Stone's Fall

CHAPTER 1

I was not intended by family, education or natural instinct for a life of, or in, industry. I still know surprisingly little about it, even though my companies own some forty factories across Europe and the Empire. I have little real idea how the best steel is smelted and have no more notion of how a submarine works. My skill lies in comprehending the nature of people and the evolution of money. The dance of capital, the harmony of a balance sheet, and the way these abstractions interact with people, their characters and desires, either as individuals or in a mass. Understand that one is the other, that they are two separate ways of expressing the same thing, and you understand the whole nature of business.

A few months ago I read a book by Karl Marx on capital. Elizabeth gave it to me, with a smile on her face. A strange experience, as the author's awe exceeds even my own. He is the first to understand the complexity of capital and its subtlety. His account is that of a lover describing his beloved, but after describing her beauty and the sensuality of her power, he turns away from her embrace and insists that his love should be destroyed. He could gaze clearly into the nature of capital, but not into his own character. Desire is written in every line and paragraph of his book, but he does not see it.

In my case, I surrendered to the excitement that came over me when I glimpsed the extraordinary process by which food turned into labour into goods into capital. It was akin to a vision, a moment of epiphany, all the more surprising because it was so unexpected. It was a strange process, this metamorphosis of a curate's son into a businessman, and deserves some description, not least because it involved events now completely unknown.

I am considered a secretive man, although I do not see myself in this fashion. I do not guard my privacy with any unusual jealousy, but feel no need for all the world to know my affairs. Only one thing have I hidden which is of any importance. This account will, I hope, explain some elements of my life and may give the information needed for fulfilling the requirements of my will. It is an aide-memoire, and I put down here all the details I can remember while I conduct my search for a definitive answer.

I write sitting in my office in St James's Square, and all is quiet. Downstairs, my Elizabeth is curled up in front of the fire, reading a book, as she usually does in the evening before going to bed. I can imagine her yawning, her face illuminated by the firelight, entirely beautiful and calm. As there is no one there, she will be wearing her reading glasses. When she hears me coming down the stairs, she will whip them off and hide them; it is her vanity. I would tell her it means nothing to me, but having to use them so annoys her that I do not wish to trespass on her little secret. For the rest, she is at peace; I have given her that, and it is the best and most worthwhile thing I have ever done, worth more to me than all the factories and money I have accumulated over the years. I will not have it disturbed. But I must settle this other business once and for all; it has been gnawing at me for some time, and I am no longer young enough to afford any delay. I will find the truth, and will settle my mind. I do not fear that it will disturb Elizabeth greatly, as likely as not, the story ended long ago. I wish to know; that is all.

I will write as my researches progress; I have begun my enquiries, they will bear fruit sooner or later. I am, I am sorry to say, unused to not getting what I want. In that lies my reputation for arrogance and I suppose it is probably deserved. It is necessary; a humble businessman is about as much use as an arrogant priest and if you are not by nature self-confident, then you must appear so, or you will fail. It is not a quality that will ever be sung about by poets, but like all the darkness within us, such characteristics – shame, guilt, despair, hypocrisy – have their uses.

This pensiveness is foolish, I know. It began simply because of the death of William Cort; he asked me to come and see him in his wasting state and I went, travelling down to Dorset, where he had lived for the past forty years. A mournful meeting, but he was resigned to his end and not unhappy. Life had been a burden to him and he was looking forward to being rid of it. He gave me his message; it weighed on him. I made some remark, changed the subject as quickly as possible. Then I dismissed it from my mind. But it would not go. The thought came back to me, nestling in the back of my mind, ambushing me at the strangest of moments.

And when I was sitting with Tom Baring, trying to come up with an insurance policy to safeguard my companies in case of accident, the thought came into my mind once more. It would be an appropriate denigration, I thought, to tame my unease by using it so cynically. A block on opening the books so that the great hole in the finances is not revealed to shareholders – not watertight, nothing can be, but enough to enable an ingenious solicitor to tie everything up in knots for as long as is necessary.

My beloved shareholders would be alarmed and panic if all was open. But then shareholders are sheep, which is why they invest in little bits of paper, rather than in something real. Why they whinge and moan if something goes wrong but would never test their own mettle against the markets. Why they congratulate themselves on their acumen if their bits of paper rise in value due to the labour of others. It is the great unspoken passion of all businessmen: they may battle against their workers, criticise bungling governments, try their hardest to bankrupt and ruin their competitors, but they all, invariably, have some respect – if only small – for each of these. But shareholders disgust them, and if they could find a way of ruining them all, they would do so with pleasure and satisfaction. Managers of public companies are like slaves, as much as the workers they in turn employ. They may serve their masters well, be obsequious and conscientious, but deep in their hearts there is loathing. I feel it in myself, and I see it in others. I can detect it in Theodore Xanthos, as resentment and greed take hold of him. He will test himself against me sooner or later. I have expected it for years.

At the moment, I have committed my entire fortune to one extraordinary operation, to build battleships which no one has ordered, for a government which has not enough courage to tell the truth, to safeguard a people which does not want to pay for them. I have calculated that they will change their minds and I am prepared to back my judgement. And if they don't, I can ruin them all. They are corrupt, greedy, little men, and their grasping nature gives me the power to bend them to my will, should they thwart me. It is exciting, what business should be when it rises above mere production and strives for grandeur. Naturally, the shareholders would take fright if they knew what I was doing – although I have long believed that people who are not prepared to risk their money should not be allowed to keep it.

So I would protect myself from my shareholders with my niggling concern. Turn it to my advantage. Show it who was the master. I visited Henderson, had a sentence put into my will: '£250,000 to my child, whom I have never acknowledged . . .' The sum had to be big, so that it would affect all the other legacies, make it impossible to wind up the estate. Unacknowledged because non-existent.

I did not even mention it to Elizabeth, whom I tell most things, because I never considered it would be necessary. Dying has never been something which has struck me as even a remote possibility. That is for others. Even visiting Cort at his last did not make me think that, sooner or later, I would become like him. All I felt when I looked at him on his bed, so thin and weak, hardly able even to speak, was a distant interest. Concern, a little sadness for him, but no identification with his plight. No; in due course the provision would become redundant, the will would be recast. That would be the end of the matter.

Writing down the words did not make me the master of the thought, though. Instead, I found I had given it life. It preyed on me even more. Old memories came back, jumbled and confused, some all too real, some no doubt imaginary. It distracted me, and I hate distractions. I have never sat and waited for a problem to resolve itself on its own. I issued my instructions, began enquiries, and started to jot down these notes, to order the past, sort out what was real and what was not.

The source of my concern lay in Venice – then and now, the city in Europe which has the least interest in anything industrial or commercial, despite the fact that its wealth was built on trade every bit as much as its buildings rest on wooden piles driven deep into the mud of the lagoons. Like a grand English family fallen on hard times, it has turned its back on commerce, preferring genteel decay to a vigorous restoration of its fortunes. At the time I visited it, I almost admired the old lady (if ever a city could be so described, Venice in the late 1860s merited such a title) for her refusal to compromise with the modern world.

I was there on a tour, my first and only holiday until Elizabeth began her futile attempts to convert me to the pleasures of idleness. I had had a certain good fortune a year or so before; my uncle had died, childless and unmarried and, rather than leave his small fortune to my father, whom he utterly despised, he left it to me. Certainly this showed a desire on his part to sow dissent in our family, as my father lived only on a small stipend, and my sisters he pretended did not exist. Not a penny to them, and the entire amount of £4,426 to me, with strict instructions that I was in no way to distribute, give or otherwise alienate any part of the said sum to any other member of my family. Nasty of him, and had my father been less gentle than he was, Uncle Tobias might have had his way and begun a family feud. Possession in this fashion gave me no pleasure, so I resolved to dispose of the money in a way which would have the old man rolling in his grave, gnashing his teeth in rage.

Why did he despise my father so much? That story, like that of so many family disputes, went back a long way. My father had married poorly. Scandalously poorly, in fact, for he had married a woman of no family or wealth. She was, even worse, the daughter of people who had arrived on these shores from somewhere in Spain only a few decades before, and had even been born in Argentina herself. She was (to my eyes) fabulously exotic and (to Uncle Tobias's) totally unacceptable. How he knew this I do not know, as they never met. He refused ever to come anywhere near her. A pity as (old rogue that he was) he could not have failed to be charmed by her.

But she was not English; of that there was no doubt, and to the end of her life spoke with a noticeably foreign accent – although of such a mixture it was impossible to discern what it was. This made her all the more charming to those who liked her, all the more repugnant to those who did not. I am quite well aware that the memory of her predisposed me to Elizabeth when we met.

She also communicated to me a tendency to be different. Because of her, I have never fitted in quite comfortably to this country of mine, much as I love it. I could, I suppose, have become totally conventional in response, but some of the fiery defiance of the mother transferred itself to the child, and I instead did the opposite. I have, in my life, followed my own course, wherever it might lead. And thus have been able to grasp opportunities others have not even noticed.

When I received Uncle Tobias's money, I realised that the usual options available to a young man of small fortune were not open to me. Wine, women and gambling would not do, because Uncle Tobias had dissipated a far greater fortune on such things in his youth, and would have thoroughly approved of my recklessness. It would have meant the triumph of his side of the family. Donating the money to a worthy cause was also out because, although he loathed my father's gentle brand of Christianity, he was a resolute high Tory himself and would have held that, at least, the money was helping to keep the lower classes in their place.

Then, one day in London, lunching with a friend, I hit on the perfect solution. If there was one thing Uncle Tobias hated more than the common people, it was the commercial ones. The traders, the industrialists, the factory owners, the bankers, the upstart new orders, the Jews, with their crassness and breathtaking wealth. Ruining the country with their gaudy vulgarity, their contempt for everything that was proper and decent and ordered. And now taking over the country in politics as in money. It was his defeat at the 1862 election by a Liberal factory owner (if only of gloves) that finished him off. England was ruined, all that was good in the country had been destroyed; there was no point in continuing.

Six months later he expired in the midst of sexual congress with the parlourmaid on a billiard table at the age of seventy-nine, at which point it was discovered that his fortune, net of debts, was very much less than anyone anticipated, and that I was the sole beneficiary.

After a certain amount of thought, I gave all the money to precisely one of these upstarts so they could continue the labour of reducing Uncle Tobias's England to rack and ruin. In brief, a highly speculative and utterly hopeless early venture in imperial mining that was being run by an associate of my mother's family who was not only Jewish but had a reputation for highly doubtful honesty. In this, popular report was only part accurate. Joseph Cardano (whom I knew ever better for a quarter of a century until his death in 1894) was indeed Jewish, but he was also perhaps the most honest person I have ever met. Had I known this about him at the time, of course, I would never have entrusted Uncle Tobias's money to him.

At this point I thought the matter was taken care of and resumed my life as it had been before. Then, at the beginning of 1867, I received a letter from Mr Cardano, informing me of certain important developments concerning my investment. It had, quite literally, struck gold, and Uncle Tobias's legacy was now worth many times what it had been. I was, in fact, tolerably wealthy and, as most of my money was earned (in a fashion) by myself, I felt quite free to give a sum equivalent to the legacy to my parents and to my sisters, thus causing, I hope, Uncle Tobias's mortal remains to give a few more spins in their coffin.

In the meantime I had turned my thoughts to dissipation, but found it did not suit me overmuch. My parents had brought me up too well and, besides, my head was ill-suited to it. I found the life of pleasure-seeking frivolity too dull to endure. I visited Joseph Cardano once more, this time to place my money in the most advantageous but safe fashion, and prepared to leave England for a tour of the Continent, in the hope that this would provide inspiration for some suitable way of filling in my days.

By that stage I had spent considerable time, with his assistance and often enough in his offices, studying money and its infinite variety. I had started with The Times, but found the daily reports of stock prices and interest rates of insufficient interest. So I became something of an apprentice to Mr Cardano, in whose company I discovered the great secret that multiplying money is remarkably easy, once you have some to begin with. The first five thousand is the most difficult, the second less so, and so on. As Uncle Tobias had got me over the difficult stage, there was little to stop me. The only thing I have never understood is how others are blind to this obvious fact. Although, I suppose, I must be grateful that they are.

On the whole, I stick firm to the conclusions I formed then. The Stock Exchange is merely an elaborate means for the wealthy to extract money from the less well off. It is not those who buy and sell shares who prosper; it is those who insert themselves in between the two sides who grow rich. Once I realised this, and (tutored by Mr Cardano) grasped the poetry of capital formation, of share issuance and flotation, of how to make capital be in two, three or four places simultaneously so that all profit accrues to you, and the losses to someone else – only then did my interest begin to be aroused. Even so, I found this all too abstract. It has never been my desire to amass money; I find possession a dull business. Rather, I had the desire to do something with it. In England, commerce is divided strictly into three parts: the world of money, the world of industry and the world of trade. While I was at Mr Cardano's side, I began to ponder how vast fortunes might be made by blending those three worlds into one.

I should also mention that I was married by that stage. My wife was good and kind. We did not love each other and we never had, but she did her duty, and I mine, and I held firmly to the belief that this was all that was required. I can say that nothing I did harmed her, and so, were I to be strictly rational, I would say that my behaviour was unobjectionable to all but the religious moralist. But I am aware that religious moralists can make a good case, and I accept that my behaviour fell short.

We married when I was twenty and she eighteen; she died six years later of pneumonia, shortly after my return from my travels. I cannot even remember why I chose her, except that I accepted that I should. My mother disapproved, although she did not say so. Perhaps she was offended that I married someone with a nature so very different from hers – quiet, docile, polite, dutiful, obedient. She would have approved very much more of Elizabeth, had they ever met. But then I thought Mary was everything a wife should be. So she was; she was not, alas, everything a woman could be. After only a short while I could find little to say to her, and found little in what she said interesting; but I did not expect anything else, and I do not believe I ever made her aware of this. I spent more time with my fellows, less at home. I lived two lives and treated my home as little more than a place to sleep. My wife accepted this and was not discontented.

She did not wish to accompany me when I decided to travel around Europe; the idea of leaving her home, or London, or England, filled her with dismay. She begged me not to go and, when she saw I was displeased, urged me to go on my own. And so, eventually I did, although my attempts to persuade her of the joys and pleasures we would have together were quite genuine. I do not believe she missed me in the slightest; her daily routine was slightly disrupted, to be sure, but my place in it was so small she easily adjusted. During the eight months I was away we corresponded once a fortnight, and neither of us said anything which was more than formal, considerate and polite. We got along perfectly well, and I considered myself happily married.

CHAPTER 2

I was not a very good tourist. Travelling alone I found wearisome, and when solitude is broken only by statue after statue, painting after painting, the joy of contemplating the great masterpieces of the human spirit begins to dissipate quite quickly. I was not one of those hermit-like creatures who needs no man besides Mr Baedeker for company. Although I do not need to be surrounded by others in order to feel alive, I do need some conversation and distraction. Otherwise all becomes too much like study; pleasure becomes duty and – dare I say it – one church begins very rapidly to look pretty much like another. In this way I passed down one side of Italy, and back up the other again, travelling by train when I could, and by coach and horse when I had to. I enjoyed it, although my memories have little to do with the great walled cities or the many acres of canvas I viewed, noted and sketched in those few months. I cannot remember a single painting, although I do remember trying hard to be deeply impressed by them at the time.

Venice was different, not least because on my first day there I made the acquaintance of William Cort, whose sad life has intersected with mine, on and off, ever since. I came in from Florence on one of those wretched trains which arrive at somewhere close to dawn. I had had little sleep during the night but it was too late to go to bed, especially as I was wide awake by the time my trunk had been recovered, loaded onto a boat and taken off to the Hotel Europa, where I had booked a room. I should say that at this stage the city had made next to no impression on me, not least because the weather was (unusually for September) grey and drab. It had canals. Well and good; I had heard about those, and Birmingham has canals as well. But the sense of wonder and amazement which one is meant to feel did not come to me. All I wanted was somewhere to eat a little breakfast.

Venice is – or was then – decidedly short on such places. It was not long since the Austrian occupation had ended, and the city had finally become a part of the new Italy. Hope for a new dawn was in the air, no doubt, but the effects of more than half a century of occupation and neglect were manifest. It was a dull place, which had still not thrown off the simmering resentments of the past. Many had befriended the Austrians, and were shunned for it; others had become too close to revolutionaries, and had suffered for it. Society had been disrupted, many of the best had left, others had become impoverished. Trade had dwindled, the legendary riches of the past were mere memory. This was the place I had dutifully come to visit, thinking more of the images of Canaletto than of the present reality.

I wandered off in quite the wrong direction and passed by those few eating places I saw, too befuddled to make up my mind and enter. So I walked on, turning this way and that, but not a shop or coffee house or restaurant or taverna was there now to be seen. Few people, either. It seemed to be a ghost town.

Eventually I rounded a corner and came across a perplexing sight in a small but pretty enough square. By an old wooden door some twenty feet high, in an ancient, ivy-covered wall, I saw a young man, well dressed in a dark suit and with a hat in his hand. He was rhythmically and with some force bashing his head on the door, occasionally producing an almost musical staccato sound by slapping his hand on it as well. At the same time I heard an incantation that came from his lips:

'Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit.'

An Englishman.

I stopped and looked at him from a distance, trying to figure out a reasonable explanation for his behaviour, rejecting the idea of an escaped lunatic as being both too easy and insufficiently interesting.

After a while, and when he reached some sort of internal resolution, simply resting his head on the door and sighing deeply, all passion spent, I ventured to speak.

'Are you all right? Can I be of any assistance?'

He looked round at me, his head still resting on the wood of the door.

'Are you a plumber?' he asked.

'No.'

'A bricklayer?'

'Alas.'

'Do you have any knowledge at all of carpentry, or stone masonry?'

'All subjects that have passed me by. To think that I wasted my time at school on Virgil, when I could have been preparing myself for a life of gainful labour.'

'You're useless to me, then.' He sighed once more, turned round, then slid down the door to sit disconsolately on the ground. The he glanced up.

'The builders haven't shown up,' he said. 'Again. We're two months behind schedule, autumn's come on and the roof's come off. They're impossible. A nightmare. Time is a concept they simply do not understand.'

'This is your house?'

'Palazzo. And no, it's not. I'm an architect. Of sorts. I'm supervising its restoration. I had a choice. This or building a prison in Sunderland. I thought this would be more fun. Wrong, wrong and wrong again. Have you ever felt suicidal?'

A chatty fellow, but I did wish he wasn't sitting on the ground like that. I didn't feel like joining him in the dirt, and it was awkward talking down onto the top of his head. He had fair, sandy hair which already showed signs of thinning on top. A small man, slightly built, but neat of movement and quite engaging in his manner, with a broad mouth and easy, open smile.

'How long have you been waiting?'

'About an hour. Don't know why I bother. They're not going to show up today. I might as well go home.'

'If you could tell me of somewhere to eat, I would be delighted to offer you breakfast, if that would help to ease the pain.'

He jumped up instantly and held out his hand. 'My dear fellow, I take it all back about your being useless. Come along. William Cort by the way, that's my name. Call me William. Call me Cort. Call me whatever you want.'

And he shot off, left down a dark alley, right at the end, across a small square, moving as fast as a ferret. I had barely time to introduce myself before he started talking again. 'Trouble is, I'm stuck here until the place is finished, and at the rate we're going, I might well die of old age before I see England again. I don't reckon they had any idea what sort of condition the place was in when they bought it.'

'They?' I asked, panting a little in my effort to keep up.

'The Albemarles. You know? Albemarle and Crombie?'

I nodded. Had he asked I could have told him the magnitude of the bank's capital, the names and connections of all the directors. It was not a serious challenger to houses like Rothschild or Barings, but it had a reputation as a good solid family bank of the old-fashioned variety. Entirely wrongly, as it turned out; it stopped in '82, and the family was ruined.

'Bought this place without even looking at it and sent me off to do what was necessary. Lord only knows what they want it for, but the client is always right. My uncle wants to build their country house, y'see, so he couldn't displease them and say it wasn't a job for us. Besides, it was supposedly good for me. My first solo job. It's enough to make me want to go into the Church.'

'I don't recommend it,' I replied. 'I think you need more patience than you have shown so far.'

'Probably. Doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to die here. I know it.'

'So you are an incurable optimist as well as an architect. I suppose the two go together.'

He didn't answer, but turned into a dank and unwelcoming doorway which I would never have guessed was some sort of public eating place. Inside there were just two tables, one bench to sit on, and no people at all.

'Elegant,' I commented.

He smiled. 'And by far the best eating place around this quarter,' he said. 'I take it you've not been here long?'

'A few hours.'

'Well, then, you will soon discover that the magnificence of the city conceals the utter degradation of the inhabitants. There are few restaurants, and those are poor and hideously expensive. The wine generally tastes like vinegar, the people are lazy and the accommodation horribly overpriced and uncomfortable. I long for a good piece of roast beef sometimes.'

'Venice seems to have won a place in your heart, then.'

He laughed. 'It has. No, I mean it. I can complain about it for hours, list all its faults in relentless detail, grumble incessantly about every facet of life here. But, as you notice, I have come to love the place.'

'Why?'

'Ah, it is magic.' His eyes lit up with something of a twinkle. 'That's all I can say. I think it is probably something to do with the light. Which you have not yet witnessed, so there is no point in trying to persuade you. In a short while – tomorrow maybe, when the weather picks up, maybe this evening – you will see.'

'Maybe so. But in the meantime, I'd like some breakfast.'

'Ah, yes. I'll see what I can do.' And he disappeared into a back room, from which there came, after a while, the sound of banging pots and shouting.

'All sorted,' he said cheerfully when he returned. 'But they were quite reluctant to serve us. You have to plead with them. Luckily, I come here quite often, and so do the builders. When they show up.'

The thought put him into a mood of melancholy again.

'Do they often do this to you?' I asked.

'Oh, goodness, yes. I will have a meeting with the foreman one evening, he will look me in the eye and swear blind they will all be there at eight sharp the next morning. We will shake hands and that will be the last I see of any of them for a week. And when I complain the reaction is generally astonishment that I should expect anyone to show up on St Sylvia's day, or the morning of a regatta, or something like that. You get used to it after a while.'

'You don't seem very used to it this morning.'

'No. Today is special, not least because there is no roof on the place, and I have an engineer coming to advise on strengthening the walls. That sort of thing isn't an area I know much about, I'm afraid. I can design buildings, but what exactly keeps them up is quite beyond me.'

The coffee and bread arrived, both equally grey and unappetising. I looked at them doubtfully. 'Not one of the great culinary capitals, Venice,' Mr Cort commented, dipping bread in cup with enthusiasm. 'You can get decent food, but you have to look hard and pay high. They probably have fresh bread out there somewhere, but they don't think highly enough of me yet to let me have any. They keep it for their own.'

He swallowed a lump of bread, then waved his hand. 'Enough. What are you doing here? Passing through? Staying a while?'

'I am without plans,' I said airily. 'I go hither and thither as I wish.'

'Lucky man.'

'For a while, anyway. I was thinking of staying here for a few weeks, at least. But I cannot say you are the best salesman for the city. Ten minutes of you and any reasonable man would pack his bags and head for the railway station.'

He laughed. 'You will find we like to keep the place to ourselves.'

'We?'

'The ragbag of drifters, idlers and adventurers who wash up in this place. There are few foreigners in Venice, you will notice. The railway and the end of the occupation is beginning to change that, but as there are few places for visitors to stay when they get here, there is a limit to how many people will ever come.'

An interesting comment, which I placed in the back of my mind for the future. As I wandered the streets over the next few weeks, I realised that Cort was right. There was an immense market for decent accommodation of the sort that would shield the traveller from the beastliness of Venetian life. The French, I knew, were well ahead in this area, constructing gigantic palaces in the centre of cities which offered every luxury to travellers prepared to pay well to avoid any real contact with the place they were visiting. Fed by the railways, organised by Thomas Cook, any hotel placed at the end of a line in an appealing destination could hardly fail to prosper.

Even at that stage, I turned down in my mind the idea of involving myself with Mr Cort in any commercial way. I learned early that liking someone, trusting someone and employing someone are three very different things. Mr Cort was going to stay firmly in the first category. I have always had the tendency to pick people up from all manner of places; my fortune and my judgement are one and the same. Being agreeable and being of use are not necessarily incompatible, but they are not identical either.

Cort was an amiable man, intelligent and amusing. Honest and decent, as well. But to give him any position of authority would have been foolish. He was too prone to despair, too easily discouraged. He could not even control a dozen or so recalcitrant workmen. He had some desire to be successful, but it did not burn so strongly in him that he was prepared to overcome his character to achieve it. He desired peace more; alas, he achieved little of either.

Nonetheless, we passed a pleasant half hour together, and I found his company charming. He was a good raconteur, and a mine of information about the city, so much so that I invited him to dinner that evening, an offer he accepted until he remembered that it was Wednesday.

'Wednesday?'

'Dottore Marangoni's at home, in the café.'

'At home in a café?'

He laughed. 'Venetians do not often entertain in their home. In six months I have scarcely passed the front door of a Venetian's abode. When they do entertain, most do so in public. Tonight is Marangoni's entertainment. Why not come? I will happily introduce you to my limited acquaintance, such as it is.'

I accepted, and Cort looked guiltily at his watch. 'Goodness, I shall be late,' he said, jumping up from his seat. 'Macintyre will be furious. Come and meet him. I expect you will hate each other on sight.'

He shouted a farewell through the door, jammed his hat on his head and headed off. I followed, saying, 'Why should I not like him? Or he me? I consider myself quite amiable normally.'

'You are a human being,' Cort replied. 'And thus to be detested. If you were made of steel, were you something that could be honed to perfection on a mechanical lathe, were your movements capable of accurate measurement to one-thousandth of an inch, then Macintyre might approve of you. Otherwise, I'm afraid not. He hates all of humanity, except for his daughter, whom he built himself out of gun metal and ball-bearings.'

'Yet he is assisting you?'

'Simply because there is a problem to be solved. He offered; I would never have asked even though he is the only person I know of here who is qualified to assist. Oh Lord. He's there already.'

We had turned the corner into the little street which contained the palazzo's entrance, and outside the heavy wooden doors which some forty-five minutes ago had been battered by Cort's frustrated head stood a man with a ferocious scowl on his red face.

Certainly friendly was not a word that sprang to mind. He had immensely broad shoulders, so wide that he barely fitted into his suit; he stood with legs apart, heavily-booted feet planted like trees in the mud. Hands thrust deeply into his pockets. He stamped a foot in frustration, turned and battered on the door with his fist before he saw us. 'Cort! Open this door! D'ye think I've no better things to do today?'

Cort sighed nervously as we approached. 'Good of you to show up,' Macintyre continued acidly. 'So kind of you to plan an amusement for me this morning. To fill my idle hours.'

'Sorry, sorry,' Cort muttered. 'The workers didn't show up again, you see.'

'And that has something to do with me?'

'No. Sorry. May I introduce Mr Stone? I have newly made his acquaintance.'

I held out a hand. Macintyre ignored it, gave me a cursory nod and renewed his assault on poor Cort, who stood there wanly.

'I'm conducting an important test this morning. And I postponed it, just to assist you. I would have thought the very least you could do would be . . .'

'Stop complaining,' I interjected suddenly, 'or the rest of your morning will be lost as well.'

Very rude of me, but not half as offensive as Macintyre was being. I calculated that he simply liked bullying people when he was in a foul mood, and that matching him, rude for rude, was the best way of dealing with the situation. Poor Cort was too cowed to do much to protect himself, and that was his choice, but I did not see why I had to endure it as well.

Macintyre's flow of eloquence dried up immediately. His mouth snapped shut and he turned his gaze – remarkably blue eyes, I noted, clear and large – on me. There was a heavy pause, and then he let out a loud 'Pfah!' and thrust his hands back into his pockets again. 'Very well,' he grumbled. 'Let us get on.'

Everything about him suggested a man of strength and character. Certainly he was uncouth, but England owns an excessive supply of the well bred and polite. Macintyre was a man to get things done, and they are much harder to find. He was not one to waste time on flattery, or to cover over awkward situations with a finely turned phrase. A man to avoid at a soirée, but invaluable in a battle – or a factory.

Cort, meanwhile, had fished out a huge key from his pocket and had unlocked the great and ancient door, pushing it open by leaning his whole frame against it. It gave way with a screech that sounded like the dead in torment, and Macintyre and I followed him in.

As in many Venetian palazzi (so I discovered), the entrance way gave onto a small courtyard; this was where the domestic business of the place had been conducted. On the other façade, giving directly onto the Rio di Cannaregio, was all the architectural finery to impress the passer-by. What that looked like I did not as yet know. But the sight from the courtyard was terrifying. I could just see that it was a building, of a sort, although it looked as though it had been hit by several cannon shells. Rubble lay all around, piles of brick and stone, lumps of wood. A rickety frame of wood had been erected around the structure, presumably to allow the workmen access, but it hardly looked capable of supporting the weight of more than one or two at a time. Half a dozen cats eyed us suspiciously from atop a pile of wood; that was the only sign of life.

Cort surveyed the mess sadly, I looked astonished, Macintyre paid it no attention whatsoever. He marched straight over to the scaffolding, scooping up a ladder as he went, and began climbing. Cort reluctantly followed, and I watched from the ground.

Macintyre was remarkably agile and fearless, some sixty or seventy feet in the air, skipping over crumbling masonry, occasionally bending down or kicking a lump of brickwork with his boot, sending fragments cascading down to the ground. I was about to go up and join them when he returned back to earth, looking only a little less grumpy than when he started. Cort followed a few moments later, somewhat more gingerly.

'Well?' asked Cort.

'Knock it down.'

'What?'

'The whole thing. Flatten it. Start again. Never seen such rubbish in my life. I'm surprised it's still standing.'

Cort looked alarmed. 'I'm commissioned to restore it, not demolish it,' he said. 'The owners bought a sixteenth-century palazzo, and that is what they want when I am finished.'

'They're idiots, then.'

'Maybe so. But the customer is always right.'

Macintyre snorted. 'The customer is never right. Ignore them, give them what they need, not what they think they want.'

'Nobody needs a palazzo in Venice,' Cort said a little pettishly, 'and when I am well-enough established, I might take your advice. For the moment, I have one client only and cannot afford to lose him by demolishing his house.'

'Wait then. And it will fall down anyway. Or if you prefer I could come back this evening.' He paused and surveyed the scene carefully. 'One small charge, in that corner where the two central load-bearing walls meet,' he pointed 'and there would be nothing left in the morning at all. Then you could show what sort of architect you really are.'

Cort blanched at the idea, then looked at him carefully. 'I never realised you had a sense of humour.'

'I don't. It's the most sensible course of action,' Macintyre said gruffly, as though offended at the very idea of whimsy. 'But if you are resolved to waste your clients' money for them . . .'

'I am quite determined.'

'Then what you need is a supporting framework of girders. Three by six should do it. Inches, I mean. Tapering to two and a half by four on the upper floors. Perhaps less; I'll have to do the calculations. Extending up the back and side walls to form a framework inside the structure. That will take the weight of the roof, not the walls, which are too weak to support it. You'll have to build down to dissipate the weight under the level of the foundations . . .'

He paused and looked thoughtful. 'I suppose it does have foundations?'

Cort shook his head. 'Doubt it,' he replied. 'For the most part these buildings rest on wooden piles and mud. That's why the walls are so thin. If they were too heavy they'd sink.'

Macintyre pursed his lips and rocked forwards and backwards in thought. He was enjoying himself, I observed. 'In that case, you'll need to sink some, but at an angle to the vertical, to take the weight of the girders and roof and spread it outwards. Otherwise you'll just push the walls out instead. What you need, y'see, is an internal frame, so that the walls can be little more than a curtain covering the real business.'

'Will it be strong enough?'

'Of course it will be strong enough. I could balance a battleship on top of a properly strutted framework.'

'That won't be necessary.'

Macintyre grunted once more and drifted off into his own train of thought, muttering periodically as he whipped a pad of paper from his pocket and began jotting down hieroglyphics.

'Look,' he said eventually, thrusting the notes under Cort's nose. 'What do you think?'

The architect studied it carefully, desperate to understand what the older man was proposing. Eventually his face cleared and he smiled. 'That's very clever,' he said appreciatively. 'You want me to build another building inside the existing one.'

'Precisely. Lightweight, efficient and fifty times as strong. You won't knock down the old one, but you do get to build a new one. Best of both worlds.'

'Expensive?'

'Iron's not expensive, even here. Sottini's in Mestre will supply it. Putting it up won't be cheap. And you won't be able to rely on the halfwits you employ at the moment. Best get rid of them and find a new team. Again, I can make suggestions, if you wish . . .'

Cort's look of gratitude was overwhelming. Macintyre pretended not to notice. 'Thought I'd suggest it. That's the trouble with architects. Know everything about the right sort of Gothic window, nothing about load-bearing walls. Pathetic. Good day to you.'

And he marched off, not responding to our farewells.

'Goodness,' I said. 'Something of a force of nature there.'

Cort wasn't listening. He was glancing up at the crumbling walls, and back down to the notes Macintyre had thrust into his hand before leaving. Back and forth went his eyes, which narrowed as he calculated.

'This is clever,' he said. 'Really clever. It'll be cheaper, stronger and quicker. In principle. Oh dear.'

'What?'

'I wish I could claim it was my own idea. That would really make my uncle take notice of me.'

I noted the remark, the wistfulness of it. 'In my experience,' I commented, 'it is finding the best advice and using it which counts. Not coming up with the ideas yourself.'

'Not in architecture,' he replied. 'Or with my uncle.' He sighed. 'I just hope Macintyre can keep his mind on it. Once he's solved a problem in his head he tends to lose interest. Besides, he does tend to drink a little.'

He was rapidly adopting the air of someone who wanted to be left alone, although what he had to do was unclear. Not wanting to impose myself any further, I thanked him for his company, and the unusual introduction to Venice he had afforded. After requesting directions I left him standing in the rubble and made my way back to my hotel.

CHAPTER 3

I slept for many hours, a dreamless sleep, although it was far from my habit to be so idle during the day. I put my head on my pillow at around ten in the morning and did not awake until early evening, which annoyed me greatly. I had missed an entire day, and now faced a bad night's sleep into the bargain.

I forgot completely Cort's invitation to join him and his friends for dinner, which didn't matter too much. I had neglected to discover where the event was to take place and, in any case, had no desire that evening for company. Rather, I wanted to view the place I had travelled so far to visit, as so far I had seen little except the railway station, a few streets and a pile of rubble pretending to be a house.

