to obtain."

"I've withdrawn my agreement."

"It's a moot point whether you can. But, look here, I'll be satisfied for the moment by your company on a short voyage. I have to visit a yacht moored off the Zattere. There's a boat waiting for me at San Marco. Why don't you come too? The people aboard would like to meet you."

"Who are they?"

"Persons of influence."

"Like you, you mean?"

"No. Not at all like me." He paused, then said: "You wouldn't regret it."

My instinct was to refuse, but I badly wanted not to be alone. It seemed inconceivable that all Faraday's acquaintances should be as odious as he was himself. "All right," I grudgingly said. "Why not?"

"Excellent. Come along, then." He led the way towards San Marco and I followed. As we crossed the Ponte della Paglia, he said: "Heard the news from England? There's to be a general election."

"Really?"

"You don't sound interested."

"Can't say I am."

"You should be. Politics are a matter of life and death. Everyone's life and death. Even yours."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? Well, perhaps it's time you did." He pursed his lips. "Or perhaps not."

We reached the jetties facing the Giardinetti Reali. Tied up at one was a small speed-boat with a tall and muscular figure waiting alongside. He nodded to Faraday and helped us aboard, casting one withering blue-eyed glance at me as he did so. His face was stern and pitted with the scars of smallpox, partially obscured by a mane of grey-blond hair. I did not like the look of him. Nor, apparently, did he like the look of me.

Faraday addressed him as Klaus and spoke to him in what sounded like German. We shoved off, manoeuvred into open water, then headed straight out past Customs House Point. As we rounded it and steered in towards the Zattere, I caught sight of an elegant three-masted schooner moored ahead.

"Is that it?" I asked, shouting to make myself heard.

"Yes," Faraday bellowed back. The Quadratrice. Handsome, isn't she?"

I did not catch the name as he pronounced it, but, as we drew alongside, there it was, blazoned in gold copper-plate beneath the bow. Quadratrice. A curious word, with a French ring to it, that sounded as if it might be either an algebraic expression or a mythological creature a quadratic equation, perhaps, or a four-headed serpent. I was about to ask what it meant when Faraday tapped me on the arm.

"The captain's waiting to welcome us aboard. You know him better as a general."

It was Vasaritch, looking even huger than I remembered in an outfit of billowing white. He was grinning down at us from the rail like Zeus from Olympus, extending a god-sized arm to haul us up. Faraday went first, then Klaus ushered me forward as if anxious to ensure I did not turn back. Already, I was beginning to question the wisdom of accepting this invitation. But there was nothing for it now but to put on a brave face.