The Blue Last (20 page)

Benny loved the Victoria Embankment, Waterloo Bridge and Westminster Bridge beyond it, and up the other way was Blackfriars, and the Thames in the early morning layered in mist. He liked to watch the river and think about the stories the Sergeant was always telling him about the old docks and warehouses, Wapping and Stepney, Whitechapel and Limehouse. All the ships, maybe five hundred of them, coming up the Thames from Gravesend, when the Thames was a real working river. It still was, but now, not much muscle or sinew—too many boats carrying tourists back and forth.

Occasionally, a sunset could be so intense that it looked as if London were burning. Great flares of orange and red that seemed impossible to have ignited over a city so vastly gray, and often dreary, Benny thought, if you didn't look underneath.

There was always underneath. You couldn't take things at face value. He thought of his mother, Mary. Underneath her head scarf and wool shawl, his mother was never a beggar. She had lost everything in one fell swoop—Benny's father, and his pay, and she having no skills to work going had lost their little house in County Clare. But there had been those fortunate few years when she had worked as cook for the bankrupt family, but that too had gone. It was a terrible thing about coming finally to the streets; it was a long slide that you'd thought you'd stopped once, twice, three times; that you thought you'd got a handle on, and then only to find you'd slid farther down until your bum at last connected with cement.

He could see each of them now with his chop on the end of a stick holding it over the fire, and the Sergeant on his way back. He wore a long, heavy brown coat that had all of its buttons still. He was very proud that it didn't look seedy. It was all he had, the Sergeant had told Benny, from the old life in National Service. “Mucked about in the military police, me, in the war. Be surprised what you learn as an MP. Proper job I had of it, sorting out who done what to who. But it seems I've a mind for that sort of thing.”

They had sat down to look out over the river. Benny said, “I met a policeman a couple days ago. A detective from Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard? Now that's something, that is. What did he want?”

Benny told him about the murder. “He wanted to know about Gem, too.”

“That poor little girl someone wants her out of the way? Never did hear of such a thing. Terrible.”

“The thing is, I always took it that Gem was making it up. You know, so people'd pay attention to her. She hasn't got a proper family, I mean, no mum or dad, sisters, brothers—she hasn't got anyone.”

“It's a puzzle, young Ben, it surely is.” He was quiet for a few moments. “I wonder . . . now, I had experience as an MP with a young soldier who was, uh, messing around with the captain's wife. I finally twigged it, but what he done, see, was parade a good-looking German tart—ahem, I mean a woman—around just to put us off the scent. With a girl that looked like her, why bother with the wife? What I'm sayin' is, could the business with young Gemma be a distraction?”

Benny frowned. “Distraction? But from what?”

The Sergeant shrugged, wetting cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “How about that murder?”

“Yes, but . . . trying to kill Gem, all that happened before the murder.”

“Still . . .”

They were silent for a few moments as the Sergeant smoked his cigarette. Benny looked through the dark out over the river to the lights on the far side. “Still, I wish that detective'd come back.”

The Sergeant pinched the end of his cigarette before lighting it. “You can bank on that, young Ben. The Bill always comes back.”

T
hat part of the Ponte Vecchio that he could see from this upper story of the tiny hotel was drenched in light. Such a distillation, such a concentration of light, Melrose had never seen before. It cast a golden skin across the Arno and beaded the graceful arc of the bridge where the goldsmiths traded, as if even more gold were called for, as if there could never be too much of it, as if the city could dissolve into sheer light and luster.

Florence's abundant charms had laid themselves at his feet last night when, after stowing their things in the high cool rooms of their small hotel, they had gone in search of dinner. Trueblood had picked this hotel, liking its seclusion on a street so narrow it could hardly accommodate more than the two of them walking abreast. The hotel seemed to occupy no more than a floor of a building that seemed otherwise tenantless. Melrose loved it; he loved the lobby-reception room, the antique furnishings of his own small room and everything going about in slippered silence.

Except Trueblood, who now stood in his doorway. “Come on come on come on come on” jabbered Trueblood, with the speed of an auctioneer.

It was, thought Melrose, an unseemly pace for this otherwise slow morning. “Good lord, allow me to enjoy this vision of Florence.”