So I walked. And was captivated, as never before or since in my life. I am not, by nature, a romantic person – considering my small reputation in the world it is surprising I even bother to say this. I do not skip a heartbeat over a sunset, however striking it may be; rather I see the light of a star refracting in particular ways through the atmosphere and giving off predictable, if pleasing, light effects. Cities have even less impact. They are machines for generating money; that is their entire function. Created for the exchange of goods and labour, they either work or do not work well. London was, and still is, the most perfect city the world has ever seen, efficient and directed to this one aim, not diverting unnecessary energy or resources into public finery as Paris does. Even London, though, may soon surrender its crown to one even more single-minded and ruthless in its pursuit of wealth, if my impressions of New York are accurate.

Venice, in contrast, is without purpose. There is no exchange of goods there, no generation of capital. What remains is a shell of a past manufactory which has long since become obsolete. It too was created by trade; it is nothing more than capital petrified. But the capital had fled, leaving only a corpse whose soul has departed. It should have been abandoned, left to rot into picturesque ruin, as the Venetians themselves abandoned Torcello, cathedral and all, once they had no further use for it.

So I believe, and I have argued my case with many a sentimentalist who waxes eloquent about the glories of the past, and how human life has degenerated under the impact of the modern age. Nonsense. We are living at the highest point human civilisation has ever reached, and it is people like me who are responsible for it.

Yet I still have my Venice problem. Everything I say about it is true, and yet that first evening I walked without a break for food or drink or rest for near seven hours, forgetting my map, not caring where I was or what I was looking at. I was hypnotised, overwhelmed. Nor did I understand why. It was not what most people find attractive, the vistas and palaces, churches and works of art. These I appreciate well enough, but not to the point of passion. I would talk of the spirit of the place, although to do so would risk seeming foolish and, as I have indicated, the most obvious examples of its spirit were degenerate and corrupt. Nor was it the light, as for much of the time I marched in darkness, nor the sound, as it is the quietest habitation I have ever visited. The average English village of a few hundred people is a noisier place. I cannot offer a convincing explanation of my own, although when I told Elizabeth of my reaction she suggested that it was because I did not wish to resist its charms; that, having been disappointed by Florence and Naples and all the other places I visited, I wished to be seduced, that I fell not for what it was but what I needed it to be, at that particular moment. And that having generated such feelings in me, it became associated with that feeling for ever after. I had tried to be dissipated and failed, tried to be an aesthete and failed, and now I was attempting no project at all, and succeeding beyond my expectations. It is as good an explanation as any other, although had I given her a more detailed account, she might have come up with a different interpretation.

I ended back near the Campo San Stin, which contained Cort's palazzo, and there had a most unusual experience. I had what I took to be an hallucination, brought on by tiredness and irregular food. I am minded to mention it – at some risk of arousing amusement in any who might read this – because it has a bearing on the rest of my stay in the city.

I hope it is clear already that I am not of an hysterical disposition; I am not susceptible to delusions, and have never had any time for the mystical or supernatural. Even in this particular case, I was sure, both before and after, that I was witnessing only a phantasm. Nonetheless I could not fault it; could not discover any proof that it was merely an illusion playing out before me.

In brief, it was this: at (I believe) somewhere after midnight, I was on a bridge over what I later discovered to be the rio di Cannaregio. It was handsome enough; the canal curving away to my left, the looming shapes of the buildings rising up and reflected on the still surface of the water. It was very dark, as there was no lighting at all, not even from the windows of the houses which, for the most part, were shuttered. I stopped to admire the scene, and to consider, yet again, whether I was going in the right direction to get back to my hotel – which, in fact, I was not. As I wondered I stared idly back towards the Grand Canal, leaning on the iron balustrade.

Then I heard a noise, a sound of laughter, and sensed at the same time an immensely powerful feeling of not being alone. I turned around swiftly (Venice is an exceptionally safe city, but I did not know that at the time) and saw a most peculiar sight. There was a torch burning in a socket on the wall of a palazzo some thirty yards away from me, although I swear it had not been there before. And underneath, there was a small boat, which contained one man standing amidships, and singing. I could not see clearly in the flickering light, but he seemed short, wiry and almost ethereal, as though you could see the stucco of the building through his dress coat and breeches. His song was not one I had ever heard before, but it sounded, at one and the same time, like a lullaby, a lament and a love song, delivered in a soft but slightly reedy voice. Extraordinarily beautiful and affecting, although circumstance perhaps made it seem more so than it was.

I did not know to whom he was singing; one window, I now noticed, was unshuttered and slightly open, but there was no light within, and no figure to be discerned. The only human being in sight was this man, who was dressed in a manner more suited to the eighteenth century than to the present age. I saw this without any sense of it being unusual or strange. All I knew was that I desperately wanted to know what the song was, who was the singer, and whether the woman being so serenaded – surely that was what was taking place – was receptive to his song. Who was she? Was she young and beautiful? She must be, to produce such a wistful sadness in the man's voice.

I moved to get a better view, making enough noise to carry over the water. The man stopped singing – not abruptly, but rather as though he had finished his tune – and turned to look at me, making the slightest of bows in my direction. My first impression of age was correct; he had no beauty. His features were not horrible, but they were terribly old. He seemed as old as the city itself.

I watched, immobile, as he settled down in the boat, picked up the oars and began to row away from me, and then the spell broke. I walked, then ran after him, over the bridge, and left, up an alleyway which ran parallel to the canal, hoping to overtake him – he was not rowing very fast – and get a better look. After a hundred feet or so, another turn took me down to a small jetty, and I ran there, and began looking up and down. There was nothing. The boat had vanished. And as I stood there, wondering where he had gone, I heard faint laughter echoing over the water.

I was shaken by this, by my own reaction as much as anything, and turned round to retrace my steps. When I got back to the bridge, the windows of the palace were now firmly shuttered, and looked as though they had not been opened for years.

There was nothing else to do but to leave, and make my way back to my hotel, which I reached (after many false turns) about an hour later. I slept, finally, at about four in the morning, and slumbered until ten. But it was not an easy sleep. The atmosphere of that place had suffused my mind, and like some childish and irritating tune that lodges itself and will not be shaken out, the images of those few moments repeated themselves in my head all night.

CHAPTER 4

Why do I write this? I have spent many an hour, many an evening, at these notes now. It has no real purpose, and I am not used to doing anything without a purpose. Only Elizabeth can manage to make me waste time, although with her nothing is a waste. It is worth any sort of nonsense or frivolity to make her happy, see her smile, to have her turn and say – thank you for putting up with that. For her I even learned to dance, although never well; but I am content to behave like an elephant to see her graceful, to feel her body move as I hold her in my arms. I am not even aware of others. I can honestly say that not once have I thought of how others might admire her and envy me, although surely they do.

But my happiness with her has been different from the sort I found in Venice. We have never experienced together the sort of irresponsible carelessness that I tasted that one time. Inevitably, I am sure; when I met her I was too old to make a fool of myself in the way that only the young can manage, and her life had been too hard, too much of a struggle, ever to be carefree. No; we have made something very different; a world that is safe and warm. We have done grand things, exciting things, pleasurable things together, but never foolish ones. Such things are not truly in my nature, and she knows too well the dangers of them.

Although perhaps a side of her misses the excitement, the need to live on her wits. She gave something up when she married me, in a way that I did not. I still have the pleasure of taking risks; she put aside a part of her character and it may have been a greater loss than either I, or she, realised. Perhaps that is why she is now disobeying me. I refused absolutely her suggestion that she help me track down where this money was going to, identify the people being paid through these strange disbursements in Newcastle. She pointed out that I could hardly use anyone from inside the company itself. I said no. Absurd idea; and so it was, for the wife of a man like myself. But not for the woman she had been, whom I thought was long since dead. She went ahead anyway, took herself off to Germany and returned to live off her wits, disguising herself as someone else, returning to a way of life I thought was gone for ever.

I was so angry, so furious when she told me, that I completely lost control of myself. And, as often happened when her iron will collided with my equally strong determination, we fought. Why should she not help me? She was my wife. Did I really know anyone who could do it better? Could I think of any better way?

All of which was irrelevant. What troubled me most was the light in her eyes as she confronted me; the light of excitement, of adventure. That old side of her, the one I had always feared, the one which could not possibly be satisfied with the company of an old man. She has never given me the slightest cause to distrust her. She has had the occasional lover, I have no doubt. But she has never hurt me. They were nothing more than passing amusements, moments of distraction. This was different; it appealed to her sense of danger and her need for real excitement. She said it was for me, but it was for herself as much.

Giving way was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, and one of the best. I quelled my jealousy, subdued my fears, and let her do as she wished. I let her help me, although our life together has been built on my helping her. But it was hard; I knew, could distantly feel, the pleasure she had in acting thus because I also had once been free to do anything I wanted, without having to look forward more than a day or backwards more than an hour. And that is why I write about Venice, because by seeing how much I remember those days, I can judge better how powerfully her own past draws her now.

I was sombre and ill-humoured when I finally descended for breakfast after my bizarre night with my apparition, only to discover a great reluctance on the part of the hotel to supply me with anything to eat at all. Eventually they condescended to provide some watery coffee and stale bread, the sight of which reminded me that I had eaten nothing of substance for nearly a day and a half. That, in itself, went a long way towards explaining my bad mood, headache and also the delusional nonsense of a few hours previously. I needed a purpose and had none, so decided I might as well take care of business, registering myself with the British Consul and picking up any mail that he might be holding for me.

That at least was easy enough. Francis Longman lived in a small apartment with an office attached a few streets away from San Marco, and welcomed me in with enthusiasm. He was a short, fat man, with a squeaky voice which gave him an air of perpetual excitement. His chins wobbled dramatically every time he became agitated and, as I learned over the coming weeks, he was agitated quite frequently and on the least pretext. His abode did not embody the gravity I expected of one of Her Majesty's diplomatic representatives, being dark and disordered and covered in books and papers. His situation seemed somewhat sad and, while I was gratified to be received with such warmth, I did find it somewhat peculiar.

'My dear sir!' he exclaimed. 'Come in, come in!'

I thought initially that he must be mistaking me for someone else, but no: Longman was merely bored to tears, and had little enough to do. As he told me at some length, once I had signed the book to confirm my presence and cast myself officially under his, and the Government of Her Britannic Majesty's, care while in the city.

'Nothing to do here, you see,' he explained once I had been settled down – quite against my will – into an elaborately carved chair in his office. 'It's virtually the life of a recluse.'

I enquired about his duties. 'None, to speak of,' he said. 'And a salary commensurate with the responsibility. I keep a fatherly eye on British subjects here and once a quarter compile a report on economic activity for the Board of Trade. But there are few enough visitors and little enough trade.'

'A useful task,' I said drily.

'Indeed. Venice is not as interesting as it was.'

'I've noticed. How many people are there here? British people, that is?'

'Never more than a hundred. At the moment,' he paused to glance at his register, 'I have sixty-three on the books. Most of those are merely passing through; only about twenty have been here more than a couple of months. And that's including women and children.'

'I met a Mr William Cort yesterday,' I ventured. 'And a Mr Macintyre, whom I found quite interesting.'

Longman chuckled. 'Ah, yes. Macintyre is one of our more difficult residents. Northern bluffness, you know. He can be quite overbearing on occasion. Cort, on the other hand, is a very gentle fellow. You must meet his wife; she is in the kitchen talking with Mrs Longman at the moment. I will introduce you before you leave.'

I didn't really want to meet her, but nodded politely. 'And Cort?'

'Mr Cort, yes. He's been here about four months now. From the way he talks, he'll be around for another decade at least. He comes from a good family in Suffolk, I believe, although both his parents died when he was young, and he was brought up by his uncle. Spellman, the architect, you know?'

I shook my head. I did not know.

'He is being trained to take over his uncle's practice, as there are no direct heirs. But I fear it is not a good idea.'

I prompted, as required.

'No business sense at all. It may be his designs are all very well, but the workmen here run rings round him. I found him crying – can you believe it? – crying, a week or so back. They bully him terribly, and he does not possess the strength of character to impose himself. Not entirely his fault, of course. He is much too young to take on such a task. But it's ruining him, poor boy. His wife even asked Marangoni about him, she was so worried.'

'Marangoni? Is he the physician of choice among exiles?'

'Not precisely, but he is willing to lend such expertise as he has and he speaks good English. Delightful man. Delightful. You must meet him. About the only Italian whose society is tolerable. He is an alienist, sent by the Government to reorganise the asylum. He is from Milan and so is in exile, like all of us. Anyway, Mrs Cort asked him about her husband's state of mind.'

'And?'

Longman sighed. 'Alas, no one could understand the answer. These doctors do talk in a peculiar fashion. Nonetheless, it accomplished one purpose. Marangoni is alerted, and Cort is being watched, to make sure no harm comes to him.'

'I'm surprised there are so few people in Venice. English people, I mean.'

Longman shrugged. 'Not so surprising, really. It is ferociously expensive, as you will soon enough discover. And terribly unhealthy. The miasmas arising from the canals are poisonous, and sap the vitality. Few people wish to stay for long. The sensible go to Turin.'

'And you have been here . . . ?'

'Far too long.' He smiled sadly. 'I don't suppose I shall ever leave now.'

There was a note in his voice of disappointment, of hopes frustrated, of someone who had expected more from life.

'Now, tell me about yourself, sir.' Here he hesitated. 'You are English, I take it?'

'You doubt it?'

'No, no. Not at all. But every now and then some fraud and charlatan does try to hurl himself on our good offices, you know.'

I do not, I suppose, look like an Englishman. I inherited far more of my mother's looks than my father's and that side of my ancestry is very much more obvious. It is another of the things that have always set me aside from my countrymen; the difference is always noticed, even if unconsciously. Others have always been slightly suspicious of me.

I had already sized up Mr Longman as an incorrigible gossip, and had the distinct feeling that everything I told him would not only be noted, but also relayed to any interested party in due course. Such people can oil the wheels of society, but too great an interest in the doings of others, I find, is often accompanied by a degree of malice which is dangerous. So I replied in as brief a fashion as was commensurate with good manners.

'Then you are rich! Must be!' he cried.

'Far from it.'

'That depends on your point of reference. It may be that three hundred yards from Threadneedle Street you are a pauper among your fellows. But here you will be rich. Few people here have any money. Especially among the Venetians; it is why society is so drab. But one can live a rich life with little money, do you not agree?'

'Of course,' I replied.

'You should be careful, though. It is dangerous to have a reputation for wealth. You will be amazed by how many people wish to borrow money from you, or forget their wallets when you dine with them.'

'Then it would be better if they do not develop a false impression,' I replied, with a slight tone of warning in my voice. I could not tell if he took the hint.

I prepared to leave, and Longman bustled around me to show me to the door. 'Mrs Cort!' he called. 'You must meet another resident before he goes. He has already met your husband and has only been here a few hours.'

I turned to present myself to the woman, and got the shock of my life when the door to the little salon opened. Louise Cort was beautiful. In her early thirties, a few years older than I was, with beautiful skin and eyes, and a delightful, rounded figure. About as different from her husband as could be imagined. She looked directly at me, and I felt a soft stirring as my eyes met hers. She never looked at Longman, barely acknowledged his existence as she shook my hand.

I bowed to her, and she nodded. I expressed my pleasure in meeting her, and she did not reply. I said I hoped to meet her again.

'And my husband,' she said with the faintest tone of mockery in her voice.

'Naturally,' I said.

CHAPTER 5

I had a dream that night, which I remembered. This was so strange that it unsettled me for days. Not that I had a dream, but that I should remember it, that it should come back to me. Indeed, it has come back to me ever since. Sometimes, for no reason that I can think of, this insubstantial fragment of memory will well up in my mind. Not very often, only perhaps once every couple of years, although more often of late. It is so very perplexing; great events that I have witnessed, taken part in – momentous events, I should say – I can scarcely recall at all. But a fevered imagining of no reality and less importance still stays with me, the images as fresh as if they were brand new.

I was standing by an open window and could feel the wind blowing over my skin. It was dark outside, and I felt the terror of indecision. I did not know what to do. About what, I do not know; that was part of the dream. The indecision was independent of all cause. Then I heard a footfall behind me, and a soft voice. 'I told you,' it said. Then I felt the pressure of a hand on my back, pushing.

And that was the dream. Nothing more. What was it about? I do not know. Why was it so vivid it stuck in my mind? There is no answer to that, either. And nothing to be done about it; dreams have no reason or explanation or meaning. The strange thing is that from then on I began to have a vague fear of heights – nothing too extreme, I did not become one of those poor souls who feel faint if they are more than a few feet off the ground, or who clutch at the railings halfway up the Eiffel Tower and become dizzy. No; I merely developed a tendency to feel uncomfortable, wary, whenever I was, say, on a balcony, or by an open window. It was a very annoying weakness which I tried not to indulge; the more so because it was so obviously foolish. But I could never shake it off and ended up by simply ensuring I was never in a position to make it appear.

The incident was all of a piece with how my life developed over the next few weeks; I became increasingly introspective. My life slowed down markedly; the urge to move on, which had afflicted me wherever I had been so far, quite left me. I still do not know why; I think it was the hypnotic effect of the sun on the water, such a constant feature of life in Venice, that slowly befuddled my mind and sapped my will. It is hard to think of normal life when it is so easy to watch the twinkling reflections of sunlight instead. Remarkably easy to spend a few seconds, then minutes, then even longer, studying without thought or conscious awareness the effect of light and shade on a wall of peeling stucco, or listen to the mixtures of sounds – people, waves, birds – that make Venice the strangest city in the world. A week went past, then two, then more, and I would only occasionally stir myself to do anything.

In retrospect, it is all very clear; I was uncertain of myself. I wished to do something grand in my life and had prepared myself well for it. But the days of apprenticeship under Cardano were at an end. He had no more to teach me, and I was now faced with a choice. I could, very easily, make more than enough money to keep me and mine in perfect comfort. It is, as I have said, not hard. But what was the point of that? Such a way of life did no more than fill out the space between cradle and grave. Agreeable and with its own little satisfactions, no doubt, but ultimately purposeless. I did not want power or wealth for themselves, and I did not in the slightest desire fame. But I wanted, on my death, to be able to expire feeling that my existence had made the world a different place. Preferably a better one, but even that, at the time, was not uppermost in my mind; I have never had any great desire to abolish poverty or save fallen women. I am, and always have been, deeply suspicious of those who do wish to do these things. They normally cause more harm than good and, in my experience, their desire for power, to control others, is very much greater than that of any businessman.

When I began to weary of my own company, I decided to take up Longman's invitation, made as I was leaving, to join him at dinner. I did not quite grasp what sort of an occasion this would be, but in effect Longman had been offering to induct me into his particular group of English exiles, for the men all ate together almost every night. This is common in Venice, where there is really only one meal a day, eaten in the evening. Breakfast consists of little more than bread and coffee, lunch of a bowl of broth bought from a cookshop, and so, come dinnertime, the entire population is both exceptionally hungry and, often, quite ill-tempered. Usually people eat in the same place every evening, and then go on to the same caffè, also every evening. There is a unchanging rhythm to Venetian life which all foreigners eventually adopt, if they stay long enough. There are advantages to being a regular customer: you tend to get better food, always get served more swiftly and, most importantly, the owner will set aside a table for you so you are not disappointed and have to go away hungry.

Longman and his group ate at Paolino's; not as grand as the establishments in the Piazza San Marco, which already earned their living mainly from visitors, as they had previously from the Austrian soldiers occupying the city. With its simple wooden chairs, cheap cutlery and roughly painted walls, Paolino's was for the poorer bracket of the respectable ranks, and Longman's friends were all of this type. I could dine in style, or I could dine in company; that was the choice that the city presented to me. I liked – have always liked – to eat well, but as there was no refined cooking in the city, or none that I had yet heard of, then I was prepared to compromise. Besides, there is a comradely sense among the genteelly impoverished which is often lacking among the wealthy; it was not a great sacrifice.

When I greeted the Consul, there were only two others sitting at a table prepared for six or more; periodically others drifted in as the evening wore on. There was, in fact, a group of ten or more who came there, but not every night; each evening there was a different combination, some of whom liked each other, others who plainly did not. Cort was one of those present that night, and he greeted me warmly; a quiet, softly spoken American was the other. This man spoke with the gentle, drawling tones of the South of his country, a strange accent and quite foreign until you got used to it. It is a way of speaking well-suited to a dry and lazy-sounding humour, which Mr Arnsley Drennan possessed in fine degree. He was rugged in appearance, and a few years older than I was, and spoke little until he was ready. When he did, he could be an entertaining conversationalist, delivering pithy observations in a voice which sounded as though he was half asleep, feigning a lack of interest in his own words that added greatly to the delivery. He was decidedly difficult to figure out; even Mr Longman, far more adept than I was, had failed to breach his walls of discretion and discover much about him. This, of course, added an air of mystery to his person which made him all the more cultivated by others.

'And is your wife to join us later?' I asked Longman.

'Oh, good heavens no,' he replied. 'She is at home. If you look around, you will see there are no women here. You will find few in any dining place, except for those in San Marco's. Mrs Cort also eats at home.'

'They must find that a little tedious,' I remarked.

Longman nodded. 'Perhaps. But what is to be done?'

Now I might have remarked that he could have eaten at home himself, or that perhaps the company of his wife might be preferable to that of friends, but I did not, and at the time it never occurred to me. A man must eat, and a man must have friends, or what of humanity is left in us? Longman's dilemma I found as insoluble as he did, but nevertheless my thoughts strayed briefly to consider how much his wife must pine for company. Then they paused briefly on the thought of Cort's wife in a similar purdah. They did not, however, then move on to considering how my own wife was faring without me.

'Where do you live, Mr Drennan? Do you have a lonely wife tending the hearth for you?'

It was a light-hearted question, but did not receive an equally facetious reply. 'I am a widower,' he said softly. 'My wife died some years back.'

'I am sorry for you,' I said, genuinely contrite at my faux pas.

'And I live on the Giudecca, some half hour's walk from here.'

'Mr Drennan has found the only inexpensive lodging in Venice,' Longman remarked.

'It is one room only, with no water and no maidservant,' he said with a smile. 'I live like most Venetians.'

'You are a long way from home, then,' I observed.

He regarded me intently. 'That I am, sir.'

He did not seem to find this line of conversation at all interesting, so he switched his gaze to the window and left matters to Longman, who was the impresario of dinner-table conversation.

'Do you intend to continue living in a hotel throughout your stay, Mr Stone?'

'Unless something better offers itself, yes. I would happily move somewhere more commodious and less annoying, but on the other hand I do not intend to spend my time here house-hunting.'

Longman clapped his hands in joy at being so useful. 'Then there is a perfect solution!' he cried. 'You must take rooms with the Marchesa d'Arpagno!'

'Must I?'

'Yes, yes. A delightful woman, desperately in need of cash, with a vast, tumbling-down palazzo begging for occupants. She would never be so coarse as to solicit lodgers, but I can tell she would not be displeased with an enquiry. It would be central and charming. I will happily send a letter around for you, if you like the idea.'

Why not? I thought. I had no plans to stay long, and no plans to leave either. I should have realised this haziness of intention was indicative of a strange state of mind, but no such thought occurred to me. I did not find the cost of the hotel onerous, but the discrepancy between how much you paid, and what you got for it I found offensive. So I said, 'It would be interesting to look. Who is this lady?'

I noticed that the other two did not look so delighted at the mention of her name, but had no chance to pursue the subject as Macintyre the engineer was stumping over towards the table.

He was clearly in something of a social bind as he wished to dine with the company, but manifestly found it quite unreasonable to admit the fact. He resolved the matter by looking exceptionally ill-humoured and growling his greetings in a manner which escaped being impolite only by a whisker. The effect of his sitting down was to stifle all conversation for several minutes. Longman looked faintly displeased, Cort somewhat frightened. Only Drennan nodded in greeting and appeared unperturbed by his appearance.

'Food arrived yet?' Macintyre said after we had sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. He snapped his fingers at the waiter to call for wine and downed two glasses, one after the other, in swift succession. 'What is it this evening?'

'Fish,' Cort said.

Macintyre laughed. 'Of course it's fish. It's fish every bloody night. What sort of fish?'

Cort shrugged. 'Does it matter?'

'I suppose not. It all tastes the same to me anyway.' He scowled ferociously at Cort as he pulled a roll of paper from under his coat.

'There you are. I had my draughtsman do it up properly. Did the costings myself. As I said, Sottini has the proper lengths in stock; good Sheffield bars, won't let you down. I've set him up to give you a fair price. Get in touch with him quickly, though, otherwise he'll forget. Don't give him more than twenty-seven shillings a length. But I think you will have a problem with the foundations. I looked again; the central pillar is buried deep down and must be taken out, if this is to work. It will be expensive.'

'How expensive?'

'Very. You will have to support the entire building, then remove it, to give space to put in the new structure. Best thing to do, frankly, would be to blow it out.'

'What? Are you mad?'

'No, no. It's a very simple. Not dangerous at all, if you know what you're doing. A very small charge placed low down, just to knock a few of the bigger stones out of place. Then the entire pillar will come down, leaving the rest of the building standing – if you have buttressed it properly.'

'I'll think about it,' Cort said uncertainly.

'It's the only way of doing it. I've got the explosives in my workshop. When you see that I'm right, let me know.' Then Macintyre turned to me, a refilled glass in his hand. 'And you. What are you doing here?'

Certainly, no one could accuse Macintyre of an excessive courtesy. His flat, northern accent – I placed him as a native of Lancashire, despite the Scottish name – added to the general impression of rudeness, something which, as Longman noted, northerners deliberately accentuate.

'Merely a traveller, from London, where I have lived much of my life,' I replied.

'And your profession? If you have one.'

There was a hint of hostility in his tone. I looked like a gentleman, I suppose, and it appeared Mr Macintyre did not like gentlemen.

'I suppose you might call me a man of business. If you wish to know whether I live off the money of my family, and idle my days away on the labour of others then the answer is that I do not. Although, I freely admit, I would do so happily if the opportunity came my way.'

'You don't look English.'

'My mother is of Spanish origin,' I said evenly. 'My father, on the other hand, is a vicar of impeccable Englishness.'

'So you're a mongrel.'

'I suppose you could say that.'

'Hmm.'

'Now, now, Macintyre,' said Longman jovially. 'None of your bluntness, if you please. Not until Mr Stone is used to you. I was just recommending the Marchesa to him as a potential landlady. What do you think?'

Macintyre's reaction was peculiar. It was a remark of no importance, so I thought, designed merely to divert the conversation into safer waters. But it accomplished the exact opposite. Macintyre snorted. 'Bloody madwoman,' he said. 'And you'd be mad to go anywhere near her.'

'What was that about?' I asked Drennan later, once Macintyre had wolfed down his food, tossed his napkin on the table and left again. All in all, he was there for less than fifteen minutes; he was not a man to waste time on inessentials.

'I have no idea,' he replied. 'It seems Macintyre does not like the lady.'

'He tried to get rooms there once. She wouldn't have him and he was offended,' Cort said.

'That explains it,' Longman said cheerfully. 'I wondered how he might have come across her. Not through me, at any rate. I didn't think he took enough time off to sleep. He works on that machine of his from dawn to dusk.'

'Machine?' I asked. 'What machine is this?'

'Nobody knows,' said Drennan with a smile. 'It is Macintyre's secret obsession. He has, so he says, been working on it for years, and has poured his entire fortune into it.'

'He has a fortune?'

'Not any more. He is – or was, until he settled here a few years back – a travelling engineer. Hiring himself to the highest bidder. A shipyard in France, railway project in Turin, a bridge in Switzerland. A very skilled man.'

'Personally, I prefer the life of the mind, of study and reflection. And, as you may have noticed, he is not best suited for getting on with others. He never stays anywhere long,' Longman commented.

'Is he married?'

'His wife died in childbirth, poor man. So he is left with a daughter, who is about eight. A most unfeminine creature,' Longman continued, even though I had asked for no elaboration. 'Utterly uneducated, with the looks of her father. He can just about get away with it, but what is almost tolerable in a man . . .'

He did not finish. He had successfully painted a picture of what was to come: a lonely old spinster, fending for herself, cut off from good, or any proper company. He shook his head slowly to indicate his distress.

'I think she's a sweet kid,' Drennan said. 'Nice smile. Not much to smile about, though.'

And so the conversation proceeded. It improved in tone and temper once the effects of Macintyre faded, and Cort, to my surprise, proved the most entertaining. He was, perhaps, the person most like myself in temperament if not in character, and I found his wit congenial. I had known many like him at school; he blossomed under my appreciation and was in a rare good humour by the time the meal was finished and the small party began to break up. Longman and Drennan decided to head to Florian's for brandy, Cort and I declined the idea, and were left standing by the doorway as the others disappeared.

I turned to thank him for his company, and as I did so, a most remarkable change came over him. He grew tense and pale, his jaw clenched tightly in distress, and he gripped me by the elbow as we shook hands in farewell. He seemed to be looking aghast at something behind me, so I turned round swiftly to see what had so grabbed his attention.

There was nothing. The street which contained the restaurant was dark but entirely empty. At the end a broader street crossed over it, and this was lit by the faint flicker of torch flame, but that, too was deserted.

'Cort? What is it?' I asked.

'It's him. He's there again.'

I looked at him blankly, but Cort did not respond. He continued staring, as though frightened out of his wits.

I touched him gently on the arm to stir him; he did not react immediately, but eventually his eyes moved away from the blank point they were staring at, and he looked at me. He seemed dazed and confused.

'Whatever is the matter?' I asked, feeling a quite genuine concern as much as a very real curiosity. My mind went back to what Longman had said about Cort having a breakdown from the strain of his task at the palazzo. Was this a manifestation of his troubles? I had little enough experience of such things.

'I do beg your pardon,' he said eventually in a faltering voice. 'Quite absurd of me. Please forget it. I must go now.'

'Certainly not,' I replied. 'I have no idea what is distressing you, but I could not possibly leave you alone just yet. Come! I will walk with you. It is no trouble, and I feel like a stroll in any case. If you do not wish to talk, we will pace the streets together in solemn silence and enjoy the night air. Have no fear that I wish to pry into your affairs. Although I do, of course.'

He smiled at that, and allowed me to lead him towards the alley's end. Then he pointed to the left, away from San Marco, and indicated that we should head in that direction. He said nothing for a long while. We had passed the Rialto before he groaned loudly and scratched his head furiously with both hands. 'You must forgive that performance,' he said with an effort to return to normal. 'I must have seemed absurd.'

'Not at all,' I replied in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, 'but you did alarm me. Do you wish to tell me what it was that so distressed you?'

'I would, were I not afraid that Longman would hear of it. He is a terrible gossip, and I do not wish to become an object of ridicule.'

'Have no fear of that,' I replied. 'I would not tell Mr Longman anything of importance. Should you come to know me better you will realise that any confidence consigned to my care is perfectly safe.'

Which was true. A natural tendency on my part had been confirmed by my experiences in the City, where knowledge is all. Exclusive possession of a fact is worth far more than money. Money you can borrow; knowledge has a higher price. Say (for example) that you hear a company has struck gold in South Africa. It is easy enough to borrow some money to buy shares in it before they rise, and make a profit. All the money in the world will not help you if you do not discover this fact before everyone else. I have never in my life traded without advance knowledge, and I do not know of anyone with sense who has done so either.

'Well, then. I would like to relate my experiences, if you are prepared to listen, and also promise to stop me should you find my story ridiculous or dull.'

'I promise.'

He took a deep breath and began.

'I mentioned that I was sent here by my uncle, to fulfil a contract with the Albemarle family. I arrived some five months ago with my family, and took up operations as best I could. It has not been easy, and would have strained even a native speaker with more experience than I possess. The house is in far worse shape than I was led to believe, the workforce is erratic, and finding the right materials difficult and expensive. My wife did not want to come, and is deeply unhappy, poor woman.

'You might not believe it from what you have seen, but I have made progress, although every advance is matched by some setback. Everything is way behind schedule and far above the budget, of course, but that is because the family had no conception whatsoever of the task they had taken on.

'That is not what is giving me such concern, although I am quite prepared to countenance the idea that the strain makes me more susceptible. I have always been of a nervous disposition. I do not imagine for a moment that someone like you – who seem very sound and sensible – let alone a man like Macintyre, would be subject to the torments I have endured in the past few weeks.

'In brief, I have become the victim of hallucinations of the most terrible kind. Except that I cannot fully accept that this is what they are. They are too real to be fictitious, yet too bizarre to be real.

'I should tell you that I am an orphan; my mother died giving birth to me, and my father shortly thereafter. That is why I was brought up by my mother's sister, and her husband, the architect. My mother died in Venice. They had been travelling Europe on an extended honeymoon and stopped here for a few months while they prepared for my birth.

'I lived; she died. There is nothing else to add, except to say that my father was heartbroken. I was sent back to England to my aunt and he continued his travels to recover. Alas, he caught a fever in Paris while on the verge of returning to England, and died as well. I was two years old at the time. I remember nothing of either of them, and know only what I have been told.

'Please do not think I am talking off the point when I mention this. I was perfectly healthy in mind and body until I came here. I was brought up properly and well; I am not certain I was suited by nature to be an architect, but I may in time turn out to be perfectly competent. There is nothing in my past at all to foreshadow what has been happening to me here, the place of my mother's death.

'It all began when I was walking along a street, going to a mason's yard, as I recall, and I saw an old man walking towards me. There was nothing about him to excite any interest, and yet I found myself looking at him in the way you do when you see something that fascinates, yet know you should not look. You look away and find your eyes straying back again, and again.

'As he drew near he bowed, and then we passed, each going on his separate way. I turned round to look at him again, and he was gone.'

'That was it?' I asked in some surprise, as he seemed to think that nothing more needed to be said.

'The first time, yes. As your tone suggests, there was nothing to cause any concern; indeed, it was not even clear why I should have noticed him. Nonetheless, it disturbed me, and I found my mind going back to the moment. Then it happened again.

'I was walking along the Riva this time. It was mid-afternoon, and the loafers and wastrels were all there, sitting on the ground, cluttering up the steps of the bridges, idling away the hours as is the custom. I was in a hurry; I had an appointment and I was late. I was walking up the steps of a bridge and looked up, and there he was again. I slowed down, just a little, when I saw him, and he reached inside his coat, pulled out a watch and looked at it. Then he smiled at me as if to say, you're late.

'I hurried past, feeling almost stung by the implied reproach and determinedly kept on my way. This time I didn't look back. He knew I was late, you see. He knows about me. He must be watching me, finding out about me.'

