I’m not quite sure you mean that, Powerscourt said to himself, not sure at all. Uncle, he thought, I’m an uncle, I’m an old friend of the family. That’s what the script says for now.
‘Lord Gresham, you must be here on holiday, like me. Venice is always at its best in the winter.’
I’m on holiday, thought Powerscourt, I’m not here on business, definitely not business. And certainly I’m not investigating, I’m not looking for a killer, not here in St Mark’s Square.
‘But come, my dear Gresham, I was not looking forward to having dinner on my own. You can feel a bit lonely. Will you join me? I am staying in the Danieli just round the corner.’
‘Lord Powerscourt, that is very kind. But I have booked a table at Florian’s over there. I made it for one, but I’m sure they can manage two.’
‘Are you sure? The Danieli is very pleasant, the food is good there . . .’
‘Well, they were very nice to me in Florian’s this lunchtime. I wouldn’t want to let them down.’
They were inside Florian’s in a couple of minutes, Gresham turning abruptly on his heel as they went in, staring, staring once more at the empty square.
So far so good, thought Powerscourt.
Another messenger was running round the corner to the seafront. Mr Pannone’s report service was swinging into action.
‘Lord Gresham.’ Signor Lippi himself met them at the doorway, his silver rings looking extra bright this evening. The gondolier. ‘At lunch you were one. Now you are two!’ He laughed. ‘Tonight we have the big family party in here. We were going to squeeze you in round at the back, if you were one. But now, you are two, why, we give you the little upstairs room. It will be more peaceful without the great noise of the family Morosini down here. And you can look out at the view over the piazza.’
The room was lined in a dark blue material flecked with gold. There were pictures of Venetian churches on the walls. The curtains were left open, the great square stretching away from them into the night. Perhaps they’re letting more spectators in now, thought Powerscourt, these are the best seats in the house.
He looked carefully at the young man, now the candles shone on his face. This was not the Gresham he had met and talked to at Sandringham. The Venetian Gresham looked as if he might be falling apart. His collar was not properly adjusted. He hadn’t shaved very carefully, a tuft of stubble on his neck. The eyes were wild.
‘Have you been to Venice before, Lord Gresham?’ said Powerscourt, man of the world.
‘I have. I’ve only been once before. But I loved it so much I’ve always wanted to come back.’
That would have been with his mother, Powerscourt said to himself, when Gresham was sixteen years old.
‘Have you been here a lot, Lord Powerscourt? Do you know the city well?’
‘Are you two gentlemen ready to order?’
Gresham started as the waiter offered the menu.
‘Please, do take more time if you wish.’ There were echoes of Manhattan as the head waiter hovered round their little table. This must be the man who went to America, Powerscourt remembered, even if Mr Pannone thought it wasn’t as good as London and Paris.
‘Giovanni!’ Lord Gresham smiled. ‘How nice to see you again. This is Lord Powerscourt. Also from England.’
The waiter bowed. He took the orders.
Antipasto di Frutti di Mare, read Pannone in his office a few moments later, the seafood salad for the starter. His mind automatically translated all Italian menus into English. Then Brodo di Pesce, the soup of fish, Risi e Bisi, the risotto flavoured with the peas and bacon, two Faraona con la Peverada, the guinea fowl with the special sauce. The bottle of Chablis to start with. Then the Lord Powerscourt ordered the two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape. That should be good with the guinea fowl. Pannone remembered his conversation with Signor Lippi earlier that afternoon.
‘These English, they all drink far more than we do, I think. I have watched them. You must have watched them too, Signor Lippi. So I think we pour plenty of wine at the young man early on. Plenty of it. Maybe he talk more freely after that. Maybe he tell the Lord Powerscourt what he wish to know.’
‘You were asking if I knew Venice well, Lord Gresham. I have been here a number of times. But I wouldn’t say I know it well. I keep getting lost, even now. I don’t think you can ever know Venice well. There are too many surprises.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Gresham, inspecting a large lobster claw from the seafood salad. ‘But I don’t think you could ever get tired of it. Oh, thank you very much.’
Giovanni, the American waiter, was refilling Gresham’s glass, for the second time. The Chablis went well with the fish.
‘Have you been to all of these churches? The ones on the walls, I mean.’ Powerscourt moved his religious pawn slowly up the board.
‘I’ve been to Mass in San Marco. That was fantastic. And I went to the Frari this afternoon.’ Gresham was looking closely at a mirror above Powerscourt’s head.
‘Forgive me,’ said Powerscourt, dismembering a bright red spider crab, ‘are you a believer? In the Catholic faith, I mean. I always think those services must mean so much more if you belong to that faith.’
‘They do, they do,’ said Gresham, polishing off the last of the prawns. ‘And I am, I am a Catholic, I mean. I converted a couple of years ago. It means a lot to me.’
‘I have often thought about it,’ said Powerscourt. ‘So many people make the journey to Rome these days. Is it difficult? The converting, that is.’
‘The whole thing is quite difficult,’ said the young man, with the air of a religious veteran. The plates were being cleared away. Fresh cutlery was being laid. The Chablis was nearly finished. ‘But then, you wouldn’t expect a proper religion to be easy, would you? I had terrible trouble with my mother. She couldn’t see why I was doing it. She refused to come to the service where I was accepted into the faith. The priest said that she would understand in the end. I think the end may be a long time coming.’
Gresham laughed grimly. The last of the Chablis was poured into his glass. Risotto and fish soup replaced the skeletons of the seafood. Still he stared intently at the mirror.
‘It was after my wife died. That was when I thought of converting to Catholicism.’ Powerscourt was moving a knight, or was it a bishop, up the board. ‘It was so terrible. I really wanted what they call the consolation of religion. I kept going to church services, different ones, all over the place. In so many of the Anglican ones I felt they were just speaking the words. Oh, the words are beautiful, very beautiful. But I didn’t think they meant anything very much to the people saying them. How is that soup, by the way?’
Keep the proprieties going. Good manners to the end. We’re British, aren’t we? Old Etonians all?
‘The soup is excellent. Your risotto looks very good too. But tell me, Lord Powerscourt, how long ago did your wife die?’
A flock of pigeons shot past the window, heading for calmer quarters. The wind had risen and was blowing the day’s rubbish across the square.
‘Caroline?’ said Powerscourt, chasing his risotto’s last few peas across his plate. ‘Caroline died seven years, three months and five days ago.’
Silence fell across the table.
‘She died in a shipping accident. She was drowned. Our little boy was with her. He was only two years old.’
Briefly Powerscourt hated himself. He hated himself for using these devices on the young man, unaware that the confidences were rehearsed, the intimacy merely a ploy. He looked out into the square, empty now. I wrote most of this script, he said to himself. He’s making it up as he goes along.
‘You can still remember the day after all these years,’ said Gresham, leaning back in his chair as the table was cleared once more.
‘Lord Gresham. Lord Powerscourt. Now we have the guinea fowl, and the vegetables, and the little salad. And we leave you for a while. Please, help yourselves to the red wine. It is far too good to waste.’ Giovanni bowed deeply and closed the doors.