“We want to go to the Brancacci Chapel. That's first.”

Trueblood was carrying the brown-paper-wrapped Masaccio panel, about as convenient as lugging an oar around. There had been a bit of a row with a long-suffering flight attendant over the disposition of this long parcel: Trueblood wanted it sitting in the seat beside him (as if St. Who was not very sturdy on his legs), and the flight attendant had told him no. It must ride somewhere out of people's way. And, no, he could not purchase another ticket for it. Trueblood had given in and put it overhead, but had not been happy. He got a crick in his neck from constantly having to look up.

As Melrose swept coins and credit cards off the nightstand and into his pocket, he said, “Aren't you afraid you'll lose that walking around?”

“No.”

They left the room, Melrose sighing and exclaiming he trusted he wasn't to be herded around at this pace the entire time they would be here. Trueblood didn't answer, just went on before him through the little lobby. Melrose loved the cool space of this lobby, with its blush-tinted stone flooring, rich dark moldings and white busts in alcoves. Reception consisted of a Regency desk and the chap behind it. The breakfast room, where Melrose was headed, though Trueblood was not, was large enough for only four tables and gave the impression, since the other three were unoccupied, that it was a dining room of one's own.

Failing to steer Melrose off course, Trueblood resigned himself to sitting down at the table. They were served by the ubiquitous reception-desk-fellow and another young man. The service was swift and pleasant and the food delicious. It would have been an altogether relaxing experience had not Trueblood sat sighing and checking his watch every two minutes. Melrose ignored this and tucked into the hotel's homemade granola. “This is quite good. Have some.”

“I did. I ate an hour ago.”

“You've already eaten and you'd starve me? No, don't unwrap Masaccio again.”

Trueblood was carefully sliding a thumbnail under the tape and folding the brown paper back as tenderly as a baby's bunting. He had acquired a small magnifying glass which he clicked out of its black case and went about moving it all over the exposed part of the panel.

“For God's sakes, Marshall, you know every inch of that painting by now. Who is this chap you're dragging me to see?”

“A man named Luzi. Aldo Luzi. An expert, perhaps the most expert in all of Italy on early Renaissance art.”

“Really? But what about the Ickley woman? She, you said, was the foremost authority.”

“
Then
she was; she was
then.
”

“What in hell are you talking about? ‘Then'? It was only yesterday. Are entire reputations to be made or broken over this suspect Masaccio?”

Trueblood inspected a small croissant, then took a bite. “She
is
the authority in Britain. I only mean I thought she
was
the foremost authority until she filled me in on this Luzi chap.”

“Ah!” Melrose looped a little spoon of plum jam on his toast and said, “Then ‘foremost' authority cannot move across borders.”

“Don't be a nitwit.”

“Okay. Anyway, the Ickley woman couldn't tell if the painting's authentic?”

“It wasn't something she could swear to either way. She could tell the panel, the paint, the varnish, and so forth were right for that period.”

“The period being—”

“Early 1400s. You know the Renaissance better than I do.”

“But only the British version.” Melrose signaled the waiter for more coffee and Trueblood slid down in his chair, eyes closed. “Actually, there was no Renaissance anywhere else; Italy had the whole thing tied up and screaming.”

Trueblood sliced him a look as the waiter poured coffee. “Don't prattle on, will you?”

“You sound exactly like Agatha.”

Trueblood rewrapped Masaccio, then bounced in his chair a couple of times, displaying the frustration and impatience of a child.

Melrose laughed. “Here's a side of you I've never seen. You're as determined as a four-year-old trying to get his parents to stop eating and get up and go. This, so he can also go and do absolutely nothing.”

“Well, I'm not going to do nothing.”

Melrose sighed. “All right. I'm ready; bring on the Brancacci.”

“Bran-kah-chi, Bran
-kah-
chi.” Trueblood separated each syllable as if slovenliness in pronunciation would show a lack of respect that would have all of Florence bolting its doors and turning its back. He rose suddenly and walked toward the door.

“Finished!” said Melrose, throwing up his hands. He carefully folded his big napkin while Trueblood lurked in the doorway.