'But you know nothing about him?'

'No.'

'And this person you were going to visit. He couldn't have said something? Did you ask?'

'Impossible,' he said shortly.

'Describe this man to me.'

We were walking slowly, and as far as I was concerned, aimlessly. I assumed that Cort knew where he was going. Certainly he turned left and right as though he was following some course, rather than wandering lost in thought as he talked. Walking the silent, deserted streets, our footfalls echoing between the buildings, accompanied by the lap of water and the occasional reflection of moonlight in the canals when the clouds cleared, created a strange and wonderful atmosphere that Cort's tale enhanced rather than dissipated.

'He was quite short, dressed in an old-fashioned manner, slightly stooped. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his gait, although he can travel quickly and silently when he wishes. It is his face that grabs the attention. Old, but nothing in it weakened or enfeebled. Tell me he is as old as the city and I would believe you. It is the face of generations, paper pale, tired beyond belief, and filled with sadness. See it, and you must keep looking at it. Dottore Marangoni practises hypnotism on his patients sometimes. He believes that the personality of the operator is more important than any technique; that what he does is an imposition of his will on the subject. That is what I felt like: that this man was trying to take over my mind.'

I let his words evaporate in the night air for a while as I considered whether Cort was being melodramatic, deliberately trying to create some sort of impression for his own ends. Certainly my inclination was to believe that I was hearing a manifestation of the breakdown that Longman considered imminent. But I was aware of my own vision shortly after I arrived in the city; of the old man and the serenade. That, also, had wrought a strange effect on me. Either we were both mad, or neither of us was, and I held firm to a belief in my own sanity.

'That seems a grand claim to make on the basis of two momentary encounters, when you didn't even speak,' I said in a reasonable tone.

'They weren't the only ones,' he answered, anxious to allay my suspicions. 'Over the next few weeks I saw him more and more often. He is following me. Everywhere I go.'

His voice was becoming more high-pitched and hysterical, so I endeavoured to calm him.

'He offers you no injury? Does not threaten you? From your description he could do no harm even if he wanted.'

'No. In that respect he does me no harm.'

'Has he ever spoken to you?'

'Once. Once only. I saw him in a crowd last week as I was walking home from work. He was coming towards me and nodded in greeting as I approached. I could take it no more, so I tried to grab him by the arm to stop him. But I could not. I reached out for his arm, but it was as though it wasn't there. Almost as if my hand passed right through him. He kept on walking, and I called out to him, "Who are you?"

'He stopped, and turned round, and answered in English, as I had spoken to him. "I am Venice," he said. That was all. Then he hurried off again and in a few seconds was lost to sight.'

'He was Italian?'

'He spoke in Venetian. But you see? He is following me, for some purpose of his own. Why else would he say such a thing? Who can he be? Why is he doing this to me? I feel I am going mad, Mr Stone.'

The panic was back, rising higher in his voice. I gripped his arm tightly, trying to inflict pain on him to bring him back to his senses before he lost control. I dared not say that I considered it more likely that this encounter was yet another hallucination, that he should seek medical advice before it turned into a full hysteria. But neither did I mention my own vision; I do not know why. I think that I was slightly revolted by his show of weakness. I saw myself as a man of strength and rationality, and wished to keep my distance.

'Calm, my friend, calm,' I said gently, still gripping tightly. Slowly he relaxed, and obeyed. Then I realised he was shaking with sobs, as his efforts at self-control, at manly dignity, crumbled. I could say nothing; I was deeply embarrassed by the spectacle. It was undignified, we were in a public place and I hardly knew the man. My better self said that Cort must be in dreadful straits to so unburden himself to me; the rest of me wished fervently he had not.

'I am most dreadfully sorry,' he said eventually when he regained control of himself. 'This has been a nightmare, and I do not know where to turn.'

'And what does your wife think?'

'Oh, I don't want to bother Louise,' he said hesitantly. 'Poor thing, she has so much to concern herself with, what with Henry being so small. Besides . . .'

He didn't finish, but lapsed into a moody silence instead.

'Forgive me for asking,' I said as delicately as I could. 'But are you certain this man is real?'

'You think I am imagining it?' He was not angry at my question. 'Believe me, I have considered it. Am I going mad? Is this man a figment of my imagination? Of course, I wonder. I almost hope he is; then at least I could go to Marangoni and he could do . . . whatever such people do with the insane. But his feet make a distinct sound on the pavements. He speaks and smiles. He smells, a very distinct smell, like an old cupboard that hasn't been opened for years, slightly damp, musty.'

'But you failed to touch him, you said.'

He nodded. 'But I felt his breath on me as he spoke. He was as real to me as you are now.'

He gripped my arm as if to reassure himself on that point.

'I do not know what to say,' I answered. 'If this man exists, we must accost him and make him answer questions. If not . . .'

'Then I am insane.'

'There you go beyond my knowledge. I am a practical man. I will assume for the time being that you are not about to foam at the mouth.'

He laughed for the first time since dinner. 'That is good of you,' he said. 'And can I rely on you . . .'

'Not to say a word to anyone? I give you my word. I assume you have said nothing of this to anyone else?'

'Who could I tell?'

We had reached his lodging, a grim, tumbledown place in what I later learned had been the Ghetto, where the Jews of Venice had been corralled by the city until Napoleon liberated them. Whatever good that new freedom might have done the Jews, it had little benefited that part of town, which was as malodorous and depressing as any grim industrial town of England. Worse, I should say, for the buildings were rank and collapsing, a positive rabbit warren of tiny little rooms where once thousands had been crammed in, exposed to every unhealthy miasma that huge numbers and unsanitary conditions might create. Cort lived here because it was cheap; I could well imagine it. I would have insisted on hefty payment even to enter his building. It seems that his uncle (though dutiful in the matter of his upbringing and training) was known for a certain parsimony that came from the belief that pleasure was offensive to God. Cort was therefore kept on a tight leash, and had barely enough to house his family as well as live and eat, although their conditions were poor. His lodging was a necessary economy to put aside some small surplus for diversion.

He saw my look as we stopped by his doorway. 'I do not live in luxury,' he said apologetically. 'But my neighbours are good people, and even poorer than I. In contrast to them I am nobilissimi.'

It would not have served me. But his remarks reminded me that I had engaged to visit Longman's Marchesa. I asked Cort about her. 'A charming woman,' he said. 'By all means go; she is worth meeting. Louise knows her and speaks highly of her; they have become quite close.'

He gave me the address and then shook my hand. 'My apologies for the display, and my thanks for the company,' he said.

I told him to think nothing of it, and turned to walk back to the hotel. Cort and his troubles were wafted away on the night air almost before he was out of sight.

CHAPTER 6

By six the next evening I was established in my new accommodation, the Palazzo Bollani on the rio di San Trovaso in Dorsoduro, and the property of the Marchesa d'Arpagno. I had sent my card at ten that morning and was instantly ushered in to see her. In my mind's eye I had seen an old lady, decorously dressed with the signs of departed beauty all about her. A little stout, perhaps, but in diminished circumstances, dreaming perpetually of the glitter of youth. A pleasing, if melancholy, vision, which lasted until the moment I entered the salon.

She was quite ugly, but strikingly so. In her late forties, I guessed from the fine lines that could just be seen beneath the thick powder around her eyes and mouth; tall and imperial in manner, with a long nose, black hair which was plainly dyed hanging down her back in a thick plait. She was wearing a dress with an overskirt in white satin trimmed with green, which was far too fashionable for one of her age. Around her neck was a necklace of emeralds that drew attention to her extraordinary eyes, which were of exactly the same hue. On her bony fingers were several excessively large rings, and she wore a perfume so strong and overpowering that even now, more than forty years later, I can still smell it.

It is not often that I am lost for words, but the contrast between expectation and reality in this case was so strong that I couldn't find anything to say at all.

'I hope you do not mind speaking in French,' said the lady as she approached. 'My English is terrible, and I imagine that your Venetian is worse. Unless you prefer German.'

She had a harsh voice, and the slight smile she gave as she spoke was grotesque in its girlishness. I replied that I could manage French, and quietly thanked my mother for having had the wisdom, all those years ago, to engage a French governess for me and my siblings. They could not afford much at the time and, with governesses, you get what you pay for – in this case a lazy, coarse wretch. But she spoke French and, once inside our home, was dislodged only with difficulty. She stayed long enough to teach me the language, although far too much of its nether reaches and not very much of its higher flights. Only with Elizabeth did I ever properly master it; she is one of those annoying people who pick up languages quickly, by merely listening. I have to study hard, but Elizabeth has always preferred French to English. So study I did, to please her.

The Marchesa sat down, indicating that I could do the same, offered coffee, and fell silent, looking at me with a faint smile.

'I understand from Mr Longman that you occasionally consider allowing people to stay in your house,' I began a little hesitatingly. That was why I was there, and the subject would have to come up sooner or later.

'That is true. Maria will take you to see the rooms a little later, if I decide I can bear to have you under my roof.'

'Ah.'

'I do not do this for money, you understand.'

'Quite, quite.'

'But I find it interesting to have people around me. The Venetians are such bores, they drive me to distraction.'

'You are not Venetian yourself?'

'No.'

She offered no more information and, much as I would have liked to, I felt unable to continue the questioning.

She was not an easy conversationalist. Rather, she was one of those who command through silence, contributing little, but looking with a faint smile that affected her mouth more than her eyes, summoning the other on to fill the void.

So I told her of my journey around Italy, my current stay in the Hotel Europa, my decision to stay and my desire for slightly more comfortable accommodation.

'I see. You leave out much in your account, I think.'

I was astonished by the remark. 'I don't believe so.'

No response to that one either. I sipped my coffee, and she sat quietly, watching me.

'And how do you find Venice, Mr Stone?'

I replied that I found it perfectly agreeable, so far, although I had seen little.

'And you have done as everyone does here, and hired a gondola to think sad thoughts in?'

'Not yet.'

'You surprise me. Are you not disappointed in love? Recovering from a broken heart? That is why people come here, for the most part. They find the city a perfect place to indulge in self-pity.'

A sudden sharpness in her tone, all the more strange for being so unexpected. I looked at her curiously, but could see nothing in her face. She had said it as a matter of fact, an observation only, perhaps.

'Not in my case, madam,' I replied. 'I am perfectly unencumbered.' If she desired to make me ill at ease and put me on the defensive, then she was succeeding. I was not used to such conversations. She saw that and was enjoying my discomfort, which made me fight back.

'Then you are here to have your heart broken. You will become like the others.'

'What others?'

'Those who cannot leave. There are many here. The city traps the weak and never lets them go. Be careful if you stay here for long.'

I shook my head. I had no idea what she was talking about.

'Foreigners, especially from northern countries, make a mistake when they come here. They do not take Venice seriously. They come from their lands full of machinery and money, and feel pity for it. They think it is a harmless relic of the past, once glorious, now beyond hope. They walk and admire, but never rid themselves of a feeling of contempt and superiority. You are the masters now, no?'

Again, I said nothing.

'And Venice waits, bides its time. Most come, and see, and go away again. But the weak are its prey. It sucks the life out of them, bit by bit. Robs them of their will, their autonomy. They stay, they stay a little longer and then they cannot even imagine leaving. Their life has had its purpose removed, they become mere shadows, walking the streets, eating at the same place every day, walking the same routes every day, for what reason they cannot recall. This is a dangerous place, Mr Stone; it is cursed. Beware of it. It is alive, and its spirit feeds on the weak and unwary.'

'I think it unlikely that this is to be my fate.'

She laughed softly. A beguiling laugh, but disturbing in the context of her words, which had nothing humorous about them. 'Perhaps not. But you came for a few days, and now you are taking an apartment for a longer stay. I sense you are searching for something, Mr Stone, although I do not know what it is. Nor do you, I think. But be careful: you will only find sadness here. I feel that in you; you thrive in adversity. You think yourself strong, but your weakest place is your heart. One day it will destroy you. You know that, do you not?'

This melodrama completely reduced me to silence. Obviously she was trying to fascinate me, put me off-balance, and, if you wish, dominate the conversation by the bizarre nature of her words. And, equally obviously, she was succeeding. I felt an air of foreboding descend over me, and realised it was the same feeling I had experienced the day before. The feeling of sadness as I walked the streets, the sense of the inexplicable I had had that first night watching the palazzo, these were all part of the same sentiment that she had expressed in words. The desire to taste the recklessness of extreme emotions, throw off the usual cautious, careful way of life I had developed for myself. That was why I had left England, was it not? Why I had roamed Italy for three months, in search of precisely that? But had not yet found it. I caught myself, at that very moment, thinking of my brief introduction to Mrs Cort, the way her eyes had met mine.

It was mere absurdity, a combination of the light and the tiredness, the strangeness of the surroundings, the water. Quite soothing and relaxing in its way, all the more so because it was so foreign to my normal life. I looked up at the Marchesa and smiled. Almost grinned. It was a challenge to her. Silently countering that I was not to be fooled by her words, try as she might. I was a tougher nut than a man like Cort.

She smiled back, accepting the challenge, and clapped her hands.

'Maria!' she called out. 'Please show Mr Stone the apartment.'

'So you can bear to have me in your house? I am flattered,' I said.

'You should be. But you have the aura of an honest man, a good man,' she replied seriously.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your aura. It radiates around you, revealing the nature of the spirit which animates the machinery of your body. Yours is gentle, blue and yellow. You are divided in spirit, between the desire for peace and for adventure. For power and for tranquillity. You desire much, but I feel that you have a sense of fairness. You are divided between the masculine, and the feminine, but in you the attributes are wrongly apportioned. It is your feminine which is adventurous, the masculine which desires peace. You will have trouble reconciling these, Mr Stone, but they make you interesting.'

She gave the distinct impression that she wanted me in her house so she could study me, like some grotesque entomologist, but she nonetheless had described the battle between my fiery mother and my peaceable father remarkably well. Disconcertingly so, and she saw that I was impressed despite the fact that she was talking nonsense.

The business of packing was delayed by an encounter I had in the hotel on my return. As I walked into the lobby and asked for my key, I noticed a small man get up from his chair, and come towards me.

'My dear Stone!' this person said in a thick Italian accent as he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me round to face him. 'I hardly expected it to be true! Remarkable! I'm so pleased to see you!'

I looked at him blankly for a moment, then it dawned on me who he was. I believe I mentioned that, several years previously, I had tried my hand at dissipation. I am not ashamed of this period of my life, I believe it is inevitable in young men whose energies are not wasted by manual labour, and, as I say, I found that the pleasures of such a life faded quickly and have never returned. I have not spent my older years wondering what it would have been like to have done certain things, nor did I have any temptation in middle age to try and recapture my youth and thus make myself into a laughing stock.

During that period, I made the acquaintance of a group of young men: some were the useless sprigs of nobility well on their way to illness and early death from excess (thus weakening a class of society and fending off the likelihood of revolution, for why trouble to overthrow people who are doing such a good job of rendering themselves powerless?); some were simple idlers spending an inheritance pretending to be poets or painters; and a couple were medical students, who had a wildness of such severity that I would hesitate ever to place myself under their care. One of these, however, is now a personal physician to His Majesty, which goes to show that even the greatest sinners are capable of redemption. Of the others, one became a high court judge and one shot himself in the aftermath of the Dunbury scandal, a foolishly conceived scheme to dun the public by proposing vast profits from a railway built across a two-hundred-mile swamp in Russia. My friend, a man for whom I continued to have affection to the end, went vastly into debt to buy shares in the hope of recovering a dire financial situation, and was ruined.

The man who now greeted me was one of the medical students. I never paid him much attention and never even knew his name – something foreign, I knew, but everyone always called him Joe, a nickname more insulting than friendly, for it assumed an informality more suited to a pet or native bearer than an equal.

Joe – or Dottore Giuseppe Marangoni, as he was now called – had changed over the past few years, that was clear. Previously he had had the sort of personality that could lead you to overlook him entirely; one of those who waited to be spoken to, and appeared grateful to be included in any conversation. Only his eyes suggested there might be something more to him, for he was always watching, always interested. For what purpose never seemed clear.

And this was the person now beaming at me and shaking my hand, leading me to a table in the corner for a chat. It is disconcerting to encounter someone once known, but not seen for several years. At that stage the shock was limited, but still real. Now it is positively a heartache to meet a person I have not seen for thirty or forty years, to see the thinning hair, the stoop, the lines when you expect (no matter how much you realise it cannot be so) the person to look exactly as they did when last seen. And to realise they are as shocked by your appearance as you by theirs.

As we had swapped country, so we also exchanged roles; my surprise at Marangoni's sudden reappearance in my life was so great that I said little. He, in contrast, never stopped talking. We remembered things very differently; he talked of the good fellowship of his days in London, the fine friends he had made, asked about the members of that little group of apprentice rakes – which information I could not provide, as, apart from Campbell, I had cast them off as I had abandoned that way of life, and I have never cared for gossip in any case. Then he began to surprise me.

'I wish I'd liked London more,' he said. 'It is such a dull place.'

'In comparison with Venice?'

He groaned. 'Ah, no. Professionally Venice is interesting, but hardly glittering, alas. No, in comparison to a place like Paris, for example. The English – do forgive me, my friend – are so respectable.'

I was half-minded to be insulted by this, but looked enquiringly instead.

'Take my fellow medical students, for example. In Paris, they live together, and eat together, and all have their shopgirls for mistresses and housekeepers until they qualify or find someone suitable to marry. Their life is their own. In London everyone lives with a landlady, eats every evening some hideous meal she has cooked and goes to church on Sunday. Riotous living consists of getting drunk, and little else.'

'I'm sorry you were disappointed.'

'I wasn't there to enjoy myself; merely to learn and observe. Which I did, with great profit.'

'To learn and observe what?'

'Medicine, as you know. Particularly the science of alienism. I am a doctor of the mind and so it is my business to study people in all their variety. I learned much there, although less than I did in Paris. The group you were attached to was full of instruction.'

I was, as may be imagined, a little offended by this remark; the idea that all the time we were ignoring him, treating him as some insignificant little foreigner, he was, in fact watching and assessing us. A bit like the Marchesa, only more scientific, I hoped. He saw my discomfort and laughed.

'Do not be perturbed. You were the least interesting person there.'

'I do not find that reassuring.'

'But who knows what lurks beneath the surface? I joke. You were by far the most normal of my companions. The others, mind you, were quite fascinating in their many different ways.' He mentioned one man. 'Clear degenerate tendencies, with a pronounced swelling indicating distorted cranial lobes. Certainly a tendency to insanity, erratic judgement and a pronounced attraction to violence.'

'He has just become a Queen's Counsel,' I commented dryly.

'Proves my point, does it not?'

I said nothing. (A few weeks ago, as I write, I discovered my erstwhile acquaintance has been confined to an asylum after a murderous attack on his wife of thirty years. The matter has been kept quiet lest the idea of a complete lunatic in charge of criminal cases – as a judge he became notorious for his infliction of the death penalty – lessens the awful majesty of the law in the public's mind.)

'Alas, I rarely have the opportunity to deal with such intricate cases now,' he said almost wistfully. I was not hugely interested, but asked him of his progress since we had last met. It appeared that Marangoni, his studies in Paris ended, had returned to Milan, where he had briefly worked in an asylum, trying to introduce the best French practices. He had done so well (this was his account, not mine) that he had then been transferred to the Veneto, to embody there the new ideas that unification with Italy represented. He was the emissary of the State, sent to organise the asylums of the city and to corral, bully, persuade and intimidate the insane back to health, using the most up-to-date methods. He was not over-optimistic about his prospects, although gratified by the salary his new employment provided.

'And, lest you think I am being rude about England, I must assure you that in comparison with Venice, it was like being in paradise. Here the insane are still in the hands of the priests, who intone their mumbo-jumbo over them, and pray they will get better and beat them when their prayers are not answered. So you see, I have a big job on my hands. I must fight the insane and the Church simultaneously.'

'Which is worse?'

He waved his hand. 'Do you know, sometimes I can't tell them apart. Degenerates,' he said, as he sipped his drink. 'Little to be done for them except identify, isolate and eliminate. The city is inbred, generation after generation has never even left the lagoon. What you see as a city of unparalleled beauty and untold richness is, in fact, a festering, seeping sore of mental illness. A people weakened and debilitated, incapable of fending for themselves. You have read the history of the city, no doubt, about how it finally fell to Napoleon. It was not Napoleon who conquered this city; it was the steady eating away of the population by degeneration, which stripped it of all ability to resist.'

'And you recommend what, exactly?'

'Oh, if I had my way, I'd ship everyone out.'

'Everyone? You mean the whole city?' I asked slightly incredulously.

He nodded. 'If there is a house with plague in it, you don't adopt half measures, do you? That is what Venice is; a plague city, spreading corruption to all who are in contact with it. We are at last trying to build a nation here in Italy, we need a forceful, healthy population that will multiply and meet the challenges of modern life. We cannot take the risk of having a place like this undermining all our efforts, sapping our vitality with contaminated stock.'

He smiled as he saw my surprise at his remarks. 'I say that so forcefully because I know no one is going to listen to me. No one has the will to take the necessary measures. So, instead, I do what I can and must, case by case.'

'I hate to challenge the opinion of a scientist, but I have seen many idlers in London and Paris. And noted no tendency here to violence.'

He nodded sagely. 'There are degenerates everywhere. Particularly in Europe, which is crumbling. Do you know, one eminent doctor has estimated that up to a third of the entire population might be afflicted?'

'And you would like to get rid of all of them?'

'Not possible,' he replied, clearly suggesting he would like nothing better. 'What I am trying to do is identify them. If they could be stopped from breeding, for example, then eventually the problem would diminish on its own. As for the violence, don't be fooled. Their natural lassitude makes them seem passive enough, but when something snaps they behave like beasts. What is more, the city attracts more such people, every day they arrive, and find the place congenial. There is a man called Cort, for example—'

'I have met Mr Cort,' I said, no doubt a little stiffly. 'I found him very pleasant.'

Marangoni smiled in a slightly superior fashion. 'That is why there are alienists,' he said. 'To spot things the untrained eye cannot perceive. Mr Cort is a man on the edge, and could topple over into the ravine of madness at any moment. He should never have been sent here. But that's you English all over. He was sent here to toughen him up, I believe the saying is. It may well do the exact opposite, and finish him off. He is having hallucinations, you know. He thinks there is a man following him. And not just any man, oh dear me no. He is being followed by the city itself.'

'How do you know that?'

'Ah,' Marangoni smiled, touching his nose. 'There is little secret here, as you will discover.'

'You would consider him insane?'

'Cort, or the spectral Venetian?'

'Both.'

'If the Venetian exists at all, then both, naturally. Thinking yourself immortal is not unusual, of course, and persuading yourself that you are someone else is common enough. I have encountered Napoleon on many occasions, as well as princes and children of popes, all snatched away at infancy. Persuading yourself you are a city is most odd. I have never encountered such a thing. I rather hope he does exist. I would love to meet him.'

'And Cort?'

'A hypersensitive young man, in my opinion. He is picking up the unhealthiness of the city, but instead of responding in a rational manner, he embodies it in his fantasies. This Venetian is the degenerate city which killed his mother and it exerts an unhealthy fascination for him. He should leave immediately. I have told him this, but he refuses to listen. He says it would be cowardly, that he has a job to do here. But it will cost him his sanity, if he is not careful. Especially if he continues to keep his wife with him.'

Marangoni was no gentleman. It was bad enough, surely, for a doctor to discuss a man who was a patient in such terms, but to cast aspersions on Mrs Cort as well I found deeply offensive. I think he saw the look on my face.

'Oh, you chivalrous English,' he said, with a very faint air of contempt. 'Very well, I should not have said that. But Mrs Cort I find to be—'

'That is no doubt because you do not appreciate refinement and character in women,' I said, 'being used only to Italians.'

Still the wretched man did not take offence. 'That may be so; certainly they are very different in manner. Though not so different in nature. You have met the lady? I think you must have.'

'I found her charming.'

'So she is. So she is. Well, I stand corrected. You no doubt know her better than I, a mere Italian, ever could.'

I found his conversation somewhat alarming. I am used now to capitalists such as myself being detested for their pitiless fixity of purpose, their ruthlessness at the exploitation of others. Perhaps we are so, but I must say that I have never encountered a capitalist half as pitiless as one of those doctors of the mind. Should they ever be allowed to put their ideas into practice, they would be fearsome. The conviction that their method makes them unchallengeable, that their conclusions are always correct, leads them to lay claim to a remarkable authority over others. Capitalists want the money of their customers, the bodies of the workers. Psychiatrists want their souls.

Fortunately Marangoni was tiring of the subject as well as I, and out of politeness turned to questioning me about my trip. 'You have met some people already, I believe. It was Mr Longman who mentioned you to me.'

'A few,' I said. 'And I am about to move to new accommodation, in the palazzo of the Marchesa d'Arpagno.'

'Oh ho!' he said with a smile. 'Then you must be a special person. She is fussy in her choice. What did you say or do to win her over?'

'It's my aura, apparently. Or the size of my wallet.'

Marangoni laughed. 'Oh, yes. I'd forgotten. The Marchesa is a seer.'

I looked at him.

'Really, she is. The spirits positively queue up to chat to her. It must be like bedlam in her sitting room sometimes. She has the Gift. The Eye. That certain spiritual something which means she is – totally crazy.'

'Another one? You alarm me.'

'Oh, she's harmless enough. Remarkably so. Naturally, I scented a customer when I first came across her. But I was disappointed. You will note that apart from a few matter-of-fact comments, she is entirely normal.'

'And that means . . .'

'Clearly she is insane. It is only a matter of time before the madness bursts forth and becomes more explicit. At the moment, though, she is quite normal in her behaviour. Apart from the spirits, of course. You will, I imagine, be summoned to take part in a séance at some stage. Everyone is. But you won't have any excuse for not attending. So you'll have to go. Do you believe in spirits? Ghosts? Auras? Things that go bump in the night or under the table?'

'I don't think so,' I said.

'A shame. But she won't mind. If you express your doubts, all she does is smile at you in a pitying manner. Blind fools, who do not see the obvious even when it is in front of their very eyes. It is your loss, not hers, if you cut yourself off from the pleasures of the astral planes and the higher wisdom they offer.'

'A bit like alienists, then,' I said with some relief.

'Exactly like alienists,' he agreed jovially. 'What is more, the Marchesa doesn't talk like some charlatan. This is what makes her so fascinating. Her madness is entirely logical and reasonable. So much so, that she is very convincing. Mrs Cort seems to have fallen under her spell, for example. I use the word spell metaphorically, you understand.'

'Do you believe all women are insane? You must know some who are not so?'

Marangoni considered the question, then shook his head. 'Taking all things as equal, no. All women are insane at one level or another. It is merely a question of when – or if – the insanity will manifest itself.'

'So if I come across a woman who is entirely normal and balanced . . .'

'Then she merely has not yet manifested the signs of madness. The longer she remains in a state of apparent normality, the more violent is the underlying insanity. I have wards full of them. Clearly, some women hide the symptoms all their lives, and the insanity never rises to the surface. But it is always latent.'

'So being sane is a proof of insanity? In women, I mean?'

'I fear so, alas. But I am not dogmatic on the subject, unlike some of my colleagues. Tell me,' he continued, abruptly changing the subject, 'is money still your main occupation in life?'

'Why do you say that?'

He shrugged. 'It was always obvious that you were never going to be one of the poor of this world,' he replied with a smile. 'You were always too watchful. If I said calculating you would take it as an insult, which I do not intend. So let us say too aware, and too intelligent.'

'Yes. Let us say that then. I do have some financial interests.'

'Which you are not pursuing here?'

'No.'

'I see.' He smiled again, which I found annoying. There is something acutely irritating about men whose expressions depict a sort of omniscience, who pretend to be able to read the minds of others. 'I never thought of you as a man for holidays.'

'It is time to think again then. Although you are right, in general. My inactivity does weigh on me a little.'

'But you are staying here.'

I nodded. 'Perhaps there are other things to do in Venice than look at buildings.'

'Such as?'

I shrugged. I was beginning to find him irritating. 'Build them?'

'I see you are not minded to say more,' he said after he had considered my face for a few moments. 'You leave me to work it out for myself.'

'Precisely.'

'Very well. Give me a week, and a few meals together, and we will see. If I guess your purpose, you buy me a meal. If I fail, I buy you one.'

'Agreed,' I said with a faint smile. 'And if you will excuse me, I must see to my packing. The Marchesa expects me by six.'

'Willingly. I must go as well. I have a new patient who was brought in this morning.'

'Interesting?'

He sighed. 'Not in the slightest.'

CHAPTER 7

Until I made that response to Marangoni about building, I had not thought at all seriously about the vague ideas that had passed through my mind. It was only because of this chance conversation that it became a fixed purpose; a small project that might give me occupation, and end the purposeless wandering that I was beginning to find disturbing.

To that end, I needed to find an appropriate site. A preferred option would have been to buy some ground in the centre of the city and demolish all the buildings to make way for a modern and efficient structure. I soon learned, however, that such a proposal was unlikely to come to anything. Permission had to be gained from the council for any work of that nature, and the local government had the instinct to oppose anything which smacked of the modern. Permission to demolish half a dozen palaces on the Grand Canal (however magnificent the result) was unlikely and, in any case, the initial cost of purchasing the site would have been prohibitive.

Nonetheless, I hired a gondola for the next morning and instructed the rower to go wherever he wished. It was a pleasant enough pastime, idling along broad canals and narrow ones, watching the water carriers fill the wells, the faggot vendors selling wood, all the business of the city carried out in the strange way that must evolve in a city drowned in water. Listening to the echoes of voices against tall narrow buildings, made slightly sharper and more diffuse by the effect of the water, began to bring back to me the mood of odd peacefulness that had overcome me my first evening, and which was so opposite to my supposed purpose.

In brief, I indulged in all sorts of fantastical notions. This happened time and again during my stay. My wonder was, not that the citizens of Venice were now so idle, but rather that they had once been sufficiently energetic to raise themselves from the lagoon, and turn their wooden huts on mud flats into the great metropolis that had once ruled the Mediterranean. Had the Venetians of old been more like me in mood then, they would still be paddling about in silt up to their knees.

I write as I remember, and give some sense of my mood that fine September morning, as the gondola slowly turned a corner, and I saw Mrs Cort walking along the side of the canal we had now entered. It was easy to recognise her; she looked and walked in a way which meant she could only be English – more upright, and with more bearing than Venetian women, who do not discipline their bodies into deportment.

On top of that, she was dressed in the same manner as when I had met her, eschewing a top coat in honour of the fine weather, and wearing only a hat to guard her fine white skin from the sun. I called out to her and gestured to the gondolier to pull over to the side, where there were some landing steps.

'I have been to the pharmacist for some cough medicine,' she said once we had exchanged greetings. It did not matter what she said. I noticed that her eyes were bright and met mine when we spoke. She stood closer to me than I would have expected from a woman I hardly knew.

'And is this your son?' I asked, gesturing at an infant in the arms of a stocky peasant woman standing a few feet away. The child looked sick and was whimpering. The other woman – a nurse or nanny of some sort – rocked it gently in her arms and sang a crooning song in its ears.

'Yes. That is Henry,' she said, scarcely giving him a glance. 'He is very like his father.'

The conversation faltered. I was pleased to see her, but had nothing to say. That easy talk which passes between men, or couples of long acquaintance, was not possible. Neither of us wanted to go on our way, but neither could think how to prolong the interview.

'And you are seeing the sights?' she said eventually.

'After a fashion, although I do believe I have been down this canal three times already. Or perhaps not; they all begin to look the same after a while.'

She laughed lightly. 'I can see you have not benefited from Mr Longman's expertise,' she said. 'Otherwise you would know that that house on the corner,' she gestured behind me, and I turned to look at a nondescript pile that looked long deserted, 'was once the home of the lady with the skull.'

She smiled at me as I looked again. 'Do you want to hear the story as he told it to me?'

'By all means.'

'I do not know when it happened,' she said. 'Most stories in Venice have no date to them. But, a long time ago, a man was walking down an alley a short way from here. He was thinking of the woman he was about to marry, and his happy thoughts were disturbed by a beggar, asking for money. He was angry, and kicked the man for his insolence, and caught him on the head with his boot. The beggar rolled over into the canal, struck dead, and the young man ran off.

'The wedding day came and eventually the bride and groom were alone in their bedchamber. There was knock on the door. The man, cursing, opened it and saw a horrible apparition. A corpse, flesh dropping from its bones. Eyes staring from their sockets. Teeth protruding where the flesh had been eaten away by fish.

'The man screamed, as you might expect.

' "Who are you? What do you want?" the man cried.

' "I am the beggar you killed. I want burial," the apparition replied.

'Again the man ignored the request. He slammed the door, and bolted it. When he had recovered enough he went back upstairs to the bedchamber.

'But when he walked in the room, he turned pale and fainted.

'"What is the matter, my love?" cried the wife.

'She got up, and began to walk towards him. But as she passed a mirror, she turned to look at herself.

'Her face was white and skull-like, the hair torn out, the eyes staring from their sockets, the teeth protruding where the fish had eaten away the flesh.'

She was talking ever more softly, and I found myself moving closer to her as she told this hideous, fascinating fairy story. When she ended, I was close enough to feel her breath on my face. She looked openly and frankly at me.

'And the moral of the story is, never be unkind to beggars,' I said.

'No,' she replied softly. 'The moral is, do not marry a man who is cruel and heartless.'

I came to myself and stepped back. What had just taken place? I did not know, but it was as though a charge of energy had surged through me; I was in a state of shock. Not the story, but the teller, and the manner of the telling.

It was the way her eyes fixed on me that caused the true shock, so far beyond what was correct, and to which I responded. Or didn't; I initiated it, perhaps. Perhaps she responded to me.

'Now I feel dissatisfied to travel so ignorantly,' I said.

'Perhaps you need a guide.'

'Perhaps I do.'

'You should ask my husband,' she said, and registered the disappointment in my face. 'I'm sure he would allow me to show you the sights of the city.'

Again those eyes.

'Do I need to ask his permission?'

'No,' she said with a touch of contempt in her voice.

'I do not wish to trouble you. I'm sure you are very busy.'

'I could spare you some time, I'm sure. I would enjoy it. My husband is always telling me I should do more out of the house. He knows there is little of my own here, not that he does anything except apologise.'

