‘I think it is possible. But look, gentlemen, look.’ Powerscourt spoke slowly, slowing down the thoughts racing through his mind. ‘Is it possible that you could stay in Venice and not stay at a hotel? Of course, you could stay in somebody’s house or palazzo, but I don’t think Gresham had any close friends in Venice.
‘Suppose you were a priest. Could you not stay in a seminary, or in a monastery? And could you not, in exceptional circumstances, have a guest with you? So that you eat your meals in the monastery or wherever it is. Such a visitor would not visit the cafes or the hotels or the restaurants. He misses out on the waiters altogether. Your splendid intelligence system doesn’t work. There wouldn’t be any news at all.’
There was a brief silence. The three of them were now at the window, staring at the buildings on the island.
‘There is a monastery on San Giorgio,’ said Signor Lippi softly, ‘a famous one. The buildings, the refectory and the library are also by Palladio. But they don’t let people in to see them, not even Americans.’
Signor Pannone sounded more cheerful as he thought of places the Americans couldn’t visit. ‘All of this is true,’ he said, ‘it is true. So we must find out who is on the island. And who, perhaps, is their guest. How do we do that, Signor Lippi?’
The two men spoke rapidly in Italian, their gestures more pronounced. From time to time Powerscourt wondered if they were going to come to blows, so fierce did the exchanges seem.
‘Bene. Bene. Now then, Lord Powerscourt, this is what we propose.’ It’s like a waiter offering you the menu in France, Powerscourt thought. ‘It may not be perfect, but we think it will work. Yes?’ He glanced briefly at Signor Lippi, who nodded vigorously. ‘We have just got the time. Now it is a quarter after seven, not too late to pay a call on the monastery before they start praying for the night or whatever they do.
‘Our catering manager here at the Danieli,’ he waved an expansive arm around the room and what was visible of Venice outside, as if that too was part of his hotel, ‘he does a lot of business with the monks at San Giorgio. Not with the monks, pardon me, but with the housekeeper of these monks. She has worked there a long time. She know everything. She know everybody. She talk a great deal. Maybe because the monks are silent much of the day and do not talk to her. God knows, women need to talk.’ He shook his head, weighed down perhaps by the speech and speeches of his own women. Powerscourt thought he must have daughters as well as a wife. ‘I will talk to this man now. We send him to the island. He talks, perhaps he listens to this housekeeper woman. Then he comes back and tells us.
‘And I have not told you the best part of the plan, Lord Powerscourt. We have to wait here till he come back, you and I. Sometimes she talk for hours, this housekeeper. I do not think we will like the waiting, you and I. So we send them with Venice’s finest gondolier, the fastest man in the city. Signor Lippi here! Every year he wins the races for the gondolas. Every Sunday he practises up in Cannaregio. These races are like your Henley. You have rowing races at Henley, it is so?’
Powerscourt assured him that they did.
‘Well, he is our man. Maybe he is not used to the rowing the gondola in his frock coat but he is happy to help. Come, we must go. There is not any time to lose.’
The two Italians rushed from the room.
‘Don’t forget the picture!’ Powerscourt shouted after them. ‘The picture of Lord Gresham!’
‘My God, my God, we nearly forget the picture. We must not be in too big of the hurry, I think.’
Powerscourt stared out of the window. Beneath him the night porters of the Danieli were on duty, great cloaks tightly fastened against the cold. To his right the lion of St Mark sat happily on top of its great pillar, still waiting to warn of invaders from the sea. To the right of San Giorgio, on the island of Giudecca, he could see lights on Palladio’s other great church, the Redentore, built like Santa Maria Salute as a thanksgiving for salvation from the plague. Gondolas bobbed up and down on the waterfront. His pigeons still bustled about St Mark’s Square, a lone orchestral group serenading the night air with Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana. Perhaps the sheet music had arrived earlier than expected.
There was a sudden burst of activity by the gondolas. Signor Lippi, in white shirt-sleeves now, his rings glistening from the lights on the waterfront, was preparing to leave with a small tubby figure in the back of the boat.
Powerscourt watched them go, the gondola moving swiftly across the waters of the lagoon, growing smaller and smaller as it reached the San Giorgio steps. Powerscourt thought he saw the tubby figure disappear through a door to the right of the jetty. But he wasn’t sure.
Still he watched. Was this the end of his journey? A journey that began months before in Rosebery’s tiny castle at Barnbougle with tales of unknown criminals blackmailing the Prince of Wales. He thought of the people he had met along the way, the impossible courtiers, the efficient Major Dawnay, Mr Simkins the naval historian up the steps in his archive, Lord George Scott, former captain of HMS Bacchante, spilling crumbs on his beard. He thought of the unhappiness, Princess Alexandra grieving for another son, Robinson, the red-faced man who told him to get out, his son buried in the Dorchester churchyard, Lady Blanche Gresham the proud old woman, alone with her ancestors in the great expanse of Thorpe Hall. He thought of Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, up his tree by the homosexual club in Chiswick. He thought of Lady Lucy.
He watched on. Nothing stirred by the steps. He thought he could see Signor Lippi waving his arms to keep warm. The waters were still. He thought of Lady Lucy, worried by the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, happy and passionate as she told the story of The Fighting Temeraire in the National Gallery, radiant in her Anna Karenina coat at the bottom of St James’s Square.
Still he watched, his eyes never leaving those shadowy steps by the facade of the church on its island. Maybe I shall bring Lady Lucy here to Venice one day, he thought. Maybe we could come for our honeymoon. We could stay here in the Danieli with Mr Pannone.
‘What are you thinking of, Lord Powerscourt? Over there by the window?’ Pannone had slipped quietly back into the room.
‘I was thinking of getting married, Signor Pannone. But I have not yet asked the young lady. Perhaps I am too soon.’
‘How charming, Lord Powerscourt. That would be a good change for you. This business with the Lord Gresham, it has been very difficult?’
Powerscourt watched on. What was he doing, deciding to marry Lady Lucy at a time like this? It wasn’t the first time he had thought of it either. Was that a gondola, leaving San Giorgio, turning round to return to the hotel? No, it was only a shadow on the water.
Twenty minutes gone now. He checked his watch again.
‘It has been difficult, Mr Pannone, yes. I shall be glad when it is over.’
Pannone was silent, as if he knew Powerscourt didn’t want to talk. He produced a pair of binoculars and rejected them, saying you could see as well without.
A dark cloud passed over the young moon. The church was barely visible now, only the white tops of its lighthouses clear to the watchers by the window. How long could that woman talk for? Had the true nature of the mission been discovered? Was Pannone’s man even now being interrogated by some of the monks? Had be been locked up in some dark cell beneath the waterline to await more skilled interrogation by the Jesuits in the morning?
Powerscourt thought he saw something move by the steps. He rubbed his eyes, and rubbed at the Danieli’s windowpane, straining for a better view. It was nothing.
‘Look! Look!’ said Mr Pannone. ‘I think they are coming now.’
The gondola was coming back by a different route. It swung over towards the Customs House Point, zigzagging its way towards the shore.