They descended a marble staircase into the murky depths of the entryway. They walked through the door into white light on pocked gray stone while on the other side of the narrow street purple shadows filled the crouched doorways, watched over by stone sculptures of animals and angels.

They walked, Trueblood in front and occasionally looking back and waving Melrose along.

Finally, they were crossing the Ponte Vecchio, Trueblood giving no quarter for pausing by these windows filled with gold necklaces, bracelets, earrings. The goods, Melrose thought, might have been molded out of the golden surface of the Arno—this morning's dream scene. He was yanked back by Trueblood's iron grip; the only thing he would be allowed to stand and ogle would be inside the Brancacci Chapel.

Melrose insisted on looking in the window of the little glove shop just at the other end of the bridge. Nothing but gloves! They lapped over one another in tiny colored waves of turquoise, lemon yellow, lapis lazuli, cobalt blue, crimson. He got pulled away yet again, and Melrose thought Trueblood must really be smitten if he could ignore such an addition to his wardrobe.

The temptations of the Ponte Vecchio behind them, Trueblood once again got in front; he was pointing at some destination, which in a while composed itself into a piazza and a church. “I forgot this was on the way. It's the Santa Feliceta and there's a fresco in here we want to see, too.”

It was a painting of the Annunciation, and Melrose liked the startled
I-can't-believe-what-you-just-said
look on the face of Mary, turning to look at the angel delivering what was supposed to be really good news.

“Marvelous,” said Trueblood.

“Have you ever seen an Annunciation painting where Mary looks as if she's saying, ‘Hey, cool.' Think about it. I'd probably wear that look if Agatha told me she was moving into Ardry End. Poor Mary.” Melrose wished he could tell the Virgin Mary she should be glad that was only the Archangel Gabriel before her and not Marshall Trueblood, who was disappearing up the shadowy nave.

When Melrose found him in the piazza, Trueblood said, “We can skip the Pitti Palace, if you don't mind.”

If
he
didn't mind? By no means did he mind. All he wanted was to get back to that glove shop. “Okay. Later.”

“Then come on,” Trueblood said testily, reclaiming his lead. Over his shoulder, he said, “Next stop, the church of the Carmine. Where the frescoes are. It's on the way to Luzi's.”

Nothing was on the way, thought Melrose, lost in a little maze of alley-like streets. They turned off the Via Sant' Agostino to the Via De' Serragli and the church sprang into view—at least into Trueblood's, for he trumpeted, “There it is! You'll be astonished!” He squared his shoulders and secured his picture before him like a shield, as if to defend himself against too much astonishment.

Melrose shrugged and said, “Okay, but listen, when we finish here, I want to go back to that glove shop . . .”

“
Glove
shop? Am I losing my mind?”

Again, Melrose shrugged. “I don't know.” He decided he would take dumb rhetorical questions literally from now on. “But I want some gloves even if you don't.”

This exchange had taken them into the chapel and down the nave to Trueblood's cherished frescoes, where they now stood. “Melrose, we're standing before perhaps the greatest frescoes ever painted.”

“I know, but I'm serious about the glove shop.”

Trueblood was carefully undoing the brown paper, which had begun, it appeared, to molt at the creases, light showing through the frayed folds, like a much-read love letter or a whore's stockings. Holding it up, he looked from St. Who upward to St. Peter, nodding and nodding.

“It looks like the same painter,” said Melrose, “and looks like the same style, still, you've got to ask yourself—”

“I've asked myself every question in the book,” Trueblood's eyes riveted on the fresco. Melrose had to admit all of this was astonishing. He'd seen many representations of Adam and Eve's being drummed out of Paradise, but never with such expressiveness. Eve's expression was especially harrowing: the mouth a rictus of pain, eyelids closed and slanting down as if she'd just been blinded. There were various scenes from the life of St. Peter: the tribute money, healing the sick with his shadow. “The thing is, didn't Masolino paint some of this? Didn't you tell me they worked together?” Melrose looked on the other side of St. Peter's raising someone from the dead, he wasn't sure who, to another rendering of Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise. “That's what I mean. Obviously, another painter painted
that
representation; everything about it is different.” The two figures seemed completely calm and courtly. “That's a traditional depiction.”