I could not get the encounter out of my mind, then or later. It grew in me, like my feeling for the city itself, without me even noticing. But I was aware that what I saw and did was blending with my thoughts, almost to the point of not being able to tell one from the other. Although I wished to clear my head, I also wished the strange state to continue. It was luxurious to surrender to the least impulse, to allow any thought to pass through my head, to abandon that careful discipline I had steadily cultivated. To be other than myself, in fact.

I needed company for distraction, but I also wished to discover more about Louise Cort. What was her history, her nature? Why had she talked to me in such a fashion? What sort of person was she?

I had only met her on two occasions by this point, and only for a few minutes in all. Not enough to explain her place in my thoughts; certainly no other woman – and by then I had met many more charming, more beautiful, more notable in all respects – had such a rapid effect on me. For the most part I had forgotten them the moment they had passed from my sight.

I found my way to the restaurant a few days later as I again needed company to fill my hours; the Marchesa was perfectly happy to provide food, at an extravagant extra cost, but her cook was dreadful and she insisted on dining in state in the old dining room. Just her and me, at opposite ends of a very long table. Conversation was difficult, to say the least, and the predominant sound was of clinking cutlery and the noise she made as she ate, for she had false teeth which did not fit very well and which needed to be sucked back into place after every bite.

She would also, at least once every mealtime, get a dreamy look on her face, which I soon enough learned was the sign of a imminent visitation from the Other Side. On top of that there was no gas lighting; the only illumination after dusk came from candles, and the great multicoloured chandelier in my sitting room – though large enough to hold several dozen candles – had not, I thought, been lit since long before the extinction of the Serenissima. It was blackened with use, and covered with dust from disuse. It was dark and impossible to read after dinner.

Strangely, the person I most looked forward to meeting again was Macintyre. I found him curious, and my interest was heightened by the desire to discover what, exactly, a Lancashire engineer was doing in a city so far away from any industry. So I engaged him in conversation, ignoring Cort and Drennan, who were the only other people there that evening.

It was not easy, as conversation was a skill Macintyre had not mastered. Either he did not reply at all, or answered in monosyllables, and as he ate, he drank, which made his words difficult to understand. All my attempts to indicate an interest, to ask careful questions, met with grunts or non-committal replies.

Eventually I lost patience with him. 'What are you doing in this city?' I asked, bluntly and quite rudely.

Macintyre looked at me, and gave a faint smile. 'That's better,' he said. 'If you want to know something, ask. Can't stand these manners, skirting round things all the time.'

'I didn't wish to be rude.'

'What's rude about curiosity? About things or people? If you want to know something, ask. If I don't want to say, I'll tell you straight out. Why should I find that rude?'

He pulled a pipe from his pocket, disregarding the fact that no one else had finished their meal, filled it swiftly and lit it, blowing thick clouds of pungent, choking smoke into their air like a steam train preparing for a long journey. Then he pushed his plate away and put both elbows on the table.

'So how did you end up here?'

'By chance. I work for hire, shipyards, mainly. I served my apprenticeship with Laird's in Liverpool.'

'Doing?'

'Everything. Eventually I worked with a little group of people designing different sorts of propellers. By the time I left I was in charge of the entire design office.'

He said this with pride, almost defiance. He must have been used to expressions of blank indifference from the sort of people he encountered in Venice, who considered designing a propeller as an accomplishment of no significance whatsoever.

I wished to ask more. Laird's was an impressive company; its ships set the standards for others to match. But he was already standing up. 'That's too long a story for tonight,' he said gruffly. 'If you're interested, I might tell you. Come to my workshop sometime, if you've a mind to hear it. But I must go and see to my daughter.'

'I would like that very much,' I replied. 'Perhaps I could take you for lunch.'

'No restaurants where I work,' he said, but he was easier in his speech now; the roughness of resentment had eased off him. His final parting was almost civil.

'Well, you are the privileged one,' Drennan drawled as we both stood to put on our coats after the meal. The days were still lovely, but the evening air was now getting steadily cooler. 'What have you done to win his favour? No one has ever been allowed in that workshop of his.'

'Maybe I just showed interest? Or perhaps I was just as rude as he, and he was drawn to a kindred spirit.'

Drennan laughed, a pleasant laugh, easy and warm. 'Maybe so.'

Nor should I have been surprised by Macintyre's workshop, when I arrived there the next day, somewhat late due to the difficulty of finding its location. The part of Venice where he had settled was not only unfashionable among the Venetians, I am prepared to wager that not one tourist in a thousand has ever ventured into it.

He had rented a workshop in the boatyards around San Nicolo da Tolentino, a quarter in which all pretensions to elegance fade away to nothing. This is not the poorest part of the city, but it is one of the roughest. Many of the inhabitants, I am told, have never wandered even as far as San Marco, and live in their quarter as though it is a world of its own, entirely independent of the rest of humanity. I gather (though my own lack of skill prevented verification) that they even speak in a way which is distinctly different from their fellow citizens, and that the forces of law and order rarely penetrate, and then only with some trepidation.

Their business is boats; not the grand sea-faring vessels which were once the pride of Venice, and which were constructed on the other side of the city, but the vast numbers of small craft on which the entire lagoon depends. Need has produced whole species of boats and in a manner which would have satisfied Darwin: specialised to the point where they can do one thing, and one thing only, dependent absolutely on their conditions of existence for their survival, vulnerable to changes which can wipe out an entire class of construction. Some prosper, some fail; thus it is in life, in business and in Venetian shipping as well.

The galley has gone, vanquished by the sailing ship, just as the sailing ship is inevitably falling victim to the superiority of the steamer. Many have vanished even in my lifetime, but their names live on. The gondola, but also the gondolino, the fregatta, the felucca, the trabaccolo, the costanza, all of these still survive, but their days doubtless are numbered. Their passing will be a loss only to the aesthetic sense of those who do not have to operate them, for how much better is a steamer at nearly all things!

Macintyre worked and lived among the sounds and smells of timber and pitch, and was as alien in his operations as he was in his nature and nationality. For he was a man of iron and steel; in his domain the screech of metal replaced the softer sounds of wood being worked. Lathes had displaced saws, finely calibrated instrumentation had seen off the rule of thumb, calculation had vanquished the accumulated experience of the generations.

He was not waiting for me. He never waited for anyone. He always had something to do and used every moment to get on with it. I never knew a man so unable to be at rest. Even when forced to sit still, his fingers would drum on the table, his foot would tap on the floor, he would grimace and make odd noises. How anyone had ever consented to live with him was one of life's little mysteries.

And books? I do not believe he had read a single book except for a technical manual since he left school. He could see no point in them. Poetry and prose he found in the juxtaposition of metal, the flow of oil and the subtle interaction of carefully designed component parts. They were his art and his history, his religion, even.

When I arrived he was as still as he ever became, lost in a temporary reverie as he contemplated a large metal tube lying on the bench before him. It was about fifteen foot long, rounded at one end, with a host of smaller tubes coming from the rear which spoiled the neatness of the whole by disintegrating into a formless, tangled mass. At the end of all this was a metal stanchion to which was attached – even I could recognise it – a propeller of shiny brass, about a foot in diameter.

I didn't feel like disturbing him; he was so obviously at peace, almost a smile on his usually dour face. The years which normally showed through in frowns and lines had fallen away and he seemed boyish in complexion. He was a man who took delight in reducing complexity to order. In his mind the tangled mass of pipes and wires made sense, with each part having its allotted task and with no surplus or waste. It had its own elegance: not the learned, scholarly elegance of architecture, to be sure; this was stripped of the past. A new order, if you wish, justified only by itself and its purpose.

In that tangle of brass and steel, whatever it was, lay the reason for his contempt for Venice, for people like Cort. He felt he could do better. He did not feel the need to live in old buildings and worship dead artists, imitating and preserving. He felt he could surpass them all. This stumpy Lancastrian was a revolutionary in his way.

It disturbed me, for some reason. Perhaps an echo of my upbringing came back to me then, those many hours spent in church or being lectured by my father and others. Some of it sticks, it cannot fail. Man is justified by faith and submission. Macintyre would have none of it and was putting his disagreement into solid form. Man was justified by his ingenuity, and his machines only by whether they performed their allotted tasks.

Not that I thought or felt any of that; I was simply aware that I could not share his absorption, that I was an observer, aware of myself standing there, looking at the concentration of others. But even before I could pin that feeling down, he gave a sigh of contentment, turned and saw me.

Instantly the dour northerner returned to life, the joyful boy banished.

'You're late. Can't abide people being late. And what are you looking at?' he scowled. I could have taken offence at his lack of civility, but I had seen into him, glimpsed his secret. He could offend me no more. I liked him.

'I was admiring your – ah . . .' I gestured at the contraption on the worktable. '. . . Your plumbing.'

He peered at me intently. 'Plumbing, d'you call it, you scoundrel?'

'It is surely a means of heating water for a gentleman's bathroom,' I continued in an even tone.

It was so easy to reduce him to a state of apoplexy but it was unfair to do so. He turned bright red and spluttered incoherently, until he realised I was making fun of him. Then he calmed himself and smiled, but it was an effort.

'Tell me what it is then,' I continued. 'You will have to, because I can make neither head nor tail of it.'

'Maybe,' he said. 'Maybe I will.'

I could barely hear him. The noise in the workshop was considerable, and came from the three people who seemed to be his assistants. All, I could see from their dress, were Italians, all young, all of them concentrating hard on their tasks. Except for the girl, who was obviously his daughter. She was about eight, I would imagine, and was going to be the same shape in female form as her father. Broad of shoulder with a square face and strong jaw. Her fair, short hair was curly, and could have been an advantage had it been tended in any way at all, but as it was it resembled an overgrown bramble patch. She was dressed, also, in a way utterly unbecoming: a man's oversized sweater almost disguised the fact that she was a girl at all. But her face was open, her glance intelligent, and she seemed like a pleasant creature, although the frown as she concentrated on the job of producing some technical drawing in the corner took away most of the small prettiness she possessed.

Macintyre seemed to ignore her completely; it was only as our interview continued that I realised his glance stole away, every few minutes, to that corner of the room where she sat lost in concentration. This was the man's weakness, the only person he loved.

'Come and look around,' he said abruptly when he noticed me looking at her, and led me across the open space to where most of the machinery was installed.

I find it astonishing that any man can regard fine machinery without admiration. The machines our age has produced can induce an awe in me that is as powerful as the impulse to religion in other men. Again, perhaps this is a legacy from my upbringing, with a natural piety diverted and deformed into other channels. But I find I look on such things rather in the way a medieval peasant must have looked on the looming mass of a cathedral, stunned into reverence without comprehension.

In these great halls of production there are marvels to behold. Go to the great ironworks of Sheffield and see the forges, or the new steel presses that have sprung up around Birmingham, see the gigantic monsters that can crush and bend many tons of metal in one swipe of a press, machines so vast that it would seem arrogant even to have dreamed of them. Or to the vast turbine halls that turn water into steam and then electricity in rooms so big clouds can form in their upper levels.

And, in all of these, look at the men who work there. Are the floors clean, the men well dressed and proud of their appearance? Do they work with willingness, is there a sense of purpose in their eyes? Do the employers seek out the best, or the cheapest? Five minutes is enough to tell me if an enterprise will rise or fall, prosper or diminish. It is all in the eyes of labour.

Macintyre's operation was on a much smaller scale, but the principles were the same. And the signs were good. Although ramshackle on the outside, inside the shed was spotless. All the tools were neatly ordered, the floors swept, the benches well organised. The brass on the instruments gleamed, the steel was well oiled. Each machine was cared for and well situated. It had all been thought through. And those he employed went about their business with a quiet resolve, talking rarely and then quietly. They knew what they were doing.

'I found them,' he said when I asked, 'here and there. Giacomo over there was supposed to be a boat-builder, but his father died and he could find no master. I noticed him carving a piece of driftwood to sell to passers-by. He had such fine control of his hands I knew he was intelligent. He made himself indispensable inside a week. He can set up a machine faster and more accurately than any man I have come across. If he had the technical knowledge to go with his skill, he would be formidable.'

He gestured to another. 'Luigi is another. He has more training; I found him in an artist's studio being trained as a restorer. He has no talent for painting, so he had not much of a career ahead of him. His talent is for drawing, he is an immensely skilled draughtsman, and can take my sketches and turn them into plans. He and Giacomo can then turn them into precise settings on the machinery.'

'And that one?'

'Ah, Signor Bartoli. A man of all tasks. He is the general, all-purpose worker. He helps one or other of the two and knows how to follow his instructions perfectly. If something needs doing, he will do it, faster and better than you hoped.'

'You are more fortunate than Mr Cort in your choice of labour, then.'

'I am a better judge of men, more like. And more able to command them. When I see Mr Cort at work, I feel like grabbing him by the neck and giving him a good shake.'

He snorted in disgust, in a way which spoke volumes. Macintyre was thinking what he would have accomplished if he had had the advantages of Cort's birth and opportunities. There are many such men in our industries; I have made it my business to find them and give them their chance.

'Yet you assisted him the other week?'

'Oh, that. That was nothing. It took no time at all, and I was getting heartily sick of listening to his despair. At least he has decided to take my advice. He is even prepared to contemplate blowing the column out with explosives. There may be a man of sense in there after all. His trouble is that he has been trained to do things the way they are done, not the way they should be done.'

'Are you going to tell me what that great thing is over there?' I called out to him. He had wandered over to Luigi, and was discussing some problem, my presence perfectly forgotten. A strange way of talking he had, as well. A sort of pidgin English with smatterings of Italian thrown in. It was the lingua franca of the workshop, where conversations were conducted half in words, half in gestures and mime. All the technical words were in English, not surprisingly perhaps as none of the three Italians knew any of them before they came to Macintyre, and he did not know the Italian equivalents, even when they existed. The grammar was Italian, and the rest was a mixture of the two, with a lot of grunting thrown in to fill up space.

I had to wait for an answer; whatever the problem was it took some sorting and ended with Macintyre on his knees before the machine – some sort of drill, as far as I could discern – like a penitent at prayer, slowly twisting knobs to make fine adjustments, measuring distances with calipers, repeating the operation several times before an outburst of grunting suggested the problem was resolved.

'What was that?' he asked when he returned to my side.

'Your plumbing.'

'Ha!' He turned and led the way back to the lone machine lying clamped on a solitary workbench. 'What do you think it is?'

I looked carefully at the machine before me. It was a thing of some elegance, essentially a steel tube with wing-like projections along its length, tapering at the back and ending with a small three-winged propeller in shiny brass. At the other end, it stopped abruptly and open to the air, but a little way away was a continuation which obviously bolted on to the end to give a rounded shape.

'It obviously is designed to go through the water,' I said. I walked around and peered into the nose of the machine. It was empty. 'And this clearly holds something. Most of its length is taken up with machinery, which I take to be the engine, although there is no funnel, and no boiler. This empty piece must hold the cargo.' I shook my head. 'It looks a bit like a very big shell with a propeller attached.'

Macintyre laughed. 'Very good! Very good! A shell with a propeller. That is precisely what it is. A torpedo, to be precise.'

I was puzzled. A torpedo, I knew, was a long pole pushed from the front of a ship to impale an opponent, then explode. Hardly useful in the days of ironclads and ten-inch guns.

'Of course,' he continued, 'I merely borrow the word as I could think of nothing better. This is an automobile torpedo. A charge of explosive there,' he pointed at the nose, 'and an engine capable of propelling it in a straight line there. Aim it at the opposing ship, set it off and that's that.'

'So the front will be full of gunpowder.'

'Oh no. Gunpowder is too susceptible to damp. And something which goes underneath the surface of the water is liable to get wet, however well it is made. So I will use guncotton. And, of course I can make it myself; one part cotton wool in fifteen parts of sulphuric and nitric acids. Then you wash it, dry it. Look.'

He gestured to a series of boxes in the corner that rested on top of several vats.

'That's the guncotton?'

'Yes. Over the past few months I've made several hundredweight of the stuff.'

'Isn't it dangerous to have it lying around?'

'No, no. It's quite safe, if it's prepared properly. If it's not cleaned and dried as it should be, then it can easily go off all on its own. But this is perfectly safe. To make it explode, it will have to be compressed, then set off with a detonator made of mercuric fulminate. At the moment you could jump up and down on it all day and come to no harm. That's the dangerous stuff over there.' He pointed to another corner.

'What's that?'

'Gunpowder. I bought it before I realised it wouldn't do. It's useless now; I'm going to use it on Cort's pillar, if he can make up his mind what he wants.'

'So the explosive is in the front, it hits the ship and – bang.'

'Bang. Precisely,' he said approvingly.

'What size bang? I mean, how much explosive will you need to sink a battleship?'

'That will be determined by experiments.'

'You're going to fire off torpedoes at passing battleships until one sinks?'

'I don't think that will be necessary,' he said, with the air of one who would have loved nothing more. 'Detonating explosives against plates of armour will do.'

'I'm almost disappointed,' I said. 'But isn't a gun more reliable? Less chance of something going wrong, and less chance of the other ship getting out of the way? And cheaper?'

'Possibly so, but to send a shell of equivalent power on its way you need a gun weighing some sixty tons. And for that you need a very large ship. Which has to be armour-plated, and carry a large crew. With a few of these, a corvette of three hundred tons and a crew of sixty will be a match for the largest battleship in the world.'

'The Royal Navy will thank you for that, I'm sure,' I said ironically.

Macintyre laughed. 'They won't. This will neutralise every navy in the world! No one will dare send their capital ships to sea, for fear of losing them. War will come to an end.'

I found his optimism touching, if misplaced. 'That would kill off demand for your invention, would it not? How many of these could you sell?'

'I have no idea.'

I did. If it worked, and he could persuade one navy to buy them, then he would sell them to every navy in the world. Admirals are as discerning as housewives in a department store. They must have what everyone else is having.

'Does it work?'

'Of course. At least, it will work, when one or two problems are ironed out.'

'Such as?'

'It has to go in a straight line, as I say. That is quite straightforward. But it also has to propel itself at a constant depth, not rising and falling. Through the water, not over the top of it.'

'Why?'

'Because ships are plated above the waterline, but not so heavily below it. Shells burst when they hit the water, so there is rarely direct damage under sea level, and so little need to protect the hulls so far down.'

'How much does it cost to make these?'

'I've no idea.'

'And how much will you try to sell them for?'

'I haven't thought about that.'

'Where would you manufacture them? You could hardly do it here.'

'I don't know.'

'How much have you spent on developing it so far?'

All of a sudden the boyish look of enthusiasm which had animated his face since he began talking about his machine faded. He looked his age and more so, careworn and anxious.

'Everything I have, or had. And more.'

'You are in debt?' He professed to like direct questions. Normally I do not, except where money is concerned. There I desire absolute and unambiguous precision.

He nodded.

'How much?'

'Three hundred pounds. I think.'

'At what rate of interest?'

'I don't know.'

I was appalled. However skilled Macintyre was as an engineer, he was no businessman. In that department he was a naïve as a newborn babe. And someone, I could tell, was taking advantage of that.

I do not object to such practices. Macintyre was an adult and far from stupid. He had entered into an agreement fully conscious of what he was doing. If he did so, that was his fault, not the fault of the person who was so exploiting his unworldly nature. It turned out, so he told me, that he had needed money, both to pay the wages of his men, and to buy the material necessary for his great machine, and had assumed he would be able to pay it off with a job he had taken on designing the metal work for a new bridge to be thrown across the Grand Canal. But that project had collapsed, so no payment was forthcoming, and the debts had mounted up.

'I arrived in Venice with enough money, so I thought, to live indefinitely. But this machine has been more difficult than I could ever have imagined. The problems to be solved! You cannot believe it. Building the case and ensuring it is watertight, designing the engine, the detonator, coming up with an entirely new device to regulate depth. It takes time and money. More money than I have.'

'So you are heavily in debt, with no assets to draw on, paying what I imagine is a high rate of interest. How long before you are unable to continue?'

'Not long. My creditors are pressing. They are insisting that the torpedo be tried out and quickly, otherwise they will call in their debts.'

'Can you do that?'

'I'm going to give a demonstration soon. If it works, I will be allowed to borrow more. But it is too early; much too early.'

He did not continue, and had no need to.

'I think you need a bookkeeper as much as you do a draughtsman or a machinist,' I said. 'Money is as important a component as steel.'

He shrugged, plainly uninterested. 'They're thieves,' he said. 'They'd steal my invention and leave me with nothing unless I was careful.'

'I hate to say it, but you are not being careful.'

'Oh, everything will be just fine next week. When the test is done.'

'Are you sure?'

He looked weary. 'Any sort of calculation in engineering I can do. But show me a contract, or a page of accounts . . .'

'With me, it is the precise opposite. Listen. If you wish, I could look through that side of things, see what the situation is precisely, and tell you – in words even an engineer could understand – how you stand at the moment. Only if you wish. I do not want to interfere in any way.'

I was very reluctant to make this offer, as it is generally unwise to give financial advice unbidden. But the look of hopelessness on his face as he talked of his debts was beguiling. And my mind was racing. An entirely new class of weapon could be formidably profitable, witness Mr Maxim's rapid-fire gun which, from small beginnings, rapidly became more or less obligatory equipment for every army in the world.

And the beauty of Macintyre's machine was that it was so wasteful. Unlike a cannon, which was (so to speak) a fixed investment, with the cost of employment quite low – only the amount needed to buy the shell and the gunpowder – the torpedo could be employed once only. Once sent on its way, the whole thing would have to be replaced. The potential for replacement orders was considerable and (if I knew my sailors) in a conflict they would fire them off like rockets on Guy Fawkes night.

Regular orders from an organisation with bottomless pockets. The prospect was enticing. Not least because I was fairly certain that Macintyre's aim, of eliminating war by making destruction certain, was as unlikely as it was noble. No weapon has ever made war less likely; they merely end wars more quickly by killing people at higher speeds. Until the mind of man invents something capable of killing everyone, that will not change.

But it seemed that the chances of Macintyre ever succeeding with his device were small to non-existent. He barely had the resources to finish one, so what chance had he of producing them in bulk? Who would provide the capital to fit out a factory, hire a workforce? Who would run it, ensure that the machines were properly made, sold and delivered? Macintyre had no idea of any of this, nor did he even know how to find those who did.

The whole situation was full of possibilities. If the machine worked.

CHAPTER 8

He did not buy me lunch, or even share a meal with me, but I was quite content as I walked back to my apartment, taking diversions here and there, so that it was early evening by the time I finally returned. It had been a most interesting day, and my spirits were further buoyed by three messages that awaited my return. One from the Marchesa, saying that I should dine with her the following week, as she had a delightful entertainment for me; the next from Mr Macintyre, containing a bundle of papers and a curt note, saying that here were his accounts, if I wished to look at them. And the last was from Mrs Cort, saying that her husband had given his permission for her to guide me around the city. We could begin tomorrow, if I wished.

My stay in Venice was settling down to being remarkably enjoyable, and no small part of it was due to the surroundings. The quiet of the place has a wonderful appeal if you are receptive to it, the more so because it is so unnoticed. The effect of the light also really cannot be put into words. It is not the peace of an English Sunday, for example, when the quiet is almost total but there is always the knowledge of what came before and what will come the next day. There is always the faintest haze in Venice, suggesting to the mind that the moment will continue forever, that there never will be a tomorrow. It is hard to occupy yourself with the concerns of the world, for concerns are always about what will happen in the future, and in Venice the future will never come, and the past will never disappear. I find that I have only a small recollection of buildings and scenery from that time; I have no strong memories of views or vistas. I had reached a stage where I hardly noticed any of it; some of the greatest works of art and architecture made no conscious impression on me at all. The effect, however, was total and overwhelming. It was like being in a different world, where everything fitted together. An old woman sitting on a step, a palace, a waiter setting out tables, washing on a line, boats crossing the lagoon, islands hazy in the morning mist, seagulls in the sky, all of these were part of this whole, relating perfectly to each other and to my mood, which moved rapidly from dream to purposeful activity seamlessly.

I became a Venetian that afternoon, walking to a spot on the Riva with a book. I had intended to view something, but I do not even remember what, as I never got there. I sat down on the steps of a bridge, and watched the boats go by. A pretty girl was selling pears fresh from the tree. I wanted one, but had no money on me. But they were so luscious, so fat and juicy looking, some bruised already and oozing sweet sticky liquid in the basket. And eventually, I leaned over, and took one, biting into it before she even noticed what I had done. Then she turned, and I shook my head. I couldn't help it, my glance said. The girl, dark haired and bright eyed, smiled at my pleasure, then laughed and offered me another. Take, take, she said. Take what you want. And I did; I took another, bowing in acknowledgement, and not feeling in the slightest bit embarrassed about offering nothing in return. She waved her hand anyway. Don't worry, you will pay later, was the sense of her smile. Everything is paid for, eventually.

That evening, I settled down to read Mr Macintyre's accounts. Some may consider this a dull way of spending time, even an anti-climax after a day such as I had just enjoyed. I know that it is an unusual pleasure and that account books are a byword for spiritless, mechanical drabness, but that is said by those who do not understand them. In truth, a set of accounts can be as full of drama and passion as any novel. A whole year, more than that, of human endeavour is abbreviated, compressed down into a page of hieroglyphics. Add understanding, and the story bursts forth, rather as dried fruit expands when water is added to it.

Macintyre's accounts were a particular challenge because they were so sloppy, and did not conform to any rules of accountancy that I had ever come across. What Italians consider expenditure or income is very different. For some items there seemed to be no fixed definitions at all; had they been deliberately designed to confuse, then they could not have been better constructed.

But eventually I teased out their secrets. Macintyre had run out of money about a year previously, and had had to prepare approximate accounts of the previous few years' endeavours to back his application for a loan. These showed that he had started with £1,300; and he had spent it at about £500 a year. Since taking the loan, he had spent a further £300, which, with accumulated (and unpaid) interest, meant he was now £427 in debt. That is, he was paying interest at about 37 per cent a year, which was quite enough to sink any project.

Most of the money had gone on machinery (part of which was recoverable if necessary), wages and materials for building his machine. His net position was in fact not as bad as it looked at first sight – if all the machinery had been sold at a reasonable price, he would be able to pay off most of his debts. But not all; he would be left with nothing at all for his efforts, except for his invention.

At this point, we entered the land of fantasy. Macintyre had essayed a guess about bringing his torpedo into production, but it was so devoid of any common-sense or knowledge that it was almost laughable. I swiftly enough made my own calculations. Purchase of a suitable premises would cost around £700, the necessary machine tools about £6,000, a workforce of about forty to begin with would mean running costs of about £7,000 a year, which would have to be borne out of initial investment as it was unlikely to produce any revenue for at least that time. Plus the cost of material, which would be about £30 for each machine. Say another £3,000 for the first year. A required initial investment, therefore of £16,700 before a single torpedo was carried onto its first ship, or the first request for payment sent out.

And Macintyre could not even manage a debt of £300 without sinking into near bankruptcy. What was worse, he had been obliged to offer security for the loan and had nothing to give. Instead, he had in effect handed over the patent. Not outright for cash, but merely for permission to borrow. Possibly the most foolish, thoughtless bargain any man has ever made. He no longer owned his own invention.

This part of the paperwork took me some time to get through, as it involved a considerable amount of legal jargon with which I was unfamiliar. Besides, I could not initially believe it, even when I had managed to make it out. But it was all too true. If the torpedo failed, Macintyre would suffer, as his debt would be called in. If it succeeded, he would not benefit, as the machine was not his.

I could only conclude that he did not care: that he was so unworldly that all he wanted was to perfect his invention, to show the world his ability. Macintyre did not want to manufacture his torpedo or make money out of it. Once it was finished, he would probably lose interest. Judging by how he had talked about ending war, it was quite possible he would be almost pleased not to have anything more to do with it. He wanted to show it could be done. That was all.

But why? Why so obsessed, why so careless? Here the limitations of accounts come into play. They can tell of the movements of men, of their money, but rarely give much of an insight into their motives – although Macintyre's fanaticism was written into every column of payments. He bought the best of everything: the highest quality steel; the most expensive German precision instruments. Materials he had imported from Sweden or England, when I was sure perfectly reasonable local substitutes were available at a fraction of the price he had paid. Bills were settled promptly when he had the money. He could not be bothered with the minor savings a delay of a week or a month might bring.

I sat on a chair on my balcony, looking down at the quiet of the canal below, dreaming peacefully. I was calculating fast, something I can do without the need for actual thought. Numbers, money, take shape in my head, and flow into new forms without the need to consider it at all actively. A woman was slowly propelling a barge down the canal, talking loudly to a little girl perched in the front of the boat. They were cheerful, even though it was the end of what had probably been for them a day of long labour. She was in no hurry; would give the oar a twitch, enough to make the boat spurt forward, then rest as it slid along and almost stopped, before twitching it again. By the time she had rounded the corner halfway down, into a tiny side canal I had not noticed before, I had the entire plan laid out in my head.

Macintyre needed to be rescued from himself. In effect, his foolishness had done me a great favour. I would have never even considered trying to wrest control of his invention from him, of forcing my assistance on him against his will or without his knowledge. But it was no longer his; he had sold it. And I had no qualms about taking on his bankers. They were opponents for whom one needed to feel little sympathy, if I could triumph over them.

Cardano would help, I felt sure. He would be able to back a private loan, so that I would retain absolute control and be able to pay off the debt when profits began to rise. I knew exactly the man who could help me set up the enterprise, could put me in touch with land agents to find a site. I would put in six – perhaps five – thousand of my own money, depending on the terms that Cardano could get. A limited company to protect myself. By carefully not paying any bills unless forced to do so, it would be a simple matter to make the suppliers in effect pay for the loan itself. They would get their money eventually, or we would all sink with the torpedo.

I found it all very relaxing, although I knew I would have to revisit my figures the next day, to see whether they were still realistic, or whether I had constructed too optimistic an outlook – underestimated costs, overestimated possible revenues. And I would wander down to the foreign library near San Marco, to see what, if any, information could be had on the world's navies.

I emerged from the library the next day feeling even more cheerful. The main navies of the world were the Royal Navy (everyone knew that) with the French next. After these two came Austria, Italy, the United States, Russia. After them a few South American countries had ideas and ambition, as did Japan. All in all, the world could boast, if that is the right word, some 700 capital ships, 1,400 medium-sized vessels which could be used for fighting, and another 4,000 used for coastal protection and so on. Say fifteen torpedoes for the first category, five for the second, one for the third. A possible world market of more than 20,000 torpedoes, and I reckoned I could charge £300 each. Possible revenues of more than six million pounds. Assume only half of the potential was turned into orders over a period of ten years, and replacement orders of 1/20th part of the total per year. That would suggest recurrent orders of about 1,000 a year, and revenue when properly under way of more than £300,000. Possible profits per year of about £100,000, for an initial investment of £5,000. Assuming the business would be valued at fifteen years' purchase, then that would create an enterprise of about one and a half million pounds.

Navies would order, if it worked. But would it? Macintyre was confident, and I was sure his acumen as an engineer was greater than his skill as a businessman, but even so obsession – and he was surely a man obsessed – leads to cloudy judgement.

Then there was the issue of wresting control from his creditors who, I was sure, had a better notion of his machine's financial potential than he did. They would not give it up for a paltry sum, and I did not wish to pay high. The whole point of the game is to get a bargain. Anyone can pay a full price.

How was this to be done? First, know your opponent and here, much to my surprise, my landlady proved to be a fount of useful information. Ambrosian, the head of the bank that had made the loan, was, she told me, highly respected as a man who had stayed in Venice during the Austrian occupation, but who had refused to have many dealings with Vienna. He had done most of his business with Venetians, and forged contacts with banking families in Italy, France – anywhere but Austria. Like most patriotic citizens, he had refused all invitations to official functions, refused to go to the theatre or opera, refused to sit in a café where an Austrian was sitting and (so it was said) subsidised forbidden groups of nationalists to annoy the foreign oppressors. He was something of a hero; whether he was any good as a banker was another matter entirely. Such information as I could gather from newspapers suggested a well-bottomed, but somewhat unimaginative, operation, which was good. Such people do not like risks. But newspapers are often wrong.

I did wish communications were better. I had sent off a letter to Cardano shortly after I arrived, and had mentioned Macintyre and also Cort, but had received no reply – even going by express mail, it would take a week for a letter to arrive in London, a week for the reply to come back. Better than it had been only a few years previously, no doubt, but in London I could have found all the information I needed in a morning. Now the telegraph criss-crosses the world, telephones are becoming common, and people take instantaneous communication for granted. They should try to imagine a world where a letter – to California, or Australia or India – could take up to a month, even at speed.

CHAPTER 9

The next day was a dream of such perfection that I have never approached the like again. It was, of course, all illusion, but I like to think of it still in isolation from what came after, as a moment of bliss, one of those days when one is no longer oneself, but becomes bigger, and better, able to overcome the normal preoccupations of life and breathe more freely.

Should anyone read this who knows me only from my reputation, I have no doubt that this narrative of idleness and dreaminess will occasion nothing but incredulity. If business and romance do not mix, how very much more incompatible are finance and passion? One requires a personality that is purely cold and rational, the other must give way to the impetuous. Such feelings cannot co-exist in the same individual.

To which I must reply that anyone who thinks this knows nothing of money. Finance is every bit as much an art as painting or music. It is very similar to musical performance, for while much does depend on skill – a musician who cannot play is not a musician; a financier who cannot understand a balance sheet will soon be a beggar – skill can only take you so far. Beyond that point lies poetry. Many find this difficult to believe, but it is true. Some people are so much in tune with the markets that they do not need to manipulate a stock price or break a law to profit. They can feel the ebbs and flows of capital in the way a horse rider understands his steed, and can make it obey him without use of whip or stirrup.

Money is merely another term for people, a representation of their desires and personalities. If you do not understand one, you cannot hope to understand the other. Take the matter of giving an inducement to win a contract. This is frowned on, called bribery and in some cases is even considered criminal. But it is an area in which rational calculation and emotional empathy are the most perfectly fused. It is an art form; a Russian expects an envelope full of money; an English civil servant would be outraged at the idea, but is no less corrupt or greedy. He desires employment for his nephew – which is often a more generous gift. It is diplomacy carried over to the world of affairs, and both require delicacy and judgement. I acknowledge no equal in the art – not even Mr Xanthos, for he is too cynical, too ready to hold the person he persuades in contempt. As I write, I have before me a sheet of paper listing the shares in my companies owned by some of the greatest politicians in England. I arranged it all some six years ago as a precaution and have never asked for anything in return. Nor will I; but these people will, in due course, do what is necessary in their own interests, and mine. Not that anyone else knows of this; it is why my managers are becoming nervous and are unable to understand my calm belief that all will be well. They fear I have lost my touch.

