The little man laughed.
Powerscourt was looking closely at his meagre wardrobe. He should have thought of something suitable before he left London, something mild and reassuring. Not that dark suit, he’d look like a policeman. Not that grey, even if it was well cut, he’d look like a policeman off duty. The brown suit, that was all there was left. That didn’t look too threatening. A blue shirt. Anybody could wear a blue shirt. Now then, had he brought it with him? He had. Here was an Old Etonian tie, a currency still valid, even in Italy. Especially in St Mark’s Square where you hoped to meet another former pupil. Maybe the headmaster would feel proud of these old boys’ reunions happening all over the place.
Six thirty. Soon it would be time to go. He didn’t have a plan. But he did have what he hoped would be the least threatening order of conversation. Your mother, Lady Blanche Gresham. I met her recently. She was looking well. Always good for a minute or two, people exchanging horror stories about their mothers. Religion. The road to Rome. I’ve often thought of it myself as a matter of fact. Louisa. My condolences to another who had lost a wife. God forgive me, Caroline.
Six forty. There was a knock at the door.
‘He has not left the hotel yet, the Lord Gresham. He is still at the Pellegrini.’ Pannone was looking nearly as anxious as Powerscourt. ‘The waiters are taking up their positions. The night is clear. So they will be able to see everything. Sometimes it is so gloomy the Lord Gresham could walk past and you would never know he had been there. I have inspected the room at Florian’s for the dinner. It is not as good as the one we have here, but it would do. You will try to persuade him to come here, Lord Powerscourt? I would feel that things were under the control then, you know?’
Powerscourt assured the hotel manager that every effort would be made to return to the Danieli.
Five to seven.
‘Is it time to go yet, Mr Pannone? What do you think?’
‘It is only two or three minutes to your position, Lord Powerscourt. But we don’t want to be late. Not tonight, I think.’
Seven o’clock. The bells were very loud. Powerscourt jumped. Of course, he remembered. They’re only a hundred feet away, those bells, on the far side of the Basilica of St Mark.
Behind him lay the Doges’ Palace, the Piazzetta linking St Mark’s Square with the waterfront, and the dark waters of the lagoon. To his left, the great square of San Marco was deserted now, save for a few visitors waiting for their evening meal. There was a cold breeze from the sea. Above, to his right, there was another lion, one of the studious lions, with the gospel between its paws. Pax Tibi Marce. Peace be with you, Mark. Amen to that, thought Powerscourt, shivering slightly with the wind and his nerves.
Ten past seven. Mr Pannone appeared suddenly without warning. He must have come along the front of the church where the light was poorest.
‘Everything is ready. He do not leave the Hotel Pellegrini yet. Perhaps he is the fast walker. You see my man over there by the Campanile? With the gondolier’s hat? The hat is the key, my lord. When he knows the Lord Gresham is just about to enter the piazza, Sandro over there, he wave the hat. To the right means he is coming down the Mercerie. To the centre, the Lord Gresham come down the Calle dei Fabbri in the middle. To the left, and he come out at the bottom of the square. Good?’
‘Good. Very good,’ said Powerscourt.
Idling over the little bridges, poised expectantly by shop fronts at the bottom of streets, reading the menus in the lighted windows of the restaurants, the waiters loitered for their prey. A wave to the end of the street, a lifted hat, sometimes a whistle, and the word would be passed on down those tortuous Venetian alleyways. Lord Edward Gresham is coming. He’s coming this way.
Twenty past seven. St Mark’s Square was virtually deserted. The pigeons had taken over, ruthless scavengers of the detritus of the day. It’s a stage, thought Powerscourt. What had Napoleon called it, St Mark’s Square? The finest drawing-room in Europe, that was it. But it was not a drawing-room tonight. Tonight it was the grandest stage in Venice, waiting for a two-man show. The actors are coming. The audience are waiting, peering through the windows in the grimy buildings, box seats available in Florian’s and in Quadri’s on the other side of the square, standing room only on top of the Basilica, up there with the four lions. Good view. Rather cold. Low prices.
Pannone had disappeared. Sandro the gondolier’s hat was standing impassively under his bell tower. Only very close up could you see that his eyes were patrolling the far side of the square in regular arcs, like the beam of a lighthouse, only quicker. And that his eyes never stopped moving. They hardly blinked at all.
Seven thirty. Maybe he’s not coming, thought Powerscourt. Maybe he’s got cold feet. He’s too tired. He smells a rat. He’s going to eat at the Trattoria alla Madonna, or the Ai Gondolieri. He’s going to eat at his hotel.
The management regrets. All those holding tickets for this performance will receive a refund in the foyer. Our sincere apologies, ladies and gentlemen, this performance is cancelled.
Mr Pannone waited at the desk in his office. He took a large pinch of snuff. He was a general waiting for reports from the battlefield. But there was no news. The reports had dried up. He walked to his window and looked out across the waters, his mind scurrying up and down the streets and the byways of San Marco. Where was the Lord Gresham? Was the Lord Powerscourt going to be all right? He looked tense, almost frail, waiting there under his lion. What had Rosebery said? His work is very difficult. Please look after him.
Twenty to eight. Powerscourt wondered if he ought to pray. After all, the church was only a few feet away, full of its pirate booty. He decided God wouldn’t approve. A group of elderly nuns, bent into the wind, were crossing the centre of the square very slowly, as if the sins of the world were extra heavy this evening. The pigeons scattered as they passed. Their wrinkled hands moved slowly round the rosaries, late evening prayers in the heart of Venice.
The gondolier’s hat! It was moving at last! Sandro’s hat, under the Campanile, was pointing to the right. Gresham must be coming down the Mercerie after all. At last. Powerscourt found that his legs were shaking. Steady, he said to himself, steady. He walked out towards the middle of the Piazza San Marco to make his rendezvous with Lord Edward Gresham, sometime equerry to the murdered Prince Eddy, late Duke of Clarence and Avondale.
Behind him he heard running footsteps. Sandro, Sandro the hat was racing at full speed towards the Hotel Danieli. For Mr Pannone, the reports of the evening were beginning. Only fifteen minutes late.
22
The curtain has gone up, thought Powerscourt. The audience are settling down. The prompter is waiting in the wings. If he walked a fraction more to his right he should be in speaking range of Gresham in less than a minute. Grand view the audience must be having, the two principals right in the centre of the square. All the world’s a stage, all the men and women merely players.
‘Lord Gresham?’ said Powerscourt, as if not sure that he recognized the figure in the long black coat.
The young man stared desperately round the square. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sandro the hat, disappearing round the corner of the Doges’ Palace.
‘Lord Gresham! It is you! How very nice to see you. What a pleasant surprise.’
Was that a flicker of fear in Gresham’s eyes? He looked round again as if thinking of running for it. The square was so big there was no place to hide.
Greshams don’t cry. Greshams don’t run away.
‘Lord Powerscourt! My goodness me! Here in the middle of Venice. How nice to see you again.’