My Venice that day was a city full of tremulous anticipation. I wished to spend the day with Mrs Cort even more than I wished to travel in a gondola around the canals. We met by a landing stage not far from the Rialto, where gondola, gondolier, and a hamper of food already awaited. It was eight in the morning, and brilliantly clear. Warm already, with the promise of more to come. The city itself was sparkling and Mrs Cort – I hope I do not give away too much if at this point I begin to call her Louise – was standing waiting for me, and smiled as I approached, a smile of such warmth and promise that my heart skipped a beat.

Gondolas are not a place for any sort of intimate conversation, although we sat side by side rather than opposite each other. The boats are arranged (for those who do not know) with the gondolier standing at the back, so he had a clear view, not only of the waters ahead, but also of his passengers. They miss nothing, and a flimsy construction over our heads provided only limited privacy. A brushing of hand against hand; the faint pressure of bodies touching in the cramped confines of the hull. It was almost unbearable and I could sense she was under a similar pressure. I could feel the tension within her, longing for some outlet.

And so the morning passed in delicious frustration, the conversation edging towards intimacy, then pulling back before moving closer once more.

'How long have you lived in Venice?' I asked, this being an example of a conversation that proceeded in fits and starts, punctuated by long silences as we were both calmed by the soft splashing of the water against the side of the boat.

'About five months,' she replied.

'You met Mr Cort in England?'

'Yes. In London. Where I was working. As a governess.'

She said this with a slight defiance, as if to see whether my attitude to her would change as a result of learning of her situation.

'How did you come to that position?'

'My father died when I was young, leaving my mother to look after us, two boys and two girls. I was the eldest. When I was fourteen my mother fell ill. So I had to work. Eventually, I was engaged by a family in Chelsea, not rich by many standards, but well enough off to afford me. I cared for their two children until I left to marry. They were delightful children. I miss them still.'

'True love?'

'No. He desired a wife to look after him and I craved the certainty of marriage. It was an arrangement suitable to us both.'

She sighed and broke off to look over the lagoon towards the Lido which was slowly coming closer. I did not wish to intrude, so asked no further, but I understood all too well that she lived in a loveless marriage, deprived of that affection that all human beings must have. It is the situation of many, perhaps it is the normal circumstance of most, and she did not complain of a contract freely entered into. But it is not in our nature to remember how much worse things might have been; we only dream of the better that slips through our fingers.

'And he brought you here.'

'Yes. But I find this dreary conversation for such a day. Tell me about yourself instead. You must have had a more interesting life than I have so far enjoyed.'

'I doubt that. What can I say?'

'Are you married?'

'Yes.'

'Happily?'

Which is the moment I stepped closer to the edge. Yes, happily. My adored wife. I miss her so much. Words acting like an impregnable fortress, able to keep her out, me inside, both separated for ever. I said nothing, and she understood my meaning.

'But your wife is not here. Why is that?'

'She does not like to travel.'

'Does she have a name?'

She was probing, teasing me. Betrayal mounted on betrayal as I turned aside and did not answer once more, then turned back and met her eyes as they looked calmly straight into mine, communicating endlessly, whole volumes about us both.

'And what do you do?'

'I spend my time investing money for gain. It takes up much of my life.'

She looked curious. 'I understand nothing about money,' she said.

'This is not the time to start learning,' I said. 'I find it fascinating and can discuss it for hours, but I also think there must be other topics to talk about when one is in a gondola on a fine morning in the company of a beautiful woman.'

She smiled faintly and looked away. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken thus to her, if anyone ever had.

'I like that,' she said softly.

There then followed the longest silence of the day; our closeness had already grown too great to require words. Instead we both sat quietly, watching the flat strip of land growing closer, I so aware of her it was almost painful.

The Lido has changed greatly since then; now the hotels I once imagined in my mind's eye have sprung up along its length. Then it was all but deserted; the main road was little more than a track that led out of the tiny settlement on the city side of the strip; within a few hundred yards all habitation ceased, and there were instead only cows and a few sheep occupying an island near fifteen miles long and a mile wide.

At the time I was somewhat disappointed; I had anticipated a voyage in the inner lagoon, seeing the sights I thought every visitor should see – Murano, Torcello and all of those. I had not yet seen much even of the main city, let alone its outlying regions, so coming to a place which was virtually deserted, and which had no features of note was not what I desired at all.

'Why have you brought me here?' I asked, somewhat petulantly.

'Wait and see,' she said. 'I love this place. It is the only place where you can be alone. Come.'

She directed the gondolier to pick up the hamper of food and carry it over the island to the other side. She later told me she had discovered this spot many weeks before, and had kept it secret from everyone, treasuring it as a place she alone in the world knew about. To show it to me was the greatest compliment.

The other side was not far; although a mile or more wide at its tip, the Lido narrows down along its length until it is only a few hundred yards across. It is not one island; rather it is a whole string of them, artificially joined over the centuries to form a barrier protecting the city from the Adriatic. It was all but deserted, offering nothing to the population except uncertain weather in winter and a place to walk in summer.

And to swim; I had learned to swim as a boy when I stayed for the summers at the house of a relative in Hampshire. This family possessed a large garden with a fine pond, surrounded by reeds. Once you waded through them, you had the finest swimming place imaginable, with clear fresh water that warmed pleasantly in the sun. There my cousins had taught me to swim and, although I was not expert, I had learned also to love the feel of water. To see the rolling waves of the Adriatic basking in the sunshine of late summer gave me one thought only, which was to wade into the water as quickly as possible.

Again, the thought occurred to me; I had been sent to school at a boarding establishment in Brighton until I was thirteen, and had seen the bathing houses and the women ponderously wading into the icy water – for their health, I imagine, as it is difficult to see how it could have been for their pleasure – dressed in voluminous costumes so heavy they could not possibly have swum without sinking. I remembered also the habitually leaden skies, and the chill that hit you as you emerged from the water dripping wet, only to be frozen by the frigid winds of an English summer.

And here was something close to paradise on earth. Men now go to the South Seas to search for such an unspoilt landscape; back in 1867 it could be found much closer to home, only a short boat ride from San Marco.

'It's beautiful,' I said as we walked down a little path that led to a copse of trees.

She smiled. 'Listen,' she said, pausing for a moment and holding up a finger. I listened.

'What?'

'Nothing,' she replied. 'Nothing at all. There is only the sound of the sea and the birds. That is why I like it.'

We had arrived at her special place, a clearing inside the copse surrounded on three sides by thick foliage that prevented any passer-by from seeing us, and open on the other to the sea, like the most glorious theatre set in the world. It was dark and cool in the shade, and I spread out our blanket on the ground, while Louise opened the hamper and took out the simple food she had prepared – a cold chicken, some bread, and a bottle of water.

'How do you like the architecture of Palladio?' she asked coyly as we finished our meal – which, for all its simplicity, was delicious.

'I like it very much. Or would do, no doubt, if I had seen any. Why?'

'Because that is what you are admiring at the moment.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Mr Cort gave me permission to spend the day showing you the city. I believe he felt that it was improper for me to be alone with you otherwise. In the middle of Venice there could be little scandal.'

'And you disobeyed his orders.'

She nodded. 'Are you shocked?'

'Dreadfully.'

And then I leaned over and kissed her. Very clumsily, even aggressively, but I could stand the tension no more. I was well aware that she might pull back, that the moment might be ruined by my behaviour, but I did not care. I was a Venetian; I could take what I wanted. I had to know and had to show my intentions, however dishonourable and however much I might risk losing her esteem had I made a mistake. It was appalling behaviour, to try and take advantage of a married woman in an isolated spot when she had trusted me. I can only say that I was overtaken by a sort of madness, the impetuosity that comes from being in a foreign land where the usual demands of behaviour are relaxed, combined with the special magic of a place which encourages emotional display normally kept hidden from view.

She did not pull back. Instead, she responded to my advance with a ferocity that encouraged still more from me, and we lay back on the the ground, bodies entwined and unable to get sufficient of each other, groans being the only communication between us apart from the eloquent conversation of our bodies.

How it happened I do not know; I cannot recall whose initiative it was, but I felt her hands exploring my body so firmly that I was roused to a pitch of excitement greater than anything I had ever experienced before, and I scrabbled vainly at her clothes – oh, the clothes of that period, like medieval castles they were, designed to repel all assault – until she pulled back.

Again I was surprised, for I expected her to come to her senses then, and realise the peril of her situation, but she did not. All she said was, 'Not like that,' and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse, then her skirts, until she was revealed to me in all her beauty, and lay back on the blanket, and held out her arms for me, an expression of desperation and longing on her face.

It was not good, that first time, perhaps it never is between two people so uncertain of each other, so unknowing of the other's needs and desires, but she cried out, almost in pain, towards the end and I could feel the tension seeping from her body as it ebbed slowly from mine. Then we lay together, I slowly caressing her belly, still unable truly to believe that such a thing had happened. What was this woman? What sort of person gives herself up in such a fashion? But again I did not care. I had had such thoughts before, with others, and in each case the result had been a sort of disgust, a separation of lust from respect and an inability to reconcile the two feelings. There was no such difficulty now; I was merely content, blissful, and desired nothing more than to hold her close for ever. I felt whole for the first time in my life.

But as I turned to look on her face, I saw tears trickling slowly down her cheek and was startled into sitting up.

'Oh my dear, I am so sorry, so very sorry,' I said genuinely, convinced that she had, at last, realised the folly of her actions.

She laughed through her tears, and shook her head. 'No, I am not crying for that,' she said.

'What then?'

She said nothing, but reached across and found her blouse, which she put, without any underclothes, across her shoulders.

'Tell me,' I insisted.

'I don't know if I can,' she said. 'It is not easy to say it.'

'Try.'

She looked out to sea for a long while, gathering her thoughts.

'I was twenty-seven when I married Mr Cort,' she began softly. 'An old maid. I had all but given up thought of marrying, and believed I would have to make shift as best I could on my own. Then he appeared and proposed. I accepted, even though I knew there would never be any love between us. He made me no promises, nor I him. He wanted a housekeeper; he has no notion of love or romance. Besides, I was giving nothing up, and I thought we would make do together. I would have children, and they would provide affection enough.

'I learned soon enough that was simply a dream as well. He cannot . . . do what you do.'

'What do you mean?'

'We do not have the intimacy of the sort that is usual between man and wife,' she continued stiffly. 'Nor has he any interest in women in that way. I thought to begin with it was just the shyness of a habitual bachelor, but I soon realised that it was more than that. No! I must say no more!'

'As you wish, but do not keep silent for my sake.'

I could see what she meant by this being difficult; it was hard to listen to. But once she had started she could not stop; it was as though all her words had been blocked in her for years and took the first opportunity to come bursting out into the open, to the first sympathetic listener. I said nothing at all, merely listening cemented our intimacy and drew our lives closer together, made us lovers in the soul as well as the body.

'He has other tastes. Terrible, perverted, disgusting ones. He did his duty, and we had our son, but that was all. When I discovered . . . what he was, I could no longer go near him. I will not have him touch me, if I have the choice. Do you understand?'

I nodded, but only hesitantly.

'That is why he likes Venice. There is opportunity, for people like him. You think of him as a mild, gentle man, do you not? Foolish, ineffectual but good-natured.'

'I suppose that is my general impression, yes.'

'You do not know him. You do not know what he is like.'

'I find this all difficult to believe.'

'I know. Much of the time he is as you know him. But then the madness comes on him and he changes. He is violent, cruel. Do you want me to tell you the things he does? The things he makes me do, when I don't run away, or lock myself in a room so he cannot come to me, him and the people he finds? He likes pain, you see. It excites him. It is the only thing which does. He is not manly in the world and he takes his revenge on me.'

I shook my head. 'Don't tell me.'

I reached out and took her hand, horrified by what she was saying. How could anyone treat such a woman – any woman – in the fashion she hinted at? It was beyond all understanding.

'You do not seem like someone who has been so abused,' I said.

'I do not have bruises or cuts, at the moment,' she said. 'Do you doubt me? Wait a little and soon enough I will have marks to satisfy you.'

'I did not mean that,' I replied quickly. 'I meant that you do not have the air of a woman mistreated. Neglected, unloved, perhaps.'

'I have grown used to it,' she said. 'It was not always so. In the beginning I rebelled, but how could I do so successfully? I have no money of my own, no position, he is my husband. If I ran away, where would I run? He would find me again, or I would starve. I tried, once, but I was discovered before I could leave.

'So I have learned. I think to myself that perhaps not all men are like that. I tell myself that it will pass. Once the madness passes, he is perfectly agreeable for weeks before it starts again. He has allowed me to show you around; is that the decision of a monster? The man you have met, is he cruel and violent? No. To the outside world he is meek and mild. Only I know the truth of what he is like. But who would ever believe me? If I said anything it is I who would be called mad, not him.'

Here she broke down completely, her head in her hands, sobbing silently. She could not go on, and even turned her back on me when I tried to comfort her. I insisted, and eventually she gave way, throwing herself into my arms and crying without restraint.

I could not yet see my course of action; all I knew was that I would eventually have one. 'You must leave,' I said. 'Leave Venice and your husband.'

'I cannot,' she said scornfully. 'How could I do such a thing? Where would I go?'

'I could . . .'

'No!' she said, really frightened now. 'No, you must say nothing. Do nothing. You must promise me.'

'But I must do something.'

'You must not! Do you think of yourself as a knight in shining armour, rescuing the damsel in distress? We do not live in an age when such things happen. He has rights. I am his property. What would happen? He would deny it all, of course. He would say I was inventing things. He would get someone like Marangoni to say that I was a habitual liar, that I was mad. Do you think that if I told the truth, said that he beats me to become excited . . .'

She broke off, horrified at what she had said, that she had let out more than she wished about her hellish existence.

'Please,' she said, pleading with me. 'Please do not take matters into your own hands. Do not intervene. There is nothing you can do for me. Except to love me a little, show me that there are men who are not monsters, that there is more to love than pain and tears.'

I shook my head in confusion. 'What do you want?'

'I need to think, to clear my head. Meeting you was – I cannot describe it. The moment I saw you I felt something I have never known before. I do not ask you for help; there is nothing you can do for me. I ask you simply for your presence, a little. That is more soothing and comforting than anything you can say or do.'

'You ask for too little.'

'I ask for more than any person has ever given me,' she replied, stroking my cheek. 'And if I asked for more, I might not get it.'

'You doubt me?'

She did not reply, but threw herself on me once more. 'No more words,' she said. 'Not for a while.'

She was ferocious; it was as though, having unburdened herself to me, shown me her secrets, she had no need left of any modesty or caution. She was violent with me, just as others had been violent in their hatred of her; it was her defence, I thought, to respond to her tormentors in such a way. Afterwards she lay once more on the ground, stretched out with a total lack of caution or care.

'I wish I could die now,' she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. 'Do you not agree? To end your life in this place, with the sound of the sea and the trees, the light twinkling through the branches. Will you kill me? It would make me happy, you know. Please, kill me now. I would like to die at your hands.'

I laughed, but her face was serious. 'Then I would never see you again, or talk to you or hold you,' I said. 'And I am a selfish man. Now I have you, I will not let you go so easily, whatever your wishes.'

'Oh, if only I had known men such as you existed! I might have made different choices.'

'Listen,' I said, beginning to pull on my clothes. Time was passing, far quicker than I wished and one of us had to remember the outside world continued to exist. 'How do you wish to proceed now? I need hardly say that I want to repeat this afternoon. Do you want that also? If you do not, then tell me now because I could not stand to be repulsed.'

'What would you do if I refused you?'

'I would leave, and quickly. There is no vital reason to stay here.'

'Do not leave. I really would die if you did.'

'So, what do we do now? We cannot come all the way to the Lido every afternoon. And we cannot meet either in your lodging or mine.'

'I have had no experience in arranging secret meetings with a lover,' she said, and I could hear in her voice a faint tremor of excitement, as though the very idea was bringing her spirits back to life.

'Nor I,' I replied truthfully. 'But I believe it is usual in such circumstances to rent a room, generally in some poor part of the city. It would not be elegant, and would offer few conveniences except privacy. Such things are normally for women of low quality, though, and I would hesitate . . .'

'No! Let us do that! That is what I am. Nothing more than that, and I will be that for you with pleasure.'

I looked closely at her. She was serious.

It was settled, and in the most businesslike terms. There was no need for delicacy of language, for in our acts we had already passed beyond the point of dissimulation. Secrecy was of the essence. I would acquire a room for our meetings. We would be conspicuous to some, no doubt, but not to anyone who might care. As long as we were safe from the prying eyes of other foreigners, we could be safe. The Venetians see all and say nothing.

And so we made our way back, as the evening light was beginning to settle over the city. The gondolier rowed methodically, making us feel safe by his knowing silence. We sat together, side by side, until we were close in, and said not a word to each other. The evening shadows were our conversation, the softness of the light and the calm of the water were our emotions made tangible. Venice is quiet in comparison to most cities, yet it seemed noisy and raucous to my ears as we came in to land. The people walked too fast, had too many reasons for what they did and said, unlike me, as I no longer had any reason or desire to do anything.

I touched her only as I helped her out of the gondola, and our eyes met briefly before the collusion and dissimulation that was to be our life from now on intervened. It was an electric moment, as we both realised how much we were now bound to each other, conspirators together, living a secret life of lies and deceit.

I consider myself a moral man, who upholds the laws of God and man as best as he is able. I was married and, in all the time since I wed my wife, I had never deceived or betrayed her in any way. I hold to my contracts and keep my word. I considered that Louise had been absolved from whatever vows she had sworn by the treatment she had received. She had said too much, and regretted her words, but I now had some idea of the hellish life she endured with her husband. No one owes loyalty to such a person.

I had no such excuse and I try to make none. Except to say that excitement is a drug, and Venice is a treacherous place, which sucks people down. I wanted her, and for the first time in my life all the arguments and reasons which would have stopped me were of no effect. I didn't even consider what I was doing; did not feel guilty for a single moment. All objections I brushed aside. Venice had taken hold of me, and I had rushed into its embrace as willingly as I had rushed into hers.

The rest of the world would not have viewed it with such indulgence, of course; I had seduced another man's wife, and what had begun in hot blood I intended to continue in a spirit of calculation. The life of deception started that moment. 'I must thank you, Mrs Cort, for your assistance today. I trust you did not find it too dull.'

'On the contrary,' she replied. 'And if you wish me to accompany you again, then please do not hesitate to say so. I am sure Mr Cort will not object.'

And then we bade each other farewell in a stiff and formal fashion, and I turned to leave, my heart pounding with excitement.

My liaison demanded secrecy, and what better way of ensuring that than to act entirely normally? I might have wandered the streets, soaking up the atmosphere of the place which was already coiling itself around my being. Venice is the most dangerous place on earth, or was then, until the tourists came and swamped the air of threat, which existed in its very stones, with the futile frivolity of the sightseer, and converted the inhabitants into supplicants of the transient.

'Why so moody?' Such might have been the question had any acquaintance encountered me, and it was far too soon to run such risks. So I resolved to shut off that part of my thoughts and switch my attention to other things. There was a part of me – an ever-diminishing, weakening part, it is true – which fought against the seductions of the city, although only half-heartedly.

I walked to the offices of the Banca di Santo Spirito and left my card for Signor Ambrosian. I wished to meet a man who knew about the city – knew how it worked, that is, rather than knew about its buildings, which is always the easiest thing to discover, and who also knew about Macintyre. I have always found it strange that people are willing to travel to a place, and devote some considerable energy to doing so, yet leave with not the slightest knowledge or interest in the lives of the inhabitants.

An old friend of mine travelled through the Balkans a few years ago and spent months in those countries, yet came back knowledgeable only about landscapes and the architecture of Orthodox monasteries. How was capital accumulated? How were the cities run? Was the system of taxation efficient or no? What levels of literacy and discipline could you count on among the population? What, in other words, about the stuff of their lives? Not only did he have no knowledge of these things, he had no interest in them, seeming to think that monasteries merely pop out of the ground like mushrooms without any application of either money or labour, and that cities are simply wished into existence for no reason other than to delight the eye of the visitor.

The same applies to Venice, but on a grander scale. What were these people doing living in the middle of the sea like that? Why, in their days of greatness, did they not migrate to the land? How, now that those days of grandeur were past, did they intend to adapt themselves to a new world? Signor Ambrosian seemed the best fitted to answer such questions. No one else I had yet met was likely to do so.

I wrote a note on the back of my calling card, asking him to send a message to my accommodation, and then returned there for a rest before dinner. I was hungry; the day had been long, and the food not plentiful, and the excitement had worked up a fine appetite in me. I was looking forward to dinner and my own company, for I resolved that that evening I would eat alone. It was natural, even necessary, to place myself in the way of English society, but I was not, that evening, willing to converse with the likes of Longman in a fashion of easy conviviality – and I knew that such a manner was utterly vital if my deception was to be successful. Besides, I was not yet ready to meet Cort again.

For the next few days a certain watchful peace descended on me. All thoughts of leaving and moving on to new sights and places fell away so softly I did not even realise they had departed. I could not even keep myself fixed on reality through business, as I received a letter from Signor Ambrosian's secretary to say the banker was away for a few days, but that he would be happy to make my acquaintance on his return.

I was in love; for the first time in my life, so I thought. When I had taken her, I had abandoned all my caution and any doubts; she was irresistible, and I did not want to resist. Her vulnerability, which hid so well a terrible animality, fascinated me. I could see nothing but perfection. I wanted her more than anything else in my entire life. I was not a passionate man in my habits, not romantic in my behaviour: I imagine this is obvious already. I had disciplined myself carefully and thoroughly, but nature will out; Venice, and Louise Cort broke the dam, and a torrent of emotion burst through. The more I possessed her, the more I was prepared to lose myself in that glorious, unmatched feeling and prove it through recklessness.

I thought I was in love because I knew so little. I thought I loved my wife, but Louise showed me that was mere affection, with not even much respect to solidify it. And then I thought I loved Louise, not realising it was simply passion, untrammelled by knowledge. Only when I came to Elizabeth did I finally understand, and by then I was getting old; it was almost too late. She saved me from a dry and empty life. I had looked for someone perfect, but did not realise until then that was not the point. Only when you can know someone's every fault, failing and weakness and not care do you truly know what love is. Elizabeth certainly has her failings; every single one of them makes me smile with affection, or feel sad for her sufferings. I have known her now for nearly two decades, and every day I know her better, love her more. She is my love and more than that.

But then Louise Cort, the image and remembrance of her, filled my days and my mind, and tinted the city I daily grew to know ever better. I became lover and saviour; my pride and vanity grew as my association with her contrasted my nature all the more powerfully with that of Cort. The practical matters were easily disposed of; there was a man who worked at the hotel I had initially stayed in. Signor Fanzano spoke English and had struck me as a robust, commonsensical fellow, worldly and discreet.

'I have a certain requirement for accommodation,' I said, when I discovered him near the kitchens of the hotel. 'I need some rooms that are comfortable but private.'

He did not ask what I wanted such a thing for, merely applied himself to the matter. 'Do I take it you do not wish anyone to know you have these rooms?' he asked.

'Yes. That is the main necessity.'

'So not in the centre. Not in San Marco. But, presumably, not too far away either.'

'Precisely.'

'Do you have any particular price in mind?'

'None.'

'And how long would you need this for.'

'I do not know. I will happily pay for three months to begin with. They must be furnished and clean.'

He nodded. 'Leave it to me, Mr Stone. I will send a message when I have come up with something.'

Two days later I received a message to apply to a Signora Murtano in a small street close to San Giovanni è Paolo near the Fondamenta Nuova. She turned out to be one of Fanzano's relations (although everyone in Venice seems to be a relation of everyone else) with a sitting room and bedroom to rent in a dingy house which had fallen far from its days of glory, if it had ever had any. But it had a fireplace (wood extra, as usual), a separate entrance and only the cruellest luck might have caused me to encounter anyone I knew as I was entering or leaving. The price was exorbitant, not least because I had decided to give Fanzano a handsome reward both for his dispatch and for his discretion. It was a good bargain, as it turned out: it acquired the loyalty of a man who served me well for the next three decades, but nonetheless, I felt at the time that the price of love in Venice was steep.

Still, it was done, and the day after I had made the arrangement, I arranged for Louise to accompany me on another tour of the city. We visited San Giovanni together, and then I showed her my find.

She knew exactly what I intended as we approached the front door, and I was afraid that the practicality of it might affect her sensibilities. And so it did, but only to make her more wild and passionate.

'Don't open the shutters,' she said, as I moved to let some light into the rooms so she could see it better. We spent the next two hours exploring a new land far more exotic than a mere city of brick and marble could ever be, even if it does float in the ocean like some fading flower.

She was the most exciting woman I had known. She brought out a recklessness in me that I had never believed existed. Only very occasionally did things go awry between us, then and every time thereafter that she could steal away for an afternoon, an hour, even on one occasion a fumbling, desperate encounter of less than fifteen minutes when she tore at me as her husband waited below. That excited me, thinking of her returning to her duties as a wife, clothes immaculately in order, face calm and showing no sign of the way I had only a few moments before pushed her against the wall and pulled up her dress to make her cry out with pleasure. He could not do that. I half wanted him to know.

Once she pulled away as I was reaching for her, I grabbed her arm and she turned angrily away, but not before I caught sight of a red weal across her upper arm.

'What's that? How did that happen?'

She shook her head and would not answer.

'Tell me,' I insisted.

'My husband,' she said quietly. 'He thought I had misbehaved.'

'Does he suspect that . . .'

'Oh no! He is too stupid. I had not done anything amiss. It does not matter. He gets the desire to hurt, that is all.'

'That is all?' I replied hotly. 'All? What did he do to you? Tell me.'

Again a shake of the head. 'I cannot tell you.'

'Why not?'

There was a long pause. 'Because I am afraid that you might wish to do the same.'

CHAPTER 10

And so it went on; we found time to meet more and more often, sometimes every day; she became expert at slipping away unnoticed. We talked little; she became sad when we did, and in any case we had little enough to say. Then I did not think that mattered.

I had forgotten the Marchesa's salon, and groaned with disappointment when I remembered it. Nonetheless, I did my duty, and presented myself on the following Friday evening at seven. I was bathed, as well as is possible in a house with no running water and no easy means of heating what there was, shaved, changed, and felt moderately satisfied with my appearance.

I imagined an evening such as one might encounter in London or Paris; alas, it was very different – remarkably dull for the first part, deeply disturbing for the second. A soirée in Venice is a dreary, weary affair, with about as much joy in it as a Scottish funeral and a good deal less to drink. The spirit of Carnevale has so deserted the city that it requires real effort to remember that it was once famed for its dissolution and carefree addiction to pleasure. That pleasure is now well watered, and joy rationed as though in short supply.

I attended few such events in my time in the city and when I left them I felt I had been there for hours, though my pocket watch said it was less than half an hour on each occasion. You enter, are presented with a dry biscuit and a very little wine. Then you sit in a respectful circle around your hostess until decorum says it is time to leave. I freely admit I understood little of the conversation, as even the elevated talk in dialect, but the seriousness of the faces, the lack of laughter, the ponderousness of the speech all indicated I was missing little.

And it was cold, always. Even if a small fire burned bravely away in a far corner, its feeble heat did little but tantalise. The women were allowed to tuck earthenware pots of hot ashes about their persons to give some minimal warmth, but such things were not allowed to men, who had to freeze and try to forget the slow progress of icy numbness up the fingers and arms. Decline had expelled merriment, which belongs to greatness; the feebler Venice had become, the more humourless were its inhabitants. They were in mourning, perhaps.

The Marchesa was Venetian by marriage only, but had embraced dullness with the enthusiasm of a convert. She dressed for the occasion in black with acres of lace and a headdress which almost completely covered her face, then sat on the settee, quietly greeting those who arrived, conversing briefly with them and, as far as I could tell, waiting pointedly until they got up, bowed and left.

At least I was being introduced to Venetian society, although I later learned that the most respectable had long since refused to enter her door, and she had equally long ago ceased to invite them. There had been something of a scandal – the Marchesa, as I have mentioned, was not Venetian and, even worse, was penniless when she married her husband.

Which was done against the wishes of his family, and that was the source of the scandal. Especially as the good gentleman – many years her senior – had died not long after without successfully providing an heir. This was such a complete failure of responsibility that the Marchesa was held to be somehow to blame, because someone had to be at fault for such a lapse in a family which, however impecunious of late, had successfully negotiated disease, war and ill fortune to survive in an unbroken line for seven centuries.

Now it was all over; a great name was on the verge of extinction – already was extinct, in the opinion of many. Bad fortune attends all families eventually; England itself sees regular snuffings out of great names; for my part I care not one jot, nor would I if they all disappeared, although I grant the utility of aristocracy in holding land, for unless that is stable the country cannot be. But, for the most part, three generations is more than enough to complete the ruin of any line. One generation to make the fortune, a second to enjoy it, and a third to dissipate it. In my case, of course – unless my current quest produces an answer I do not expect – not even that is allotted to me. I have no heir. It is something we could not do. All wish to leave something behind them and the vast organisation I have created is not enough. I would have liked a child; as I buried my father, so he should have buried me, and looked after Elizabeth when I was dead. It is our only chance of any immortality, for I do not delude myself that my creations will outlive me for long; the life of companies is very much shorter than the life of families.

That, in truth, was the greatest sadness of our lives together; we were so close. Elizabeth was transformed by joy when she told me she was to have a baby, and tasted true, uncomplicated happiness for the first time. But it was snatched away in the most horrible fashion imaginable. The child was a monster. I can say it now, although for years I banished all thought of him. He had to die; would have anyway. She never saw it, never knew what had really happened, but the sorrow was overwhelming for her. We buried him, and mourned – for him and for what might have been. It was not her fault; of course it wasn't. But she took it on herself, thought that her life had somehow been responsible, that the degradation she had known had suffused her being to such an extent that even the product of her body was corrupted. I thought for a while she might never recover, worried she might go back to those terrible drugs that she had once used so readily when strain and nervousness overtook her. Her life had been hard and dangerous; the syringe of liquid made her forget just enough to keep going.

She came through, of course; she is so very brave. But there were no more children. The doctors said another pregnancy might kill her. I think she would have embraced such a death gladly. She is more precious than all the heirs, all the children in the world. Let everything turn to dust, blow away on the winds! But let me have her by my side until the end. If she left me, I would die myself.

'I do hope you enjoyed my little evening,' the Marchesa said when all was, at last, over.

'It was charming, madam,' I replied. 'Most interesting.'

She laughed, the first light-hearted sound to have filled the room all evening. 'It was terrible, you mean,' she said. 'You English are so polite you are ridiculous.'

I smiled in an uncertain fashion.

'Yet you behaved yourself, and made a good impression. I thank you for that. You have solidified the reputation of your country as a place of seriousness and dignity, by sitting and saying nothing for such a long time. You may even receive an invitation to some evenings from one or two of my guests.'

She noticed the look of dismay which passed over my face.

'Don't worry; on that they are easy enough. They will be quite happy if you do not go.'

She stood up and let her dress fall about her. I got up as well.

'And now,' she said, 'we may begin on the more interesting part of the evening.'

My spirits lifted at the very idea.

'We will eat first of all, and then . . .'

'Then what?'

'Ah, for that you must wait and see. But there will be people you know, so you will not be lonely. Have you encountered Mrs Cort, for example?'

I trust that I did not give myself away, but in some ways she was excessively perceptive. I said I had met Mrs Cort.

'Poor woman.'

'Why do you say that?'

'It is not hard to see that she is unhappy,' she said softly. 'We have become friends, in a fashion, and she has told me much of her life. The cruel way she was treated by employers in England, the failings of her husband . . .' She put a painted nail to a painted lip to indicate the need for discretion. 'She is drawn to the Beyond.'

I could have said that, in my experience, her interest in more earthly matters was rather more notable, and that I had no need to be told about discretion, but said nothing.

'But then, this life has little to offer her,' she continued.

'She has a husband and a child.'

She shook her head in a melodramatic fashion. 'If you knew what I know . . .' she said. 'But I must not gossip. Let us go in and welcome the guests.'

She allowed me to take her arm, and we finally left the cold, draughty salon. I did feel slightly aggrieved that what I had taken to be Louise's confidences to me she had also divulged to the Marchesa, but accepted that desperation does make women tell each other secrets. I put it out of my mind, and felt my mood improving with every step towards the dining room; merely moving began to unfreeze my flesh, although feeling her so close was a little uncomfortable. She wore her usual overpowering perfume and pressed herself against my arm in a manner which was perhaps more intimate than her age made respectable.

In the dining room the candles were lit, and a fire blazed to take off the evening chill – it was warm outside but the houses are so permanently damp they are never truly comfortable at night – and food was waiting to be served. We ate, and as we ate others entered. Marangoni, first of all, then Mr and Mrs Cort, and my heart leapt as I saw her, and we exchanged a brief glance of complicity. She held my gaze for only a fraction of a second; no one could have seen it, but it was enough. I wish to be with you, now, she told me, as plainly as anything could. Not with him. I greeted Cort as ordinarily as I could, but my feelings towards him had changed utterly. As much as possible I had taken to avoiding those places where I was likely to run into him; I did not trust myself not to betray some hint of my contempt, as I could not now think of him without remembering Louise's description of what he was truly like. He noticed, I am sure, and was bemused by it, as well he might be, and the temptation to explain welled up in me. For her sake only I controlled myself and made polite conversation for a few moments, although his replies were vague and slow.

Macintyre was not there, of course. He was too solid a man to consider attending such an event, even had he not been offended by the Marchesa's rejection of his wish for rooms that might have made his daughter more comfortable. Longman and Drennan made up the party, so we were seven in all by the time the meal was done – not a Venetian amongst us, I noted.

Then the Marchesa began to talk, all about auras and journeys, souls and spirits, This Side and The Other Side. The room was darkened, the atmosphere became more tense, even though not a single guest was anything other than sceptical about the entire business. Except perhaps Louise, who seemed quite nervous. About Cort I could not tell; he seemed almost drunk, unresponsive to what was going on all around him.

We were going to have to pay for our meal with a visit to the Other Side. It was absurd, of course, but in comparison to a more orthodox Venetian at home, it was positively enticing. Certainly it was different, and I was interested to see how it might be done. What stagecraft was to be deployed, how convincing it would all seem. To begin with, it was hard to stop laughing; I noticed that even Drennan – not a man to give way to raucous amusement – was working hard to prevent his mouth twitching into a grin. The Marchesa adopted an ethereal tone of voice and waved her arms around so the folds of her sleeves billowed out. 'Is anybody there? Do you wish to communicate with anyone in this room?' She put her hands to her forehead to indicate concentration; stared wild-eyed at the ceiling to hint at the awesome nature of what was happening; sighed heavily to show spiritual disappointment; groaned softly to prove how hard she was having to work. 'Be not afraid, O spirits! Come and deliver thy message.' In fact, it was very like a parody of a spiritualist meeting, and hard to avoid giving the table a kick, just to see how she would react.

But then the atmosphere changed. 'A message for the American amongst us?' she moaned quietly. 'Yes, speak!' And we all looked at Drennan, who seemed not best pleased to be singled out in this fashion.

'Do you know someone called Rose? It is a message from someone called Rose.' She intoned, oddly businesslike now, talking in a normal voice which was much more frightening than the obviously fake ethereal tone she had employed up to now. 'She wishes to talk to you. She says she loves you still.'

This was when the amused air of the audience truly vanished, and utter silence descended. For we were all aware that Drennan's face had turned ashen, and he had stiffened in his chair as though he had received a terrible shock. But we said nothing. 'She says she forgives you.'

'Really? What for?' Longman asked, his plummy voice – quizzical and normal – sounding entirely out of place and almost shocking. Alas, the spirit was talking to itself, not indulging in a conversation. We got no answer to his question. Whether or not it made any sense to Drennan was unclear; his face was frozen and he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

'Ah! She is gone!' the Marchesa said. 'She cannot stay.'

Then a long sigh and theatricality took over once more. We had another five minutes of little smiles, and frowns and 'Ohs! and 'Ahs!' Then more of the 'Come to me, O spirits!' nonsense, before she got down to business again. This time it was Cort who was being contacted, and I knew the moment she began that this was going to cause trouble. Drennan was tough, unemotional, sensible. But even he had been rattled. How Cort – so much more fragile – would react was fairly predictable. He was already looking pale, his gaze glassy, had complained of a headache during the meal, had eaten little. He did, however, drink prodigious quantities of water.

The Marchesa spun it out as well, the spirits coming and going, starting to speak then hesitating, having to be cajoled into giving their message. The build-up of tension was remarkably well done, and it was all too evident that Cort, now bolt upright and sweating, was succumbing to a bad case of nerves.

'Is there someone called William here?' she asked, which did not impress me overmuch, as she knew perfectly well that there was. 'There is someone here who wishes to talk to him.'

Cort, looking pale, but trying to maintain an expression of manly scepticism, put up his hand.

'Her name is Annabelle,' said the Marchesa, reverting to her usual voice. 'She is in great distress.'

Cort did not reply, but the Marchesa took silence as assent. 'It is one who loves you,' she said. 'She is sad and distressed. She says you know full well what she means.'

Cort, again, said nothing, but was breathing heavily, sweating profusely. Then the Marchesa began speaking in voices, a girlish squeak that was quite terrifying to hear even for me. The effect on Cort was indescribable. 'William, you are cruel. You dishonour your name. Stop, or he will take your soul. I am the one who gave my life, that you might live.'

A savage cry came from Cort's throat at this statement, and he screamed, pushing over his chair and backing, wild-eyed to the wall. The noise brought the Marchesa from her reverie, and she stared around in confusion – very convincingly, I must say. I do not think she was faking; she clearly did go into some sort of trance. Even I, sceptic though I was, was prepared to grant her this.

Then she focused on the scene her words had created, peering with alarm at the mayhem she had let loose. Cort, hard against the wall, sobbing and moaning; chairs tumbled over the floor as he had struck out at imagined apparitions; Drennan, the only one of us to maintain some self-possession, moving to pick up the candelabrum that had tumbled on the floor and which threatened to burn the place down; Louise leaping back from the table and standing stock still, staring at her husband.

'Cort, my dear fellow . . .' Longman began, advancing towards him.

Cort stared in terror at him, rushed to a side table where the sweetmeats and brandies had been placed, and grabbed a sharp knife used for peeling fruit. 'Get away from me! Get away! Leave me alone!' The tears flowed down his cheeks as he spoke, but underneath them there was anger as well.

Even though he had certainly never used a knife for such a purpose before, he looked dangerous to me and I was quite prepared to follow his instructions. Longman was made of braver – or more foolish – stuff. Even though Drennan called out a warning, he advanced on the young man, hands held out.

'Calm yourself, dear boy,' he said in a kindly fashion. 'There's nothing . . .'

He did not finish. Cort backed away towards his wife and began lashing out violently; it was obvious from his expression that he was not feinting. Louise fell back just in time, a long red scratch showing through the sleeve of her green dress. She fell to her knees with a piercing cry, gripping her wounded arm.

'Dear God!' 'Stop him!' 'Are you mad?' All these conventional phrases burst from people's lips as Cort turned, threw the knife on the floor, and ran for the door, just as Drennan hurled himself forward and brought him to the ground. There was no struggle; Cort made no resistance, but broke down completely, sobbing on the floor as all around looked on at the scene, horrified, appalled, disgusted, embarrassed according to their temperaments.

Then people reverted to type. Longman started moaning as though he had been stabbed, not Louise; Marangoni became medical and started to treat her, examining her wound with remarkable gentleness. The Marchesa collapsed in a fit of vapours, and Drennan, reassured that the violence had gone out of the man, coaxed Cort to his feet and over to a chair. Only I – not victim, not healer, not a hunter – had no natural role to adopt. I went to Louise to assist, but was pushed back by Marangoni, and I noticed an interested, knowing look on his face as he did so. So I pretended; surveyed the scene, escorted the Marchesa to a chair, and poured her – and myself – a large brandy. Louise was still kneeling on the ground, trembling with fear and shock. But her eyes puzzled me; they were wide, but not with the horror and fear of what had just happened.

The wound was not severe; the knife had penetrated flesh, but the damage was more dramatic than real. Marangoni swiftly bound it up with a napkin, and sat her down with a brandy as well. His pronouncement that she would live – it was obvious, but it is always good to have an expert opinion – lightened the atmosphere considerably. Then he turned his attention to Cort, who had collapsed and was sitting on the floor by the wall, hunched up, his arms around his legs, his head on his knees. I felt, at that moment, total loathing for him.

'He needs to be sedated,' he said. 'And he needs to sleep. Then we can see what is to be done with him. I assume no one wishes to involve the authorities?'

There was a chorus agreeing that this would be a bad idea. Marangoni looked almost satisfied, as though his predictions about Cort had come spectacularly true. But at least he knew what to do, could propose some course of action. He was, suddenly, a commanding presence and I realised for the first time why he was in a position of authority. He was good at it.

He gave his orders. Cort would be taken to his hospital for the night; Drennan would accompany him there, to make sure there were no further problems. In the morning he would begin a proper examination.

'And Mrs Cort? Someone must escort her home.'

'Of course you must not! You must stay with us, my dear Mrs Cort,' Longman said kindly.

'Or here. I have more room,' the Marchesa interrupted, seemingly a little annoyed at Longman's offer.

Louise nodded. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 'You are all very kind . . .'

Everybody was attempting to comfort her. Only Marangoni said nothing, but watched her carefully; I could see his eyes flickering to me as well. That annoyed me. Even at a moment like that, all he could do was diagnose, watch and interpret.

'And your son?' he said eventually.

Louise looked at him, and hesitated for a moment. 'He is at home with the nurse. No harm will come to him,' she said.

And so it was arranged; Longman offered to come back if any further assistance was needed and took his leave. I also made my excuses and retired to my rooms.

An hour later Louise came to me. I was waiting for her. By the time she slipped away at dawn I had told her I would never leave her, that I wanted her for ever. That I loved her, would protect her.

CHAPTER 11

I met Signor Ambrosian on his return; the meeting was arranged swiftly, and I waited on him at his bank close to the Piazza San Marco. Not at all like the palaces of London, where Rothschilds and Barings hold court to Europe and the world. The Banco di Santo Spirito (quite a charming name, I thought, implying that all this usury was to serve God the better rather than to enrich a few families) could not be compared to one of the great houses of London. Nonetheless, it showed ambition in the way it had cleaned out a Renaissance palace, and refitted it in the dark wood and heavy veined marble that was the necessary indicator of solidity in every serious financial centre.

Ambrosian matched his building. Venetians, of all Italians, are the most difficult to read; they do not show their emotions easily. Life is a serious business for them and many have a natural melancholy which makes social intercourse quite difficult. Ambrosian was very reserved; perfectly polite, but with no openness or welcome about him. He was a handsome man, immaculately dressed with a shock of silver grey hair which was matched by a grey necktie and (a foreign touch) large pearl cufflinks, and a vase of silvery flowers on his desk. He was a fine fellow, a shrewd businessman, more than ready to exploit the gullibility of others, as was only proper for a man in his position. I hoped very much that he would be quite merciless in his dealings with me. A great deal depended on it.

I expressed my pleasure in meeting him, and explained my current circumstances. 'I have identified several possibilities for investment in Venice, and wish to consult you as to their practicality,' I said, once the preliminaries were disposed of. These were the usual sort of thing, questions and answers so that he could determine whether I was someone to take seriously. The name of Joseph Cardano served me well here. He was known amongst financiers throughout much of Europe, even if only by name or reputation. But not outside that circle. The fact that I realised mentioning his name meant something was enough to make Ambrosian accept I was a man of purpose. He slowly became more attentive, more careful in his speech. He was too vain to think he was talking to an equal, but intelligent enough to realise that some consideration was required. That, at present, was exactly as I desired. His triumph at exploiting me would be all the greater, and thus less easy to resist.

For the next hour we discussed the possibility of building a grand hotel in Venice; I laid out my ideas, he explained all the difficulties. Of finding the right land, of getting the workforce, the managers, of raising the necessary capital at the appropriate price for such a venture – who, after all, wanted to come to Venice?

To each problem I proposed an answer. Build on the Lido, not in the centre of Venice. Bring in all the architects, engineers and surveyors from France and England, if necessary. Make use of my skills – I exaggerated a little here – and Cardano's contacts to form a company that could raise the money in London. I had thought it all through; my answers were considered and thorough.

'And why do you need me, then?' he asked with a smile.

'Because it couldn't be done without you,' I said, entirely truthfully. 'The money must flow into Venice, and payments must be made here. It would need established banking facilities. I have been here long enough to suspect that dealing with the authorities is a quagmire. Suitable land cannot be found without local knowledge and influence, and I have discovered that you are the most highly-regarded man of finance in the region.'

He acknowledged my discernment. He was genuinely interested; interested enough to start questioning what, precisely, there was of profit in this project for him. That, I pointed out, rather depended on how much money his bank was prepared to put in. This was going to be expensive and the profits would be several years down the road.

'Ah, you English,' he said. 'You do like to think on a grand scale, do you not? Now we Venetians would naturally think of several dozen small establishments, each one to be erected when the previous one was paid off. It is an interesting idea. Even more interesting is why you don't worry that I might go ahead without you. You need me, but do I need you?'

'Build something on this scale, without being able to raise capital in London? Find the skilled workforce scattered across Europe? Persuade companies like Cook's to run excursions to Venice and stay in your hotel?'

'True enough. If you can do all of these things. I have learned that the English promise more than they deliver, sometimes.'

'For example?'

'We have lent a substantial amount of money to an Englishman,' he said. 'Who, like you, promised wonderful things. But so far has delivered none of them.'

'I have met Mr Macintyre,' I said, 'if that is who you refer to.'

'He is a scoundrel and a rogue.'

'Really? I find him to be very straightforward.'

'Far from it. We learned – this was only after he took our money – that the only reason he is in Venice is because he would be thrown into gaol should he ever have the temerity to return to England.'

'You astound me.' And that was a genuine statement; I found it momentarily difficult to believe we could be talking about the same person. I would have wagered a very considerable amount of money that Macintyre was entirely honest.

'It seems that he embezzled a very substantial sum from his employers, and absconded with it. It is only the fact that he owes us money which stops us from sending him packing.'

'Are you sure of this?'

'Quite sure. Naturally, once we learned of it, we declined to advance him any more and I now have grave doubts whether we will ever see our money returned. So you see, a proposal from an unknown Englishman . . .'

'I quite understand. Naturally, any collaboration between us would require total trust, but I am confident I would be able to satisfy your concerns with no difficulty. And, as it is a matter of patriotic pride, I will willingly offer to provide assistance over the matter of Mr Macintyre. How much does he owe you?'

'I believe about five hundred pounds sterling.'

Interesting, I thought to myself. I knew quite well he had put in considerably less than that. This was very hopeful.

'Very imaginative, I must say,' I continued. 'Few people would have been prepared to take such a risk.'

He waved a hand. 'If his machine works, then it has obvious possibilities. If it doesn't, of course, then that is different. And the constant delays and excuses make me concerned. Consequently . . .'

'. . . another proposal from another Englishman does not fill your heart with gladness.'

He smiled.

'In that case,' I continued, 'I will make a down payment to acquire your trust. Let me buy Mr Macintyre's debt from you. Pay it off on his behalf. Should we come to a later agreement on this project for a hotel we will be able, I am sure, to adjust the matter then. I cannot have you thinking that all the English are scoundrels. Even if some undoubtedly are. If you wish, I will reach an agreement now.'

Ambrosian was much too cautious a man to accept. He looked almost shocked. Well, not quite, but he did have the air of someone who is being taken for a simpleton. He did not object to me trying, of course, and he knew perfectly well that I knew he would not accept the offer.

'I can see no reason to sell what may turn out to be a fine stream of future profits,' he said reproachfully. 'Particularly as my investment gives me complete rights to the machine.'

'Well, I cannot blame you,' I said with a smile to indicate I understood perfectly well. 'None the less, my interest remains. Should you change your mind . . .'

I left, feeling very thoughtful. My offer to acquire Macintyre's debt had had the desired effect, I thought; Ambrosian was prepared to take me seriously. It would have been a different matter had he suddenly accepted the proposal. The last thing I wanted was to spend money on a machine that might well be useless. If that was the case, he could keep it. But if it did work, he would keep it. Should the trials be a success, he would certainly refuse to put in any more money, call in the debt and take full possession of the patent. Macintyre would have nothing more to do with it, except, perhaps, as an employee, a declared bankrupt who would have to work for whatever pittance he was paid.

A pity the machine wasn't a complete disaster, I thought. That would not be good for Macintyre, but at least he would have the pleasure of realising that Ambrosian had lost its money as well. Small compensation, and I didn't think it would give him much joy. Only financiers think like that. But . . .

It made me think though, and as I walked across the Piazza San Marco, I ran through all the possibilities in my mind.

I stopped, and smiled happily at a group of urchins throwing stones at a washing line, seeing if they could knock a sparrow off it. That was it, of course. The only problem was how to organise it.

CHAPTER 12

Anyone reading this might be surprised that I was not more concerned at Ambrosian's assertion that Macintyre was some sort of crook. Often enough such characteristics are something of an impediment to good business. But not always, and not if the scoundrel is in no position to do you harm. I had not the slightest intention of giving Macintyre any money in a manner I could not control. He could not abscond with what he did not have. Besides, such people can be useful, if they are working for you, rather than against you. The past life of Xanthos, for example, is not something I would wish to know too much about – although when he came knocking at my door I did discover that it would be unwise ever to send him anywhere controlled by the Sultan, as it would be a long time before he was let out of gaol. But now his devious skills are employed to my advantage, and he has been a good and loyal employee, up until recently.

So Ambrosian's beliefs about Macintyre did not worry me much. But it would be wrong to say I was not intrigued, and I was impatient that my dear friend Cardano, to whom I had written some time previously, had not yet replied. Until he did, there was very little I could do. I could find old newspapers in Venice, some basic reference books, but little more; the sort of information I required could only be found in the dining rooms and board rooms of the City of London, and then it would be available only to those who knew how to ask.

So I had to wait, and become a proper tourist for once, and indulge my ever-growing passion. Four more days, in fact, before the letter finally reached me – wonderful days, spent in the autumnal warmth, and often enough with Louise, for the more rendezvous I had with her the more I wanted. After the events at the Marchesa's salon, we threw off all caution and discretion. I began buying her presents, we walked together in the city, were seen together. It made me proud and uncomfortable at the same time – I once had to tell her to be more discreet with her husband.

'I will leave him now, because of you. Now I know what it is really to love someone, I cannot stay any more. We can be together for ever, then,' she said, turning to look me in the eyes. 'We can be like this forever. Just you and me.'

'What about your son?'

She made a gesture of disgust. 'He can have him. He is not my child; I merely bore him. There is nothing of me in him at all. He will be like his father; weak, useless.'

'He's only four.' She had spoken with a harshness I had never heard in her before. There was real cruelty in her words and they disturbed me.

I must have reacted, for she instantly changed. 'Oh, I love him, of course I do. But I am no good for him. I don't understand him.'

Then she put her arms around me once more, and changed the subject totally for an hour. But I left our rooms with an uneasy feeling that afternoon; it faded soon enough, but did not disappear entirely.

It also changed the way we were together; Louise did not refer to leaving her husband again, but more and more often the conversation came round to her desire to be with me. I could understand why her life was hellish, and why she so desperately sought a means of escaping. When I considered the weals and cuts, Cort's behaviour at the séance, his hallucinations, the indignities and humiliations she endured when no one was there to see, it was hardly surprising she clung to me.

And I was besotted with her. So why did I not leap at the chance to capture her forever? It could have been done. A separation of some sort from my wife was possible, messy and unpleasant though it might be. But Louise and Venice were linked too closely together. Love and city were intermingled; I could not imagine one without the other, and I think my hesitations and doubts were linked to my sluggish awareness of my growing immobility. The Marchesa was right; Venice was like an octopus, which slowly and stealthily entangled the unwary in its tentacles until it was too late. Longman would never leave; Cort might not either; in other Englishmen I met in that period I learned to recognise the slightly vacant look of the entranced, the people hypnotised by the light, who had lost their will-power, voluntarily given it up, like the followers of Odysseus on the island of the lotus-eaters.

They did not enter a state of bliss by so doing; Venice does not offer happiness in exchange for servitude. The opposite, rather: melancholy and sadness are its gifts; it allows the sufferers to be all too aware of their lassitude and inability to leave. It taunts them with their weakness, but still will not let them go.

Some were immune; Drennan seemed unaffected, for example. Nor did it have any effect on Macintyre, because he scarcely knew where he was. For him Venice was merely the place where his workshop was; he had sacrificed his will to his machinery already; there was nothing for the city to take.

And some were driven into madness. Cort deteriorated rapidly after his explosion at the séance; I saw little enough of him, indeed I tried to avoid him, but could not but notice how he looked more haggard by the day, heard reports that he was receiving visitations from his phantom more often. He worked obsessively, but got nothing done; until then he had actually been making progress. Macintyre's internal buttressing was all but complete. But now most of his workforce abandoned him as his behaviour became so erratic they did not want to come near him. So he worked alone, furiously making drawings that no one would execute, ordering materials that lay in the courtyard untouched until he sent them back and began an argument with the supplier.

'Is Cort insane?' I asked Marangoni. I fully anticipated his reply, and was astonished by what he in fact said.

'Well, do you know,' the doctor replied in his heavy accent, putting the tips of his fingers together to look more professional, 'I do not think he is. Unbalanced, certainly. But I do not think he is insane. His mother's name was Annabelle,' he said, in total breach of the normal notions of discretion. 'She died when he was born, and he worships her memory. The idea that she was displeased with him shook him to the core. He told me this a couple of days ago.'

'You're still seeing him?'

'Oh, yes. It is vital considering his state of mind. He was in the hospital for the better part of a week, and I thought it a good idea to get him to come for a regular chat. He finds it peaceful just to sit in the sun looking at the lagoon, undisturbed. He goes away calm and contented. Normally. Sometimes we find him a bed here. We have a guest house, you know. A strange arrangement, but the monks were very hospitable, and for some reason we keep up the tradition.'

'Have you worked out what happened at the séance? Do you think the Marchesa did it deliberately?'

'I'm sure she is entirely genuine in her beliefs,' he said with an indulgent smile at the foolishness of women unaccustomed to the rigours of the scientific method. 'The trouble is she is in many ways a very stupid woman. She will hear something then forget it entirely. She has a very poor memory. But it remains in her mind, and when it pops up again, she believes it is a spirit which has told her. I'm sure she was told that Cort's mother's name was Annabelle, but forgot it. Then it came back to her.'

'You seem to think he will recover.'

Marangoni shrugged. 'That depends on what you mean by recovery, of course. If all matters which might disturb him were removed, I dare say he would soldier on. The trouble is that this is unlikely. He should return to England immediately. If he stays here, then perhaps not.'

'But is he safe? His behaviour . . .'

'. . . Is the behaviour of a madman. I grant you that. But does that mean he is insane? I have already told you how many people – women especially – are mad while showing none of the symptoms of madness. So we must equally consider the possibility that someone who behaves as though he were mad might, in fact, not be.' He smiled.

I stared, quite uncomprehendingly, at him.

'Perhaps his behaviour is a perfectly reasonable response to his current situation,' Marangoni suggested quietly. I knew exactly what he meant.

'He stabbed his wife with a knife. Are you telling me she deserved it?'

'Oh no. I very much doubt anyone deserves to be stabbed. He may – at that particular moment – have considered she deserved it; that by striking at her, he was warding off the torments he was experiencing. Of course, this was heightened by the drugs.'

'What?'

'Oh, you people!' He said with exasperation. 'You really notice nothing, do you? Did you not see the glassy eyes, the sweating, the slurred expressions, the way his movements became more uncontrolled and exaggerated?'

'I thought he'd been drinking.'

'He drank nothing but water. Opium, my dear Stone. Classic symptoms.'

'Cort is an opium addict?'

'Dear me, no. But he had undoubtedly consumed some of the drug shortly before he arrived. It is easy enough to come by. You can buy it in most pharmacies.'

'He told you this?'

'No. He denied it absolutely. Nevertheless, he was certainly under its influence.'

'So, he's lying. Perhaps he is ashamed.'

'Perhaps he was unaware of it,' Marangoni said absently. 'Not that it matters. He will get no more of it while he is in my care.'

'What do you think of Marangoni?' I asked when I next saw Louise.

'Ugh, disgusting,' was her reply. 'Do you know, he tried to seduce me, that dirty little man? I was so ashamed, I have never told a soul. But you I can tell. I know you will not hold it against me. Just don't listen to anything he says about me; I'm sure it would be nasty and cruel.'

'Of course not,' I said. 'Why should I, when I seduced you myself?'

'But with you I wanted to be seduced,' she said. 'I would sacrifice anything for you. I even accept,' she said, her voice trembling, 'that you will sacrifice nothing for me.'

'But you know . . .'

'It doesn't matter,' she said with a sigh, looking away from me. 'I will be your mistress and one day you will leave me. It is enough.'

'Don't say that.'

'But it's true. You know it is. And when you do leave me, I will kill myself.'

She said it seriously, and looked steadily at me as she spoke.

'Why would I want to live without you? To spend the rest of my life with a disgusting husband and a snivelling child, to be tormented day and night by them? If only I could be free of them! All I have that is worthwhile is you.'

'That cannot be true.'

'Oh, believe that, then,' she said, turning away. 'Believe that, then you will be able to leave me with a clear conscience. I do not wish you to suffer as well. You do not love me, I know. Not really.'

'But I do.'

Then prove it. She did not say these words; she did not need to.

CHAPTER 13

Two days after this encounter, Cardano's letter – his first letter, I should say – arrived, and the last piece of my plan took place. His news explained much; after the normal sort of chatter about the markets, he got onto the subject of Mr Macintyre. Here his information was surprising. I had asked whether anything was known about Macintyre's reputation. This was not the sort of thing that a man like Cardano would know, but it was easy enough to discover. I thought I would hear merely that Macintyre was a decent, competent well-respected engineer of skill. Until my interview with Ambrosian I had expected nothing more.

Cardano's letter was very much more informative than that, however.

I found all this fascinating, and at least it explained how the story of dishonesty had come to hang over Macintyre's reputation. The story of the Alabama is little known now, but it had a certain currency in its day; a wooden-hulled, 1,000-ton barque, commissioned by the Confederacy in 1861. The Unionists heard of the purchase and tried to stop it. Laird's was caught between its customer and the wishes – however reluctant – of the British Government to maintain a strict neutrality in the terrible Civil War.

Strict, but in my opinion, foolish, for the refusal of Britain to allow its industry to supply both sides led to the Americans supplying themselves, and thus building up the industries which now challenge our own. A more enlightened policy would have supplied both evenhandedly, thus draining the United States of gold, and shackling their industry; with a little wisdom and ruthlessness Britain could readily have re-established its predominant interest on that continent, and been ready to congratulate whichever side emerged victorious.

But the moralists triumphed, and from that triumph will come, eventually, the eclipse of Britain's industrial might. Be that as it may, Laird's (which was in need of commissions) found a way around the problem by using some other company as a go-between. How could we prevent our client re-equipping the vessel and selling it on? they asked when the matter was raised in Parliament. We build ships, we do not oversee their use as well.

A clever move but one which the victorious Unionists would not accept; they began to pursue Britain for liability for losses caused by the ship, and only settled the matter sometime after I returned to England from Venice. The Government and the insurance companies eventually paid out some four million pounds – for by the time she was caught off France in 1864, the Alabama had sunk a fearsome amount of Unionist shipping. But in 1867 the Americans (a people prone to extravagance in both speech and action) were insisting that anything less than two thousand million pounds' compensation would be an insult to their national pride, and threatening all manner of reprisals if they didn't get it.

I was thrust into Macintyre's company once more a few days after I received this interesting sideline on his past life, when he invited me to come along for the first real test of his torpedo. I was highly honoured; no other English person was even told this great moment in his life was taking place, but I had suggested that he try it out secretly first of all, rather than with the bankers there. What if you try it and there is some small hitch? That could ruin everything, I suggested. Best to have a test run away from prying eyes. If all goes well, then you can repeat the experiment in front of the bankers. It was good advice, and he realised it. The date was set, and I was – rather shyly – invited. I was touched by the gesture.

So, one cold morning a few days later, I found myself on a wooden barge, wrapped up warmly against the mist which hung over the lagoon like a depressing shroud. We were far away from land, to the north of the city, with a couple of his workmen for company. The barge owner had been told he was not wanted, and the previous evening the torpedo had been loaded in secret onto the deck and covered with tarpaulins.

It was a sailing barge, and there was a flurry of anxiety that there wasn't going to be enough wind, but eventually, at half-past four in the morning, the bargee declared that we could go, and we set off – very slowly indeed, the boat creeping along at such a pace that an hour later we were still just off the Salute. By six we were in the dead waters north of Murano, where the lagoon was shallow and few boats, only those with the most shallow of draughts, ever ventured. It was a magical experience in a way: to sit in the prow of the vessel smoking a cigar as the sun rose, and wild ducks flew low over the marshes, seeing Torcello in the distance with its great ruined tower, and far away the occasional sail – red or yellow – of one of the sailing ships that endlessly crisscrossed the lagoon.

Macintyre was not the best company, continually fussing over his invention, unscrewing panels and peering inside with an old oil lamp held over him by Bartoli so he could see what he was doing. Adding a little oil here, tightening a bolt there, tapping an instrument and grumbling under his breath.

'Nearly ready?' I asked when I had seen enough of birds and got up to walk back to the middle of the ship.

He grunted.

'I will take that to mean "No, it needs to be stripped down and rebuilt entirely,"' I said. 'Macintyre, the damned thing is either going to work, or not. Bung it in the water and see what happens.'

Macintyre glowered at me.

'But it's true,' I protested. 'I've been watching you. You aren't doing anything important. You're not making any real changes. It's as ready as it will ever be.'

Bartoli nodded behind him, and lifted his eyes to heaven in despair. Then Macintyre sagged as he accepted that, finally, he could do no more; that it was time to risk his machine in the water. More than that: to risk his life, for everything that made him what he was he had embedded into the metalwork of his torpedo. If it failed, he failed.

'How does it move, anyway?' I asked. 'I see no funnel or anything.'

There was nothing quite like a stupid remark to rouse him. Immediately, he straightened up and stared at me with withering contempt. 'Funnel?' he snarled. 'Funnel? You think I've put a boiler and a stack of coal in it? Or maybe you think I should have put a mast and a sail on as well?'

'I was only asking,' I said. 'It has a propeller. What makes it turn?'

'Air,' he replied. 'Compressed air. There's a reservoir with air at three hundred and seventy pounds per square inch pressure. Just here.' He tapped the middle of the torpedo. 'There are two eccentric cylinders with a sliding vane to divide the volume into two parts. In this fashion the air pressure causes direct rotation of the outer cylinder; this is coupled directly to the propeller, you see. That way, it can travel underwater, and can be ready for launch at all times, at a moment's notice.'

'If it works,' I added.

'Of course it will work,' he said scornfully. 'I've had it running dozens of times in the workshop. It will work without fail.'

'So? show me,' I said. 'Chuck it over the side and show me.'

Macintyre straightened up. 'Very well. Watch this.' He summoned Bartoli and the others, and they began to put ropes round the body of the torpedo, which was then rolled carefully to the side of the boat, and lowered gently into the water. The ropes were then removed, and the torpedo floated, three-quarters submerged, occasionally bumping softly against the side of the boat. Only a single, very thin, piece of rope held it close by, attached to a small pin at the rear. That, it seemed, was the firing mechanism.

Macintyre began rubbing his chin with anxiety. 'No,' he said. 'It's not right. I think I'd better take it out and check it over again. Just to make sure . . .'

Bartoli began to shake his head in frustration. 'Signor Macintyre, there is nothing left to check. Everything is just fine.'

'No. Just to be on the safe side. It will only take an hour or . . .'

Then I decided to intervene. 'If I may be of assistance . . .' I said.

Macintyre turned to look at me. I grabbed the thin piece of rope in his hand and gave a sharp tug.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he screamed in shock. But it was too late. With a quiet ping, the pin popped out of the torpedo, which immediately gave off a whirring, gurgling noise as the propeller began to spin at high speed.

'Whoops,' I said. 'Sorry. Oh, look, off it goes.'

True enough. The torpedo accelerated at an impressive speed in a straight line at a slight angle to the boat.

'Damned interfering fool,' Macintyre muttered as he pulled out his watch and started staring at the torpedo as it grew smaller and smaller in the water. 'My God, it works! It really works. Look at it go!'

It was true. Macintyre told me later (he spent much of the trip home poring over a piece of paper, working out his calculations) that his torpedo accelerated to a speed of about seven knots within a minute, that it travelled with only a 5 per cent deviation from a perfectly straight line, and that it was capable of going at least fourteen hundred yards before running out of power.

At least? Yes. I had been a little hasty in my desire to force Macintyre to get on with the business of testing. I should have made sure there was nothing in the way first of all.

'Oh, my God,' Bartoli said as he looked out appalled. The torpedo, still clearly visible, was now at maximum speed, all five hundred pounds of it, travelling a few inches underwater, heading straight for a felucca, one of the little vessels used often enough for fishing, or transporting food around the lagoon. The crew could be seen quite clearly, sitting in the stern by the rudder, or leaning on the side, admiring the view as the sail billowed in the light wind.

A peaceful scene; one that painters travelled many hundreds of miles to capture on canvas, to sell to romantically inclined northerners desperate for a bit of Venice on their walls.

'Look out!' Macintyre screamed in horror, and we all joined in, jumping up and down and waving. The sailors on the felucca looked up, grinned, and waved back. Crazy foreigners. Still, a pleasant morning, why not be friendly?

'How much gunpowder is in that thing?' I asked as I jumped up and down.

'None. I put fifty-four pounds of clay in the head instead. And it won't use gunpowder. It will use guncotton.'

'Yes, you told me.'

'Well, remember it. Anyway, I can't afford to waste it.'

'That's lucky.'

The felucca kept going, the torpedo as well; it was going to be a close-run thing. Another quarter of a knot and the boat would pass over the torpedo's course entirely and it would miss. All would be well, if only the boat would go faster or the torpedo would slow down.

Neither obliged. It could have been worse, so I assured Macintyre later. Had the torpedo hit amidships, then something of that weight and that speed would undoubtedly have stove a hole right through the thin planking, and it would have been hard to pretend that a fourteen-foot steel tube wedged in their boat was nothing to do with us.

But we were lucky. The boat was almost out of the torpedo's path; almost but not quite. Macintyre's invention clipped the end of it; even at a distance of four hundred yards, we heard the cracking, breaking sound as the rudder gave way, and the boat lurched under the impact. The sails lost the wind and began flapping wildly, and the crew, a moment ago waving cheerfully and idling their time away, launched into stunned action, trying to bring their vessel back under control and work out what on earth had happened. The torpedo, meanwhile, went silently on its way, and it was clear no one on the felucca had seen it.

Bartoli was brilliant, I must say. Naturally, we steered towards the stricken boat, and he had a quick word with the crew. 'Never seen anything like that before,' Bartoli called in Venetian. 'Amazing.'

'What was it? What happened?'

'A shark,' he replied sagely. 'Really big one, travelling fast. I saw it clearly. It must have clipped the end of your boat, bitten the rudder off. Never seen a beast like that in the lagoon before.'

The crew was delighted; this was much better than rotten wood or some ordinary accident. They would dine out on this for weeks. Bartoli, after expressing surprise that they hadn't noticed the fin sticking out of the water, offered assistance, which made Macintyre fretful. He wanted to go and get his torpedo back; he had no real idea what its range was, and it could be anywhere by now. It was his most treasured possession, and he did not want it to fall into the hands of some spy or rival, for he was convinced that all the governments and companies of the world were desperately trying to steal his secrets.

He need not have worried; Bartoli was too skilled for that. He knew quite well that no Venetian sailor would submit to being towed ignominiously into harbour by a bunch of foreigners. They were duly grateful, but turned the offer down. Then they rigged up a makeshift rudder from an oar, poking over the back rather as on a gondola, and after half an hour of enjoyable conversation, they set off again.

We all – and Macintyre in particular – breathed a sigh of relief when the felucca disappeared into the early morning mist; then we turned to the business of recovering his invention. I thought that the time had come to apologise.

'I think I had better find some way of compensating those sailors as well,' I ended. 'I imagine repairing that rudder will cost something.'

But no apologies were really necessary; Macintyre was transformed. From the anxiety-ridden fusspot of an hour or so ago, he was like a man who had just been told he had inherited a fortune. He positively beamed at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

'Did you see it?' he exclaimed. 'Did you see it? Straight as an arrow. It works, Stone! It works! Exactly as I said. If there'd only been some explosives in the nose I could have blown that boat to kingdom come. I could have sunk a battleship.'

'It would have been difficult to blame that on a shark,' I pointed out. But Macintyre waved my objections aside and ran up to the prow of the boat with a pair of field glasses.

We searched for about an hour for, although Macintyre was convinced it had gone as straight as an arrow, in fact it had a tendency to veer to the left a little. Not by much, but over several hundred yards, this made quite a difference. Also it had settled low in the water, only just visible on the surface, and that also made the search more difficult.

But we tracked it down eventually, embedded in a mudbank in water too shallow for us to approach in the boat.

'Now what do we do?' I asked as we gazed at it, some twenty yards away from us off our starboard bow, not daring to go any closer lest our boat also got wedged in the mud.

We spent half an hour throwing a hook tied to a rope towards it, hoping to hook the thing and then drag it towards us, but with no luck whatsoever. There was no point waiting for the tide to change, as there was none.

'Can anyone swim?' I asked.

A general shaking of heads, which I found extraordinary. It didn't surprise me that Macintyre couldn't, but I was amazed that none of his employees – brought up surrounded by water as they were – could either. I wondered how many Venetians drowned every year if this was normal amongst them.

'Why?'

'Well,' I said, now suddenly reluctant, 'I thought – just an idea, you know – that one of us could try to swim over to it. The water might be deep enough.'

'If you got stuck in the mud you'd never get out again,' Bartoli said. I didn't like that 'you'.

'Good point,' I said.

But Macintyre thought my untimely death would be a worthwhile price to pay. 'Take two ropes,' he said. 'One for the torpedo and another for you. Then we could pull both out. You can swim, can't you?'

'Me?' I said, wondering whether my father would have considered lying justifiable in these particular circumstances. On the whole he disapproved strongly of the practice. 'Well, a little.'

'Excellent,' Macintyre said, his worries all over. 'And I am deeply grateful to you, my dear sir. Deeply grateful. Although as it's your fault that the torpedo is there in the first place . . .'

Point taken. Very reluctantly I began to take off my clothes and peered over the side. I would have to let myself into the water very slowly, for fear of sinking down and becoming embedded in mud before I even started. It was cold and the water looked even colder.

Bartoli tied two ropes around my waist and grinned at me. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'We will not leave you there.'

And then I lowered myself gently into the water. It was even colder than I had feared, and I began shivering immediately. But, nothing to be done now; using a gentle breast stroke, I set off for the torpedo, trying to keep my legs as high in the water as possible.

The only danger came when I got close to the torpedo and had to stop. Then the water was only about three feet deep and my feet had slid across the mud several times; as I manoeuvred into position, I had to push down and I felt them slip into the mud properly. When I tried to hang onto the torpedo and drag them out, I realised they were stuck hard.

'I can't move,' I shouted to the boat.

'Tie the rope on to the torpedo! Stop pushing it further into the mud,' Macintyre shouted back.

'What about me?'

'We'll pull you out afterwards.'

Well, thank you, I thought bitterly. Still, he was right. That was what I was there for. I was so cold now that I could barely untie the knot, let alone push the rope through the propeller casing and tie it securely. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time I was finally done.

'Excellent,' Macintyre shouted. 'Pull away.'

It took some effort by the people on the boat, but eventually the torpedo began to move, and once the suction was broken it slipped rapidly past me and into deeper water. Macintyre was all but dancing up and down in joy.

'Now get me out of here!' I shouted.

'Oh, very well,' came the reply, and I felt the rope tighten around my chest as they began to tug. Nothing happened. I moved a few inches, but the moment the pressure was relaxed, I sank back down even deeper than before. I was now getting frightened.

'Don't stop!' I shouted. 'I'm going lower. Get me out of here!'

Nothing happened. I glanced round and saw Macintyre, staring at me and stroking his chin. Then he talked to Bartoli. For a fraction of a second I was convinced he was going to abandon me there.

But no. Although what he planned was nearly worse. As he explained afterwards, the suction from the mud was too strong for them. All they were doing was pulling the boat itself into danger. They needed more power.

I saw Bartoli pulling up the sails, and Macintyre pulling up the anchor, and one of his men manning the oar to turn the ship. I realised with horror what they had in mind. They were setting sail, and were going to use the full power of the boat and the wind to try and dislodge me.

'You'll pull me apart!' I yelled. 'Don't do that.'

But Macintyre just waved cheerfully. The boat began to move, and I felt the rope tighten once more, until it was as taut as a bowstring and the pressure on my chest, the rubbing of the rough cord, unbearably painful. It was all I could do not to scream. I certainly remember thinking that if I was still in one piece at the end of this experiment I would thump Macintyre on the nose.

It got more and more painful; I could feel my body stretching as the mud refused to let me go, and that seemed to go on forever. Then, with the most disgusting slurping sound, it gave me up; my legs and feet were belched out of the mud in a huge cloud of foul-smelling water, and I floated free, trailing behind the boat as it headed towards Venice.

It took another five minutes to haul me in, and by then I could not move; I was shivering so badly I couldn't control my arms or legs; my chest had the beginnings of a bright red weal across it, my spine felt as though it was several inches longer than it had been, and my legs still smelled unspeakably foul.

And Macintyre paid me not the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he was busily clucking over his lump of iron while Bartoli wrapped me in a blanket, and brought me some grappa. I drank it from the bottle, then rolled over in the blanket until I began to recover.

'It's fine,' Macintyre said, as though certain that his torpedo would be uppermost in my mind. 'No damage at all. Although the cowling bent from the way you attached the rope to it.'

I ignored him. He didn't notice.

'But no matter. That can be hammered out. Apart from that, it is in perfect condition. All I have to do now is clean it, dry it and make a few minor adjustments and it will be ready for the big test next week.'

'May I say that I would not have cared had the damnable thing sunk to the bottom of the lagoon, never to be seen again?'

Macintyre looked at me in astonishment. 'But, my dear Stone,' he cried, 'just look at you! I am so sorry, I haven't thanked you enough. What you did just now was generous. Generous and a mark of true kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.'

I was somewhat mollified by this, but only somewhat. I kept on drinking the grappa, and slowly felt some warmth creep back into my body. Everyone made a fuss over me, said how wonderful I had been. That helped. If one is to behave selflessly and courageously it is pleasing to have it recognised. I wrapped myself in blankets and encomiums all the way home, and lay there dreaming of Louise by my side. I even felt almost content by the time the boat finally docked just by the workshop three hours later. But I did not help unload the torpedo. I had had enough. I left them to it, Macintyre shouting, everyone else working, and walked back to my lodgings. There I demanded a bath with limitless hot water immediately, and would not take no for an answer. I had to wait another hour before it was prepared, by which time everyone in the house had been told that the idiot Englishman had fallen into the lagoon. Well, what do you expect from foreigners?

CHAPTER 14

The next morning, a note was delivered to my room, from Marangoni, of all people. 'I stand corrected,' he wrote, and I could almost see the smile on his face as I read. 'It seems that Mr Cort's Venetian really does exist. Come and meet him, if you wish; he is a fascinating creature.'

I had as leisurely a breakfast as Venetian habits allow and decided that, as I had nothing better to do that morning, I would take up the invitation and go to San Servolo. The island lies between San Marco and the Lido, a handsome-enough place from a distance; you would never know that it was an asylum for the insane – certainly it is very unlike the grim prisons which England was then throwing up all over the country to incarcerate the lunatics which all societies produce in abundance. Marangoni hated the place, and would have preferred a modern, scientific establishment, but I think his real objection stemmed from his determination to detach his profession from any taint of religiosity. Otherwise, the old Benedictine monastery would have been a beautiful place to spend his time. Apart from the inmates: there is something about madness which casts a pall on the loveliest of buildings; the clouds always seem to hover above such places, no matter how brightly the sun shines. And, of course, no one spends much money on lunatics; they get the leftovers, after the more astute and agile have taken what they want. San Servolo was in a pitiable state, crumbling, overgrown and depressing. The sort of place you wish to get away from; the sort of place that might easily send even a perfectly healthy person insane.

Marangoni had colonised the best part for himself, the abbot's lodgings were now his office, with remarkable painted ceilings, and large windows that opened onto the lagoon. It was a room that could make you see the virtues of a contemplative life, though not those of a custodian of the insane. Marangoni was a thief in someone's else's property and looked it. He would never exude the necessary style to seem as though he belonged there. He was a bureaucrat in a dark suit: the room hated him, and he hated it back.

'Pleasant enough now, but you should be here in January,' he said when I admired the frescoes. 'The cold gets into your bones. Damp; no amount of fires make any difference at all. I have learned to write with gloves on. When November comes I start dreaming of applying for jobs in Sicily.'

'But then you would fry in summer.'

'True enough. And there is work that needs to be done here.'

'Tell me about this man.'

He smiled. 'He was arrested by the police a few days ago, and was passed on to me yesterday.'

'What had he done?'

'Nothing, really, but he was stopped for questioning and asked for his name. He was then arrested for insulting a policeman by making frivolous remarks.'

'What sort?'

'He insisted, and keeps on insisting, that his name is Gian Giacamo Casanova.'

I snorted. Marangoni looked serious as he read from his police report.

'He was born, so he says, in Venice in 1725, which makes him now – what? – one hundred and forty-two years old. A good age. I must say he is in a very good state, considering. Personally, I would have guessed him to be no more than seventy. Possibly nearer sixty.'

'I see. And you told him that you did not believe this?'

'Certainly not. That is not a very sensible procedure. If you do that, then the patient insists, and you get into a childish game. Am. Aren't. Am, Aren't. Ten times am. A hundred times aren't. You know the sort of thing. Besides, the trick is to win their confidence, and that can't be done if they feel you do not believe them. What you have to do is institute a healthy regime – proper food, cold showers, exercise – and make them feel regulated and safe. And while that is going on, you listen to them, and pick out holes and contradictions in their stories. Eventually, you present those to them and ask them to explain. With luck, that breaks down their belief.'

'With luck? How often does it work?'

'Sometimes. But it can only be effective with those who are rationally insane. Raving lunatics, or those subject to catatonia, require other methods.'

'And Signor – Casanova?'

'Perfectly coherent. In fact, it will be a pleasure to treat him. I am looking forward to it. He is an excellent storyteller, highly entertaining and, so far, I have not spotted a single flaw in what he has said. He has given us no clues at all about who he really is.'

'Apart from telling you his age and name.'

'Apart from that. But if you grant that, then everything else so far follows perfectly logically.'

'Have you asked him about Cort?'

He shook his head. 'Not yet. You may do so, if you wish. If you want to meet him.'

'Have you asked Cort about him?'

'No. He is too delicate at the moment; but clearly he will benefit from knowing that his hallucinations are nothing of the sort.'

'This man is not dangerous?'

'Not in the slightest. A charming old fellow. And he couldn't hurt you even if he wanted to. He is quite frail.'

'Does he speak anything but Venetian?'

'Oh, yes. Casanova was quite a linguist, and still is, if I may put it like that. He speaks perfect Italian, good French and English.'

'Then I will meet him. I don't know why I want to. But it will be a curious experience.'

'I will take you to him myself. But, please, do not say anything to suggest you do not believe him. That is most important.'

He led me out into the courtyard, and past a group of buildings that contained the inmates. 'This is for the non-violent ones,' he said as we strolled in the warmth. 'The more difficult characters we keep in the block you can see over there. Alas, they get much less generous treatment; we don't have the money to do much for hopeless cases. There's no point, either. We can merely stop them harming themselves and others. In here.'

It was quite a pleasant surprise; I had imagined something like a Piranesi print, or Hogarth at his most despondent, but the room was light and airy, simply furnished and comfortable. Only the shadow of a large cross on the wall, where a crucifix had once hung, hinted at the building's previous purpose. There was one solitary person in it.

Signor Casanova – there was no other name to give him and in fact Marangoni never did find out who he was – was sitting in a corner, by a large window that looked out towards the Lido. He was reading a book, his head bowed, but was undoubtedly the man I had seen singing on the canal on my first night in Venice. Only the clothes were different; the hospital had taken away his old-fashioned costume, and clothed him in its drab, colourless uniform. It diminished him, that garb, made him seem less of a person. Certainly less disconcerting.

'Signor Casanova,' Marangoni called. 'A visitor for you.'

'Please be seated, sir,' he said, as though about to offer me a drink in his salon. 'As you see, I am well able to pass some time with you.'

'I'm glad of that,' I replied, as courteously as he. Already I had entered a sort of dream world; only later did it seem strange that I talked with such respect to a man who was insane, penniless, without even a name of his own. He set the tone of the conversation; I followed him.

He waited for me to begin, smiling benignly at me as I sat down opposite him. 'And how are you?' I asked.

'Very well, considering my circumstances,' he replied. 'I do not like being locked up, but it is hardly the first time. I was locked in the Doge's dungeons once and I escaped from there. I have no doubt I will leave here soon enough as well.'

'Really? And this was?'

'In 1756,' he said. 'I was accused of occult knowledge and of spying. A strange combination, I thought. But then authorities have never liked things to be hidden from them. The only good knowledge is that which they, not other people, possess.' He smiled sweetly at me.

'And were you guilty?'

'Oh, good heavens, yes! Of course. I had many contacts with foreigners, some of them in the highest positions. And my explorations into the world of the occult were well advanced, even then. It is why I am here now.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I am over one hundred and forty years old. And, as you see, still in remarkably good health. I only wish that I had finished my studies earlier; then I might have presented myself as a younger man. But still, all creatures prefer some sort of life to none at all. Nobody wishes to die. Do you?'

A strange remark, half statement, half query. 'Why do you ask that?'

'Because you will. But you are still too young to realise it. One day, you will wake up and you will know. Then the rest of your life will be merely preparing for that moment. And you will spend your time trying to rectify your mistakes. The mistakes you are making now.'

'What mistakes are those?'

He smiled elliptically. 'The mistakes that will kill you, of course. I do not need to tell you what those are. You know them well enough yourself.'

'I'm quite sure I do not.'

He shrugged, uninterested.

'Why do you follow Mr Cort?'

'Who is Mr Cort?' he asked, puzzled.

'You know very well, I think. The young English architect. The palazzo.'

'Oh, him. I do not follow him. He summons me. And is a very great nuisance, I must say. I do have better things to do than dance attendance on him.'

'That is ridiculous,' I said, a little angrily. 'Of course he doesn't summon you.'

'But he does,' Casanova replied calmly. 'He really does. He is a man with many conflicts. He wishes to know about this city, and impose himself on it. He wishes to be here and away. He loves a woman who is cruel and heartless, and who dreams of his ruin. All these things call me to him, as they called his mother to me when she lay on her deathbed. I know about love and cruelty, you see, in all their forms. And I am Venice. He wants to know me. And his desire summons me to him.'

I could scarcely restrain myself from reacting to this nonsense, which he spoke so calmly. Casanova – you see, I call him that – sighed a little.

'I know about women, you know,' he said. 'Their natures. I can peer into their souls, see what lies beneath the professions of love, the lies, the demure sweetness. No other man in history has studied them as I have. I can see her thoughts. She thinks of hunting or being hunted. There is no kindness in her, and she sees only herself, never others.'

'Be quiet,' I ordered. 'I order you to keep silent. You are mad.'

'It is of no moment to me whether you believe me or not, you know,' he said. 'You will find out for yourself soon enough. I did not ask you to come here. My explorations into the occult caused me to drink in the soul of Venice, to become the city. Her spirit has extended my life. As long as Venice exists, so shall I, wandering her streets, remembering her glory. We will die together, she and I. And I see everything that happens here, even in small rooms rented for a month, or in a copse on the Lido.'

'You are not wandering the streets now,' I said with some savage satisfaction, deeply disturbed and shocked by what he was saying.

'No. For the time being I rest. And why should I wish to escape?' He smiled, and looked around him with amusement flickering on his face. 'The good doctor, it seems, is fully wedded to the best notions of gentleness for his poor inmates. I am fed well, and have to do little in return for my board and lodging, save allow myself to be measured and photographed, and to answer questions about my life. Which I have not yet decided how to do.'

'What does that mean?'

'They are most interesting questions,' he continued by way of explanation. 'They are trying to discover contradictions, impossibilities in what I say. It is excellent fun, for they go off to read my memoirs, then come back to quiz me about them. But I wrote them! Of course I know the answers better than they do. Every truth and every little fib I put in. The question is, do I tell the truth, or do I give them what they want? They so greatly desire to prove I am insane, and not who I am, that I am dreadfully sorry to disappoint them. Perhaps I should drop a few hints and contradictions into my conversation so they can conclude I am someone else entirely? It would make them so happy and grateful, and I have always desired to please. What do you think?'

'I think you should tell the truth at all times.'

'Pish, sir, you are a bore. I suppose you say your prayers every night, and ask God to make you virtuous. And you are a hypocrite. You lie all the time, except you do not even realise you are doing it. Goodness! This is a dull time to be living.'

He leaned forward, so that his face was close to mine.

'What are you in your dreams, when no one is there? What do you do in this city, which you have persuaded yourself is just a dream? How many people are you lying to now?'

I glared at him, and he chuckled. 'You forget, my friend, that I am in your dreams as well.'

'I don't know what you mean,' I said stiffly. I found that I could not answer him properly.

'Standing by a window? You don't understand it. Why didn't you turn and ask me? I could have answered, you know. I was there, you know I was. I could have told you everything.'

'How do you know about that?'

'I told you, I see everything.'

'That was just a dream.'

He shook his head. 'There are no such things as dreams. Do you want to know more? Ask, if you wish. I can save you, but you must ask. Otherwise you will cause terrible hurt to others.'

'No,' I said, abruptly enough for my fear to shine through all too obviously.

He nodded his head and smiled gently. 'You may change your mind,' he replied softly. 'And thanks to the good doctor, you will know where to find me, for the time being. But you must hurry; I will not be here for long.'

I rose and left without another word. He, meanwhile, sat on his little chair and picked up a book. When I closed the door I leaned with my back against it and closed my eyes.

'Not in a talking mood? Or did you think better of it?' It was Marangoni, standing exactly where I had left him.

'What? No; we talked for a long time.'

'But you have only been in there a minute or two.'

I stared at him.

He pointed at the clock. It was two minutes past three. I had been in that room for slightly more than a minute.

CHAPTER 15

That evening I had my first proper conversation with Arnsley Drennan. I had talked to him before, of course, but never alone, and he never said very much. He was a strange man; he seemed to need no one, but would frequently dine with us. Perhaps even his self-sufficiency needed a rest, on occasion. He was the obvious choice for me at that moment; I needed quite badly to talk to someone normal, rational and calm, who could point out that my afternoon with Signor Casanova had been all complete nonsense. Drennan, who gave off an air of solid good sense, could be relied on not to gossip about it afterwards.

I hadn't planned a conversation with him; it came about by chance, as he and I were the only two people to show up for dinner that night. Longman had one of his rare reports to write as Consul; Cort, fortunately, hardly ever came nowadays, Macintyre and Marangoni were also absent. We ate our fish – Macintyre was correct there, it always was fish and I was starting to get a little tired of it – more or less in silence, then he suggested a coffee down the road in more salubrious surroundings.

'Have you seen Cort recently?' I asked. 'I haven't seen him for some time . . .'

'I ran into him yesterday, poor man. He's in a bad way; he really should go back to England. It would be quite easy for him to do so. But I am afraid he is quite obsessed now. He sees it as a matter of honour to finish this job of his.'

Then bit by bit, as we drank more brandy, I told him about Signor Casanova. He was interested; or at least, I think he was. Drennan was one of those men whose expression never changed very much. But he listened quietly and attentively.

'I can't say I know much about madness,' he said. 'I have come across men driven mad by fear, or by horror, but that is a different sort of insanity.'

'How so?'

'Modern warfare,' he said. 'As you may have guessed already, I was a soldier. I saw many things I did not wish to see, and which will be hard to forget.'

'You fought for the Confederates?'

'Yes. And we lost.' He shrugged to dismiss the subject from his mind.

'So you are an exile? A strange place to choose, if I may say so.'

He glanced at me, then smiled slightly. 'So it would be, if that was why I was here. Well,' he continued, 'maybe I should tell you. Why not? It is all history now. Have you heard of the Alabama?'

I looked at him. 'The warship? Of course I've heard of it . . . Does this have anything to do with Macintyre?'

It was his turn to look surprised. 'How do you know that?'

'I made enquiries.'

'I'm impressed. Truly I am. What else do you know about Mr Macintyre?'

'That he is not wanted back in England at the moment.'

He stared at me in astonishment, the first time I had ever seen any sort of strong emotion pass on his face. I felt quite pleased with myself.

'And who else knows of this?'

'In Venice, you mean? No one. Signor Ambrosian of the Banca di Santo Spirito seems to think he is here because he stole a lot of money. Why do you ask?'

'Because it is my job to protect him.'

'From whom?'

'Yankee lawyers, mainly. He is the living proof of Laird's culpability. Great Britain maintains that the conversion of the Alabama was entirely out of its control. Everyone knows this is a fiction, but it will hold as long as there is no proof. Macintyre is that proof, and there are many people who would dearly like a conversation with him. And, I suspect, would pay high for the opportunity. He was paid off and told to lie low until the matter was settled. And I was hired to make sure that he does. Which is why I am here.'

'Who hired you?'

'Well, that I cannot say. Your Government, Laird's, Lloyd's of London. Should this lawsuit go badly it would cost a great deal in money and reputation. So as I was out of a job at the time . . .'

'What do you mean?'

He shrugged. 'I have no country, and do not wish to live amongst my conquerors. And I am – or was – a soldier. What should I do? Herd cows in Texas for the rest of my life? No; when all was lost, I came to England to seek work. This is what I found. It is not the best of jobs, but it will do for the moment.'

'I see. You are a most interesting man, Mr Drennan.'

'No. But I have had an interesting life. If you can call it that.'

'And Macintyre cannot go back to England?'

'Not until this is settled. I wanted him to go to Greece, change his name, but this is as far as he would travel.'

'You can be assured that I – and my friend in London – will be absolutely discreet on the subject.'

'Thank you.'

'And he doesn't want to leave Venice?'

'Not yet.'

'And if he decides to go back to England?'

'Then it will be my job to stop him.'

'How?'

Drennan shrugged. 'I will worry about that when it happens. At the moment, he seems perfectly happy here. Which is a pleasant change from the Corts.'

'A disturbed man,' I observed.

'Yes. But if I was married to a woman like that, so would I be.'

'I beg your pardon?' It was offensive, gratuitously so. But I looked at him and he stared evenly back. He knew exactly what he was saying; was saying it deliberately.

'I went on a boat ride with her; she invited me. We went to the Lido, although I wanted to tour the inner lagoon. I found her behaviour unfortunate.'

'Did you?'

'I did. And now it is time for me to leave. As you know, I have a half-hour walk back to my lodging. Good evening to you.'

When I left him I walked over to Macintyre's workshop; I could have got there much faster had I hurried, but I had much to think about. Drennan had very carefully given me a warning. From someone like Longman or Marangoni, I would have dismissed it out of hand as the remarks of a vulgarian, but Drennan I took seriously. He was not a man to gossip or to invent stories. What he said could not possibly be true, I was sure of that, but I wondered what his reasoning was. There was no obvious answer. But there were other questions now welling up in my mind as well.

I found Bartoli alone in the workshed, and greeted him. We talked for a while, and I expressed an entirely false disappointment that Macintyre wasn't there.

'He's gone to feed his daughter,' Bartoli said, speaking English in a thick accent.

'You speak well,' I replied. 'When did you learn?'

'Here and there,' he said. 'I lived in England for a while, and then met Mr Macintyre in Toulon. I learned much from him.'

'It is unusual, isn't it? To travel like that? Why did you do it?'

He shrugged. 'I wanted to learn,' he said. 'And there is not much chance of that here.'

'You are Venetian?'

'No,' he said scornfully. 'I come from Padua. I hate it here.'

'Why is that?'

'They are lazy. All they want to do is live, and die.'

He spoke in short, sharp sentences; he said what he wanted to, then stopped. There was no ornament about his words, which was refreshing although slightly disconcerting.

'Is this second test going to work as well as the first?' I asked abruptly.

'Of course. Why do you ask?'

'Because Mr Macintyre has asked me to look at his books. The money. And they are in a bad state. I am worried for him.'

He nodded. 'I, also,' he said. 'Very worried. He is a good man. A fine engineer. But he is not very sensible. You know what I mean?'

'I do. And he is in a very dangerous position. You too, I suppose, as your job depends on this.'

He shrugged. 'There are other jobs. But I want Mr Macintyre to be successful. He would die of disappointment. It will be a success. It will work as well at the next test as it did at the first. I am sure of it.'

'That's unfortunate,' I said quietly.

Bartoli looked at me. 'Why do you say that?'

I took a deep breath. 'I will tell you,' I said. 'But you must give me your word you will say nothing to anyone else.'

'I do.'

'Good. Then listen carefully. Mr Macintyre has borrowed money foolishly. If this machine of his fails next week, then he will get no more. He will be bankrupt. He will not be able to continue his work here. You understand?'

'I know this.'

'But it will be even worse if it succeeds. He sold the patent for the machine as part of the loan agreement. I don't know if he was aware of what he was doing, but that is the truth. He is busy trying to build something which no longer belongs to him. If the machine works, he will not see a penny of profit. Do you understand?'

Bartoli nodded slowly.

'If the machine fails, it will be unfortunate. If it succeeds, it will be a disaster.'

Bartoli shook his head. 'Ah, Mr Stone, what foolishness this is! We must help him. Poor man, he is too innocent for such people.'

'I agree. Unfortunately, he is also too straightforward to get out of this mess. He would never stoop to anything underhand or deceitful, however justified it may be.'

Bartoli looked quizzically at me. 'What do you mean?'

'The situation can be retrieved,' I said quietly.

'How?'

'I am prepared to pay off his loans and buy the patent. But if the test succeeds there is not a chance they will wish to sell. Mr Macintyre's only hope is that it fail. Then I can approach the creditors and safeguard his invention. But, I repeat, only if the test fails, and I imagine Mr Macintyre is determined it should succeed. He is a proud and foolish man.'

Bartoli nodded, evidently thinking hard. 'Are you sure of all this?'

I nodded.

'The question is how to save him?'

'That's simple.' I said bluntly.

'How?'

'The torpedo must fail the test.'

Bartoli looked at me in total silence.

'I am going to visit the bankers tomorrow about another matter. I will repeat my offer to buy his debts, but make it seem that I know nothing of the test. They will refuse to sell, of course. But if it fails, they will contact me swiftly, hoping to get their money back from a foolish Englishman who does not know he is buying a heap of scrap metal.'

'And you will look after Mr Macintyre? Do you promise me that?'

'I could hardly build the machines myself. I know nothing about engineering. He will make the machines, I will look after the money. He might not choose such a solution, but I'm afraid he must be saved from himself.'

Bartoli nodded. 'I must get back to work,' he said quietly.

I left him. I had won, I thought. But only time would tell.

The procedure was exactly the same as the previous week; except that this time, the torpedo was handled as though it was made of the purest and most expensive porcelain. It was important that I was nowhere around, but I went down to the workshop to see the preliminaries from a distance, and to assure myself that all the arrangements were made.

There was no need to have done so; Bartoli nodded at me as I approached, as if to say – don't worry; all will be well. So I retreated rapidly when I saw Ambrosian and two others – presumably people from the bank – walk up and view the scene for themselves. As the boat pulled away from the side of the canal, I could see Macintyre, in a high state of excitement, stroking the sleek side of the torpedo lovingly, pointing at this part or that. Very faintly I heard his voice, unusually animated, as he described in great detail how his torpedo worked, what it would do, its revolutionary potential. I knew that, once in such a mood, he could probably carry on without a break for hours, and I rather pitied the Venetians' ears.

Then they were gone, and there was nothing for me to do except go to my rendezvous with Louise, which I had fixed for eleven o'clock that morning. I was in a state of some nervous excitement myself, and she picked up my mood; we said hardly a word for the next hour, but devoured each other as though it was to be our last meal. At the end we lay on the bed intertwined, until I remembered Macintyre.

'Don't go,' she said. 'Stay with me.'

'Very important business,' I said. 'I need to go and see Macintyre. It's a big day. But tell me, before I go, tell me some news.'

She shook her head. 'There is nothing good I can say that will please you.'

'Why? What's the matter?'

'It is my husband. He is worse and worse. Even more violent than you, but not to give me pleasure, as you do.'

'He doesn't seem like that at all.'

'Do you doubt me? Think I am a liar?'

'Of course not. I was only saying . . .'

'You've seen the marks, the wounds? If he broke my leg, blackened my eye, would you feel happier? It's only a matter of time, you know. I'm sure you'll be satisfied eventually.'

'That is not what I meant.'

'You do not know him,' she said, furious now. 'I am afraid, terribly afraid what he might do when one of his attacks comes on him. If only I could run away somewhere! But that will never be. I know that now. There will be no escape for me.'

I sat down on the bed once more and took her in my arms. She nestled her head against my neck, and stroked my hair. 'Just being with you gives me courage,' she said softly. 'But it fades when you're not there. I dream of being with you all the time, you know. The moment I met you I knew you were all I wanted; all I ever wanted in the world. But you don't feel the same for me, I know.'

'I do,' I replied. 'I do.'

'Then we must be!' she cried, looking me in the eyes. 'Somehow, we must be! It is our fate, I know it. Please tell me you will do this! Tell me now!'

'I cannot. You know I cannot.'

'You will not.'

'You will leave your husband, your life . . . ?'

'It is no life,' she said scornfully. 'What sort of life is it, do you think, living in a hovel with a screaming child and a man like that? What sort of life is that, in comparison to what we could have together, just you and me, alone?'

'It is easy to suggest when you are here, in Venice, away from the judgement of society,' I said. 'You might think you had made a poor bargain once you returned to England.'

'You are thinking of yourself,' she said bitterly. 'You are happy to meet me here, in this little room, as long as no one knows. But I am not worth a single disapproving glance from society. You take everything you want, and I give it. I am happy to give it; I would die for you. Very well; I will be only your whore, to give you your pleasure as you want, when you want. That is enough for me; it gives me the only pleasure I have in the world. I want nothing you will not give me.'

She fell silent and I said nothing.

'Tell me you will take me from him, forever. Tell me now.'

Another long silence, then I said, 'No.'

I remember it well; there was a total silence, broken only by the sound of people, faintly heard, pushing barrows in the street below. She had been lying on the bed, I next to her. Suddenly there was a distance between us; she curled away, and I sat up, and the gap became immense and unbridgeable.

'You are like the others,' she said, softly but coldly. 'You want to get rid of me, you've found your excuses. I've felt it growing in you; I've been expecting it, just wondering what reasons you were going to give yourself. Why not just say it directly? Why pretend it is for my good?'

'What others? Drennan, for example?' I asked, still remarkably calm. She laughed.

'Why are you laughing?'

She shrugged.

'Did you give your husband opium the night of the séance? Prepare the Marchesa by giving her information you knew would come out in her trance?'

A little smile of satisfaction, but no answer.

I expected some story I could believe, something that reassured me and made me think I had been foolish ever to doubt her. But she gave me nothing.

'You want to leave me,' she said. 'I know you do. Why not just say so? Holiday over, so back to your little wife in England?'

She stopped, looked at me for a second, then said, coyly and softly: 'Don't you think she deserves to know how you've been spending your time?'

'What did you say?'

'Dear Mrs Stone, I was your husband's mistress until he became bored with me. He seduced me on a beach while you were sitting at home. I'm . . .'

'Be quiet!'

'You don't really think you can leave me here and go back to England as if this never happened? Do you really think that? I will never leave you. I will follow you to your dying day. Are you ashamed? I'm not. I don't care who knows about you, or what they think of me.'

'I said, enough!'

'Why? Whatever's the matter? Are you upset? Oh!' she said in mock sympathy, 'you feel deceived! How sad! I'd forgotten. You're the only one who can deceive people, and tell lies.'

'I think I should leave. It would be better if I did not see you again.'

'For you, perhaps. Not for me.'

I walked to the door and she began to pull on her clothes.

'Do you know what I'm going to do now?' she said with a smile.

'What?'

'I think it's time William knew the truth about everything, don't you? I'm looking forward to telling him about the time we made love while he was waiting outside. How you particularly enjoyed that. It might finish him off for good, don't you think? And once I'm free of the boy as well, it will be your turn.' She looked at me with such a glance that I felt a shiver run down my spine.

'You will do nothing at all.'

'And you are going to stop me . . . how exactly?'

I was silent.

'How much?'

She was the one who said it, not me. It was a mistake, a complete miscalculation. She brought everything back into an area I could understand. Until then she had been in charge, I merely responding.

'And what does that mean?'

'A word to my husband, a letter to your wife. How much?'

'And what do you suggest?'

'I think that £100 would be about right.'

'A hundred pounds?'

'A year.'

And then I laughed out loud. 'Do you know, until you said that, a little bit of me still felt sorry for you? Do you really think I am going to keep you for the rest of your life? I have done nothing you have not done yourself. I owe you no more than you owe me. Let me tell you how much your silence is worth. Nothing. Not a penny. You will do nothing, and I will give you nothing in return. That is fair payment on both sides. Otherwise you will regret having threatened me. More than anything, you will regret that.'

She smiled. 'We shall see.'

I was shaking when I left, walking fast and trying to get away from that accursed room as quickly as possible. The change, from complicity to antagonism, love to hatred had been so swift, so unforeseen, that I was trembling with shock. How could it have happened? I have been so mistaken? How could I have made such a terrible error? How did I not see more clearly, I, who prided myself on my judgement? It was a lesson for the future, but at that moment I was simply too stunned to think clearly.

What stuck most forcibly in my mind was her lack of emotion. Had she raged and screamed, behaved like some monster or hysteric, had she attacked me, or fallen on the floor sobbing, it would have been more understandable. But she behaved like a man of affairs; she'd done her best, it hadn't worked, it was time to cut her losses. She behaved like me, in fact; and it was I who was shocked, trembling, overcome with emotion. Only her clumsy attempt at blackmail had saved me. Had she said nothing at all, I might well have offered her something, but I have never liked to be threatened. That changed everything.

But I remembered the look in her eyes, her threats. Was she capable of carrying them out? I thought she was. In fact, I was certain of it. That did not bother me personally. At the most it would cause a temporary embarrassment – tiresome no doubt, but nothing that could not be shrugged off soon enough. I had no fear of anything she might do to me.

Cort was another matter; and there I did not know what to do. I had justified my behaviour with the thought that his mistreatment of her had been so monstrous that his punishment was deserved. I had now seen another, dark side of her, one I did not wish to be close to. But those marks, those weals and bruises, had been real. Merely because I now recoiled from Louise did not mean I felt so much more sympathetic to her husband. Perhaps they deserved each other?

So I did nothing, and constructed good reasons for my passivity. I did not excuse myself, though; please do not think that. I did not blame anyone, say that it was the influence of Venice or of strange madmen, or the light or the sea which had forced me to behave in such a reckless fashion. It was I, and I alone, who was responsible, and I was very lucky to have escaped so lightly. Had it not been for the hints and warnings of Marangoni and Drennan – and of Signor Casanova, whose words had, perhaps, the greatest effect of all – I could easily have been swept away by the elation of passion, sworn to love her forever, taken her for my own. Had I done so, I would have lived with my error, which soon enough would have become clear, of that I was sure.

It took a long time to calm myself, walking through the back streets, staring out over the lagoon, all sights which once pleased me, and I now began to find humiliating. I was waking up from my reverie fast. It was time to move; I wanted to leave Venice quickly. My dream world with Louise – what I had thought she was, at least – and of Venice were the same thing, and it was time to shake free of both. Neither had any more power over my mind. This decision came over me quickly and unconsciously. From a state where I was not even considering the question a short while previously, I began to think of packing my bags, making arrangements to travel. It was time to be off.

Bartoli found me in a quiet, determined mood when he walked into the café where we had agreed to meet, and it took an effort on my part to pay proper attention to his story. But it did me good to do so; the more we talked, the more Louise faded from my mind, became a problem to be contained and managed, nothing more. He also needed attention, for he was having very severe second thoughts about what he had just done. Macintyre was distraught, half-crazed with disappointment, inconsolable.

As he told it, all had been as before; the boat had sailed slowly out to the northern part of the lagoon, where they could be fairly sure there would be no prying eyes. The torpedo had been prepared and lowered over the side once more. The only difference this time was that Macintyre had very carefully removed a pin from the front end of the torpedo and held it up for all to see.

'The safety pin,' he had announced. 'The torpedo is now armed, with fifty-four pounds of guncotton ready to explode the moment this projecting bolt is depressed by impact. The sort of impact you would get if it hit the side of a ship.'

Macintyre had tugged gently on a rope to line it up with the outline of an old hulk, a fishing boat that had run ashore many years before and been abandoned. He thought it would be a nice demonstration of his invention's power if this could be reduced to matchwood. When all was ready he took a deep breath, and pulled out the pin which allowed the air from the pressurised tank to flow down the pipes into the small turbine which turned the propeller.

This is where Bartoli's interventions came into play. At first, all went well; the propeller whirred, the machine began to move. But it quickly became apparent that, instead of heading in a dead straight line towards the hulk, it was veering very sharply off to the right, and only at about two miles an hour, rising and falling in the water like a demented porpoise. Already, the bankers were exchanging glances, and Macintyre was looking distressed.

Worse was to come. For it became obvious – something Bartoli had not intended at all – that the machine was describing an erratic circle in the water, so that its course would bring it back, more or less, to where it had started. That it was going to hit the boat, with that much-advertised fifty-four pounds of guncotton ready to explode on impact.

Something like panic had set in, everyone trying to figure out where the machine would hit and get as far away from it as possible. Only Macintyre stood there, immediately above the likely spot, as it lurched towards them.

Then, the motor stopped. Instead of the supposed fourteen hundred yards range, it gurgled to a halt after little more than three hundred, which was just as well, as another five yards and it would have blown the boat, and all in it, to kingdom come. There was a moment's silence, then, with a loud and apologetic burp, it sank.

Fortunately, they were in a fairly deep part of the lagoon, as the torpedo went down head first and exploded the moment it touched the bottom. I had never witnessed such a thing, but apparently fifty-four pounds of explosive makes a tremendous bang. It must do, if it is enough to sink a battleship. There was a muffled roar, an eruption of water some forty feet high, a small tidal wave which almost turned the boat over, and everyone got soaked. The demonstration had come to its spectacular conclusion.

Macintyre's backers were unimpressed, to say the least. They had seen the machine fail completely, they had been soaked and frightened out of their wits. The journey back to Venice took place in total silence.

I looked at Bartoli as he finished. 'What did you do to it?' I asked.

'Very little, really,' he replied, in a tone which did little to disguise his feelings of guilt. 'Just a turn of a screw here and a mismatched connection there. A bit of weighting to put the gyroscope out. Little things, of the sort Macintyre wouldn't notice.'

'He certainly won't now,' I said, 'as it's in little pieces. What about the bankers?'

He shrugged. 'They didn't say a word. Not even goodbye. They just marched off the boat when it docked and walked away. Macintyre tried to talk to them, say it worked fine, really. But they didn't want to listen. Listen, I have to go back to him. He is really upset and he's drinking. He could do something very foolish if he's not watched. Are you sure we did the right thing?'

'Absolutely sure,' I said robustly. 'I fully expect a letter from Ambrosian very soon. In their view, the only way to recover their money will be to persuade me to buy the debt before I realise that the machine is useless. News spreads fast in this city, so they will have to move quickly or it will be too late. If I hear something, I will let you know immediately. Meanwhile, go and find Macintyre, tell him not to despair, that all will be well. Tell him whatever you want, but cheer him up.'

I was right. When I returned home, there was a letter awaiting me. In the florid, formal Italian normal for such letters, it informed the illustrious signore – me – that my proposal concerning the Macintyre project had now been put to the board, and had been decided upon favourably. If I wished to pursue the matter, then I should indicate that I wished to purchase the credit note.

There was also a handwritten note from Ambrosian accompanying this formal missive. He had worked hard on this matter on my behalf, he said, and had only persuaded the board to agree because one member was away. He was due to return tomorrow and would undoubtedly try to overturn the decision when he heard about it. If at all possible, then I should come and conclude the deal as quickly as possible, otherwise it would be too late.

I loved the audacity of the man, the smooth and reasonable way he managed to tell such enormous lies. A fine fellow indeed – astute, calculating, ruthless, mendacious; it cheered me up considerably.

I hurried back to the bank as swiftly as I could, then dallied a little, in order to make him a little more nervous. At six-twenty in the evening, just ten minutes before it was about to close, I presented myself and asked to see Signor Ambrosian.

You may think that I should have attended to other matters. Perhaps I should have gone myself to tell Macintyre what was happening; should have gone to see Cort. I agree. I should have done both of these. And if I did not, it was not because I did not consider both of them. But I believed Bartoli could take care of Macintyre and as for Cort – what can I say? I was not yet ready to face him.

'I am so glad we can reach agreement on this matter,' I said once I had sat down and accepted the offer of a glass of cold wine.

'As am I,' he replied with a warm smile. 'Although, as I said in my letter, it was not easy to accomplish. But I felt that really we did not want to get involved in the business of setting up factories. However excellent Mr Macintyre's machine, any profits that might accrue become greatly postponed. And we Venetians no longer do this sort of thing; we prefer to leave it to the more enterprising English, and pursue lesser, short-term profits ourselves. It is no doubt why England has an empire and Venice has lost hers.'

'That may be so. Certainly I think you do not have a ready supply of the necessary engineers, managers and skilled workers that would allow you to set up such an establishment here. Such people can be found more easily in England.'

'You will manufacture there?'

'I think so. The most obvious customer is the Royal Navy. If it will buy, every other navy in the world will have to follow suit. And it is a patriotic organisation. They will not buy foreign wares if they can avoid it.'

'In that case, I will watch your progress with the greatest interest,' he said. 'Now, perhaps we might get the business dealt with? Then I would be very happy to invite you to dinner.'

'That is kind,' I replied. 'But I feel I should go and find Mr Macintyre, and tell him the news. I was just about to go and see him this afternoon, in fact, when your letter arrived.'

Ambrosian ordered a sheaf of papers on his desk, turned them round and proffered them to me. 'Then you will no doubt have a great deal to discuss when you see him. Perhaps you wish to read this? I am assuming you can read Italian? If not, I will gladly call someone in to translate.'

I said I could manage, and spent twenty minutes sipping my wine, and struggling through to make sure there was nothing untoward. The language was legal, but essentially clear, and why should there be any hidden catches? It was a deed of sale drawn up in a hurry, and the object was to get rid of a useless property as quickly and cleanly and as absolutely as possible.

'Yes,' I said eventually. 'Now, about the price . . .'

'I would have thought . . .' he began with a slight frown.

'I am evidently to buy £500 of debt. Now we have to agree at what price I shall acquire it.'

Ambrosian positively beamed at me, and reached for the bottle of wine, pouring two more glasses before settling back in his seat. This, of course, was exactly what he wanted; nothing is more suspicious than someone prepared to pay a full price. Besides, where was the enjoyment in such a miserable, straightforward transaction?

'In view of the long-term risks, and the inevitable requirement to raise a large amount of additional capital, without which this machine is no use at all, to you or anyone else, I thought a small discount might be in order. To reflect the savings to your bank of divesting itself of this loan.'

'But you yourself have said how much potential it has.'

'And so it has. But at the moment it is without value. You do not wish to go further with it, and I suspect there is no one else in the world who would be prepared to buy it at any price. It is a question of discovering a fair rate for relieving your bank of an unwelcome burden . . .'

And off we went, for an hour of pure entertainment, which both of us appreciated and which I in particular needed. Here deception was open and understood, emotion under control. It was an antidote to my troubles and concerns. I suggested that a 50 per cent discount would be the very least I could possibly accept. He expressed surprise that I did not consider a price over and above the nominal sum, to reflect the risks that the bank had already absorbed. I countered that those risks were more than covered by interest payments already received . . .

But, all the way through, I knew he was thinking that the moment I talked to Macintyre, the value of his loan would go down to nothing immediately. Either he reached agreement with me soon, or he lost his entire investment. I gave him an extra £33 and we settled. For £283, I bought the sole and complete rights to the most important new weapon seen for a century.

It was a simpler world then: a gentleman's word – especially an English gentleman's word – was as good as gold, quite literally. For payment, I wrote out a brief note to my bankers in London, asking that £283 be paid into credit of the Banco di Santo Spirito's correspondent in the City. And that was payment made, for even if I turned out to be a charlatan, with not enough money in the bank to cover the amount, Coutts would have felt obliged to pay, and Ambrosian knew this quite well – although I had no doubt that he had already made enquiries about me. He placed all the documents into a large, thick folder, sealed it with a massive seal using prodigious quantities of wax, and handed it over to me, shaking my hand.

'My congratulations, dear sir,' he said with a smile. 'And may I say how greatly I admire your trust in your fellow countryman? I would not so readily take such a risk on something without knowing whether it would fulfil its inventor's promises.'

'Oh, goodness, I've done that,' I said as I paused at the door. 'It worked splendidly last week. I gather it didn't perform so well today, but that is a matter easily fixed. No, I have no doubt the torpedo has a great future before it.'

I bowed graciously, restrained myself from smiling in triumph, and left. To his credit, his face showed no anger at all; indeed, I think I even saw just a little twitch of appreciation.

CHAPTER 16

I thought it was time to put Macintyre out of his misery, and tell him that his future was assured, or as assured as I could make it. I had refined my calculations over the past few days, and what I planned was well within my financial capabilities, although I had no doubt I would have to call on friends such as Mr Cardano for some support at various stages. I was excited; more excited than I had ever been, and it was a welcome distraction from Louise. The more I thought of torpedoes, of banks and factories, the less I thought about her.

My vision was becoming clearer by the minute. It was all very well passing my time as I had done in the past few years, but the buying and selling of shares and bonds is a second-hand operation, removed from the real source of wealth generation. And the prospect of organising an enterprise fascinated me. I did not, I should make it clear, intend to become the manager myself; I knew my limitations and the day-to-day operation of a factory would quickly have wearied me. But setting up the way the managers worked within an elegant, balanced, efficient structure of my own devising – this suffused me with pleasurable anticipation, made me look forward, not back. My eyes turned to England and stopped being dazzled by Adriatic light.

I was in a hurry now. This beautiful, ridiculous old relic was not where things got done, was not where money was made. It was a distraction only, a pause, a place where time was wasted, lives ruined. I needed to inform Macintyre, get the workshop packed up into crates, and the whole lot transported back to England. Somewhere on the south coast, I thought, near to water, which was obviously necessary for testing, not too far away from the great naval bases, close enough to a supply of skilled labour. And where land was cheap enough so that a large enough site could be acquired with ease.

So I was in a confident mood, although that did not last long; when I arrived once more at Macintyre's workshop it was dark and abandoned; I called out, rapped on the doors, listened for any sound but there was nothing at all. Nor was he to be found in the little rooms that he and his daughter called home, a scruffy, decrepit building a few hundred yards away. Only the girl was there, all alone.

'Where is your father?'

She shook her head.

'Don't you know?'

'No. He's out. I don't know where.'

'How long have you been here on your own?'

'All day.' She said it defiantly, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

'I need to find him quickly. I have some good news for him. Will you tell him? It's important. I have very good news for him.'

She hesitated, and looked at me suspiciously. Some inward tussle was going on inside her tousled head.

'You do know where he is, don't you?'

She nodded.

'Inside?'

She nodded again.

'Please let me in. I won't say you told me.' She frowned seriously, bit her lip, then stepped aside. The little sitting room and kitchen were filthy and smelled of old cooking and unwashed clothes. Dark and dingy, the furniture broken down. Poor child, I thought, to be brought up like that. She said nothing more, but simply looked at me seriously, disapproval on her face.

'Macintyre!' I called out. 'Where are you? It's Stone. I need to talk to you.'

There was a thump from the next room, as though something had fallen heavily onto the floor. And eventually Macintyre appeared. He was drunk; dead drunk, redder of face than usual, clothes awry, stumbling and leaning against the door to keep upright.

'Celebrating your good fortune?'

He didn't even manage to scowl.

'Are you able to talk?'

''Course I am,' he said, and slowly walked to the table, and sat down heavily. 'What do you want?'

'I've been talking to Bartoli. I've heard about the test. Is that the reason you are like this?'

He didn't answer. So I laid it out to him, simply and clearly, stopping and checking that he understood what I was saying. 'So, you see,' I concluded, 'all is well. You are delivered from the hands of the Italian bankers, the torpedo is safe and, I would guess in about nine months, we will be in a position to begin production. All we have to do is get everything back to England.'

I'd gone into too much detail. Somewhere along the way I had lost him. He stared at me, head low on his shoulders looking like a confused, dim-witted bullock. I could see his mouth moving as he tried to follow what I was saying. I don't know what he got from my little speech, but he didn't seem grateful.

'You did this behind my back?'

'My dear Macintyre,' I cried in surprise and with some annoyance, 'I would have told you, truly I would. But I was meeting Signor Ambrosian over quite a separate issue and the topic of your machine came up. I mentioned that I would greatly like to invest in it, and he turned me down point-blank. Out of the question, he told me. I did not mention it, because there was nothing to mention.

'And then, only this afternoon, I received a letter saying that he'd changed his mind. But that I had to make up my mind as swiftly as possible. I had to take a decision then and there, otherwise all would have been lost.'

'You've stolen my invention from me.'

'I've not stolen it from you. Because of your foolishness it wasn't yours anyway.'

'Let me buy it back, then. If you're a man of honour. It's mine, you know it is. As long as I'm alive it will be mine.'

'You don't have any money.'

'I'll get some.'

I shook my head. 'No, you won't.' I did not, fortunately, have to deal with what I would have done if he had been able to find some.

'And whose business will it be?' he asked sullenly. 'What if I want to enter into partnership with someone else? What if I do not wish to have anything to do with you?'

'Then you will be free to do so,' I said evenly, 'if you can raise the money to buy back your patent. Then find a partner willing to work with you. And raise the money to finance production. But could you really think of someone better to work with? You are hopeless with money and you know it. Leave that to me.'

'But you never told me.' He had fixed on this; it was the one point which had penetrated the alcoholic haze and lodged in his mind.

'Well, I apologise for that, if it offends you. But do see reason. I am not forcing you to do anything. You can stay here in debt if you really want to. Except that the debt will be to me, not to Ambrosian. Do you have any objections to entering into a partnership with me?'

'Yes.'

'What are they?'

'I don't want to.'

'Why not?'

'Because you've cheated me.'

It was hard to keep patience with him. Why he wasn't dancing up and down for joy was quite beyond me. Why could he not see how much this was to his advantage?

'Listen, Macintyre,' I said, firmly and calmly, trying to impose myself on him. 'You are drunk. In a moment I will leave you alone. When you are sober we can talk again. But bear this in mind before you drink yourself into an even greater stupor. I am in a position to put thousands of pounds behind this machine of yours. You will have the finest workshop in the world at your disposal. Your machine will be perfected and manufactured, without you having to bother with anything at all. All that I am offering you. If you think not consulting you is such a betrayal that you wish to turn my offer down, then you may do so. I do not need you. I can manufacture the torpedo without your help, and will do so, if necessary.'

He let out a bellow of rage and charged at me, but was too drunk to cause me any harm. I stepped aside, and he fell heavily to the floor. His daughter ran into the room, shooting me a look of such concern and worry as I had never before seen on such a young face. I hesitated, feeling that at the very least I should assist her, even if I was not so very well disposed to the father at that moment, but she made it clear I was not wanted. She took her father's head in her arms, and began stroking it gently, reassuring him like a mother does an infant. Macintyre caught my eye. Go away, was what he meant. Leave me in peace. I did.

Not entirely though; I sent a message round to Longman, asking if his wife could do me the great favour of calling on the engineer to check all was well. I was not wanted, but that did not mean the child could cope on her own, and Mrs Longman was a competent woman, the sort who could reassure a frightened child and coax a drunken, bitter man into resting. So, I thought, at any rate.

And then I went back to my apartment, and slept. I was in a thoroughly bad mood; what should have been a day of triumph had turned out to be anything but, and I was furious that it had been ruined. I know: Macintyre was proud, he was disappointed, he was humiliated. He was an independent man, and I had taken that away from him, was presenting him with a fait accompli. Of course he was angry. I understood all that. But what did he want? Ruin? He would come round and accept that he was lucky to have me look after his interests, or he could drink himself to death. Those were the only real alternatives open to him. As I lay in bed, I couldn't really care which one he might choose.

I suppose I had wanted gratitude, thanks, a look of relief. That was naïve of me. You rarely get thanks in business for saving people from themselves.

CHAPTER 17

There was much to do the next day, and it started badly. Awaiting me, along with my morning coffee, were two letters. One was a long, tearstained and emotional letter from Louise which gave me pause. She apologised wholeheartedly, blamed herself, begged for a second chance to explain everything. She was ashamed of what she had said. It was only her love for me, her fear of losing me, which had made her act the way she had. She had been happy for the first time in her life. She implored me to meet her and talk to her, if only so we could say farewell as friends. Could I bring myself? If so, she would be waiting at Cort's palazzo at eleven. She didn't want to go to our apartment any more; she couldn't face it. But the palazzo would be empty. We could talk there.

I almost crumpled the letter up and threw it into the fireplace, dismissing it and the writer from my mind. But my better side won out. I did owe her that, at least, otherwise everything would be tarnished by a few last, bitter words. I had no intention of revising my decision, but it would be mean and cruel not to give in to her request. She deserved that. I would go. And that would be the end of it.

Thus my decision, until I picked up the second letter. It was from Cardano.

'My dear Stone,' the letter began,

A pity he had not written this earlier, I thought. I remember that my mood was one of calm, of relief, even. I dismissed her from my mind forever, folded the letters carefully and ate my breakfast, thinking instead of Macintyre and his torpedo. When I was done, I prepared to make my way to his workshop, where I fully intended to spend the entire day.

Then there was a knock on the door, and Longman walked in.

'You got my message?' I asked.

'Yes, I did. Mrs Longman spent the night there, and was happy to help. The poor girl. She is a very sweet child, really, and devoted to her father. It's a great shame.'

'And has Macintyre sobered up?'

'Yes, and gone to keep an appointment with Cort. How he manages it considering how drunk he was I don't know. He must have the constitution of an elephant. He wouldn't be stopped. He said he had promised, that he kept his word even if others didn't. That's partly what I've come to see you about, in fact. I'm afraid I've just had a very distressing interview with Mr Cort.'

'Why?'

'I came across him this morning. Cort, that is. And he was in a very bad way. He looked quite murderous, I've never seen him looking so angry. He was really very offensive. I asked him how he was, you know how you do . . .'

'Yes, yes,' I said. 'Please get on. I am a little preoccupied this morning.'

'Oh, indeed. Indeed. Well, you see, he snapped at me and told me to leave him alone. He knew all about me, and I was lucky he didn't hit me, there in the street. He was shouting, you know. Made quite a scene.'

'What was it about?'

'I have no idea. I was too insulted to ask. I became very angry and walked away, and he just stood in the middle of the street, screaming abuse at my back. That I was a nasty, malevolent gossip, and much worse. I can tell you, I was shocked by his behaviour.'

He looked it too; merely recalling the incident made him shake and grow pale.

'He didn't even give a hint what he was talking about?'

'No. But he was particularly rude about you.'

'Oh.'

'He said that if he ever cast eyes on you again, he was going to kill you. So I thought I'd better warn you.'

'Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it.'

'I very much hope not. But he looked perfectly capable of it. We know he can be violent, and if you'd seen the look on his face . . .'

She'd done it, I knew it. She'd told him. It was all too easy to imagine how much she'd enjoyed it. I felt an overwhelming tide of guilt sweep over me at the thought of that poor, tormented man, and how I had not only increased his anguish, but enjoyed doing so, seen myself almost as meting out deserved punishment. I had been Louise's instrument, but I had become like her also. The realisation made me grow cold and numb; I tried to shake it off with a gratuitous, insulting concern for the man I had so wounded.

'You didn't try to stop him? Reason with him?'

'Of course I did! But he was completely deranged. If you'd seen him . . .'

'So you have said.'

'He frightened me quite a bit, I don't mind telling you.'

'Well, what do we do? I think we need to call on Dr Marangoni again.'

'I've done that! Of course, that was the first thing that came into my mind. I told him to meet us at the palazzo. I'm fairly certain that's where Cort was going.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Perhaps we should go there as well. Will you accompany me? I also sent a message to Drennan. He's the sort who's good in a crisis. I think Cort might need to be restrained, stopped from doing himself harm.'

And we left, as quickly as possible once I had prepared myself. I took a stout walking stick with me, I think because Longman had alarmed me with the thought of a murderous Cort. We walked through the rabbit warren of streets and passageways; I wish I could say we ran, but Longman was quite incapable of it. I was glad he was with me, even though his barely concealed pleasure at the possibility of some sort of scene irritated me. He had lived in Venice for years, and knew every street; for about the first time in my stay, I arrived at my destination without getting lost. Two workmen were standing outside the gate, which was closed. Drennan was also there, pushing against the door. He looked slightly concerned, which was alarming. Drennan never looked concerned about anything.

'What's going on?'

'I don't know. Apparently a few days ago Cort had asked Macintyre to come and help him knock down some pillar. Macintyre showed up about an hour ago and went inside. Some sort of argument started and Cort began screaming at him. Then he pushed all the workmen out and locked the doors.'

'What was it about?'

'They didn't really understand it. But apparently Cort said something about people wanting to take his building as well.'

'As well?'

Drennan shrugged. 'Look.'

He pointed at one of Cort's workmen, who had a reddening, swelling eye and a look of fury on his face.

'That was Cort?' I asked incredulously.

'So it appears. Macintyre went into the building, and Cort became quite deranged. Started screaming at the men, pushing them, and when one protested, he hit him. Then he picked up a sledgehammer and ran at them with it. Calling them all thieves and traitors. So they retreated, not surprisingly. But they're worried. They're good people, and they like him, even though they think he's a bit mad.'

'Macintyre can look after himself, though,' Longman said uncertainly.

'Maybe. But can Cort?' Drennan replied.

'Perhaps we should try shouting over the wall,' Longman suggested.

And so we did, but it was no use. The entrance to the building was many yards back across the courtyard, the wall was high, the door thick. Had either Macintyre or Cort been outside, they would have heard. But not if they were inside.

Drennan and I looked at each other. 'What do you think?'

Drennan shrugged. 'I don't imagine anything really bad can happen. I can't imagine Cort really picking a fight with Macintyre. He's half his size.'

'There's several boxes of explosives in there, though,' one of the men said. 'The big Englishman brought them two days ago. We were told they were dangerous, and weren't allowed to go near them.'

Then Drennan took charge. He talked to the men, and one of them turned and left. The other gestured for us both to follow him.

'He's got a boat. We can row round to the front of the palace on the canal, and see if we can get in through the main door. It's probably locked, though.'

'What's the other one doing?'

'I sent him to get Marangoni to hurry up.'

We walked down the alleyway to the canal, and in a few moments the little boat came along, rowed by one of the workmen, who looked remarkably placid, considering how agitated we were. He was a good rower and a taciturn one. He gestured us to get in, then he rowed us, swiftly and silently, along a tiny inlet and then out into the canal which went past the main entrance of the palazzo.

I recognised it immediately; it was the building the old man had sung below; I could see the window, the place where the torch had flickered; I looked back and saw the bridge that I had been standing on. Under normal circumstances, I would have been impressed. Seen from water level, it seemed huge, four storeys high with complex Gothic windows on the main floor, neglected and imposing even in its decrepit state. Covered with stucco which had once been painted a rich red, but was now blotchy and with weeds growing out of the crevices in the brickwork. It loomed over you like some vast, polychrome monolith. The main door was large and covered in a heavy iron grille which, although rusting, was more than strong enough to keep us out. It would need specialist tools or an expert locksmith to open it.

Drennan pointed at a small hole in the side of the building, only about five feet high, the place where, once, supplies had been brought in. It was a dark, forbidding place, only just higher than our heads as we sat in the boat. The rower obediently dipped his oars into the water once more and propelled us towards it.

The ceiling of the corridor which ran along the left side of the house was dank and slimy, and the darkness was total until our eyes adjusted. But we soon enough made out a little landing stage, over to the right. Beyond it there seemed to be the faintest outline of a door. We slipped and stumbled our way out of the boat, and onto the slimy stone, Drennan in the lead and me following. He got to the door first and fumbled for a latch. A clunking, scratching sound told me he'd found it. Then I heard him grunt, and the crack of old wood as he put his shoulder against the door and pushed.

A splinter of light. Dark by normal standards, but almost blinding to our eyes. And a great relief as well. We were in. Drennan led the way through, and I came after him, bumping into his back when he stopped to listen. It was all completely quiet. Not a sound could be heard, not even the water lapping against the landing behind us.

'Cort!' I shouted. 'Macintyre? Where are you?'

No reply. Drennan started moving again, his feet on the stone floor making no noise at all, and I became preoccupied with the loud clatter of my boots as I followed. Drennan seemed to know what he was doing; he walked a few steps, then stopped, his head cocked, to listen. Then he walked a few more. After one longer pause, he turned to me and pointed. We crept quietly up a short stone staircase, into a huge room, which must have been about the same size as the great reception rooms on the floors above. There we came across a terrible sight.

Macintyre was lying on the ground, one arm above his head, blood trickling from a wound in the back of his skull. Not serious, perhaps; there was not much blood, but the blow had been enough to knock him unconscious. Cort was sitting on a rickety wooden chair beside him, a flame in one hand, chin resting on the other. In between was a column of masonry reaching perhaps fifteen feet into the air. And around it were half a dozen packages, with a long string coming out of the side, curled round into neat circles and lying on the floor.

'Cort,' I called. 'What the hell is going on here?'

He turned and looked at me. 'Ah, Stone,' he said in an entirely normal voice. 'About time too. I've been waiting for you.'

'What are you doing?'

He said nothing.

'What happened to Macintyre?'

'He tried to take over. Said I didn't know what I was doing. I've had enough of his patronising attitudes.'

'Will you come outside? I think we should have a talk.'

'I've nothing to say to you, Stone. I never want to talk to you again. I know what's been going on. Louise told me. How could you? How could you do that to such a sweet, kind woman?'

'Do what?'

'I know everything. You thought she'd be too ashamed to tell me. And she was, almost; she was in tears, crying her eyes out as she told me what you'd done to her.'

'What are you talking about?'

'She showed me the bruises, the marks of the rope. Everything. Told me what you'd done to her. I should kill you for it. You're a monster. A beast even to think of doing something like that to a woman . . .'

'She's been telling you lies . . .'

'She said you would say that. But she told me about you, Stone. How you attacked her, raped her. The poor defenceless, sweet woman! And it's all my fault! If only I hadn't brought her here, been able to give her the sort of life she wanted. But it will be all right. I'll look after her now. I love her so much. From the moment I saw her, I loved her. I must look after her.'

'Cort, don't be absurd,' I said. 'This is nonsense. She told me the same things about you. She's a liar, Cort. She says these things.'

'Oh, Mr Drennan!' Cort said, frighteningly conversational again. Drennan had been moving softly around the column as I talked. 'Please stand where I can see you. Otherwise I will put this match into the gunpowder here. It will only take a moment to ignite it. Would you be so kind as to stand next to Mr Stone?'

Drennan did as he was told.

'Listen, Cort,' I said urgently and as calmly as I could manage. 'It's not true, do you understand? It's not true. She does that to herself. I know she does. I've got proof, back at my rooms. Do you want to see it? No one has been beating her, whipping her, anything. She's been saying things like that for years. It's all invented.'

'Who would invent a thing like that?' he snarled, reverting to his furious, demented state in an instant. 'Are you saying my wife is a liar? Haven't you done enough already?'

'Look at me.'

He did, suddenly, but only briefly, obedient. His eyes were glassy, wide open. And dark, as they had been on the night of the Marchesa's séance.

'Cort, you've taken opium.'

'Of course I haven't.'

'She gives it to you. What did she give you to drink or eat?'

'You're lying. I can always tell when someone is lying. He was lying too,' he said, gesturing at the still immobile Macintyre. 'He said he was only trying to help. "Only trying to help. Only trying to help,"' he said in a high-pitched childish mimicry which bore no resemblance at all to the way Macintyre spoke.

'So you hit him.'

He nodded.

'And these explosives,' I continued, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation, 'who set those up?'

'Macintyre did. He brought them over a few days ago. Once they're prepared, the rest is quite straightforward; I just added the rest of the boxes, the ones he didn't use. I don't need help. I can do this job on my own. Wait and see.'

'But Cort, you've used all of it. Far too much,' Drennan said in alarm. 'Listen, I know about explosives. There's enough there to blow up half of Venice.'

'No, no. Just enough to bring down that column. Look, I'll show you.'

His face cleared, and he smiled. And he leaned forward and lit the fuse, which began sputtering.

'Macintyre told me the fuse would last for about ninety seconds. Don't come any closer, mind. I can still set off the whole thing. I'll stay here to make sure it doesn't go out. Don't worry. I'll be quite safe. Macintyre will help.'

'I'm not going without Macintyre. And you,' Drennan said. I could hear that even he was now very worried.

'No.' Cort moved nearer to the explosives, the flame now perilously close.

'What's the point of you killing yourself? How can you look after her if you die as well?'

'I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing. Then I'll take care of Stone.'

I looked at Drennan. I didn't know what to do; I rather hoped he did. He'd been a soldier, hadn't he? I could see him looking carefully, his eyes darting from Cort to Macintyre, to the explosives. Back again. Measuring, calculating. And I could see that he was giving up. We were about four yards away; too far a distance to grab Cort and bring him to the ground before he saw what we were doing. He only had to move his hand a couple of inches.

'About a minute left, I would guess,' Cort said thoughtfully.

'Let us take Macintyre, just in case.'

'Oh, no. He has to supervise. He insisted on it. He said he wouldn't trust me to pull a cork out of a bottle.'

Drennan took hold of my arm. 'Come on,' he said quietly. 'We have to get out of here.'

'We can't. We have to do something.'

'What do you suggest?'

'Macintyre is going to die.'

'And so is Cort. And we will too unless you start moving.'

I wish I had been more heroic. I wish I could have seen an opportunity to dash forward and grab Cort's arm. I wish I could have thought of something to say to bring Cort to his senses, or at least distract him for a moment and give Drennan a chance. I wish many things now, and that is enough to indicate that I managed none of them. Drennan had to drag me out, not because of my determination to stay, but because I had frozen, could not move. He dragged me to the door – about thirty-five seconds left, then pushed me down the steps. Only when I fell on the slippery floor did I come alive again, and the panic swept over me. I got up, stumbled – I remember it all – and then ran into the darkness, heedless of where I was going. Just following the sound of Drennan's feet.

We got back to the boat, Drennan screaming at the man we had left behind. Twenty seconds. Fell into it so hard that it almost capsized, the American reaching out at the same time to pull the painter loose and push the boat away from the side. Fifteen seconds. Began to row furiously, seeing the light of the day outside come closer and closer. Ten seconds. Got halfway into the normality of the canal outside, the boats laden with fruit, clothes, wood. People calling to each other, some singing. Five seconds. Then we were clear, but still heading across the canal, Drennan shouting like some lunatic at the other boats, telling them to get out of the way, keep their heads down. Two seconds. And I looked back and up, and saw Cort standing by the window, the one I had once seen open as an old man had sung below it. He rested his elbow on the sill, his chin on his hand. He looked content.

There was a tremendous explosion, followed by another and another as other charges ignited around the column. Masonry and plaster and roof tiles began flying through the air and the inside of the building was suddenly lit up by a bright red and orange light. Something like a tidal wave swept outwards across the canal; our boat capsized, and so did many others which were on our side of the palazzo. Fruit and vegetables and washing and people were flung into the water, and when I rose gasping to the surface and looked back, I could see that the entire roof and upper storeys of the building had vanished, the thin walls had collapsed like paper, falling inwards with a deafening noise, a huge cloud of dust rising above the scene, pushed upwards by the blast.

Drennan and I managed to get to our boat, which had spun round so completely it was now the right way up again, half full of water but floating. Then the masonry, flung into the air by the explosion, began crashing down into the canal like some bombardment. Enormous fountains of water erupted randomly; one boat was sunk by a piece of what looked like a chimney; windows were smashed and brickwork stoved in. People were screaming, running, lying on the ground with their heads in their hands. Our oarsman had swum for the far side, and I saw him dragging himself out of the water, pale-faced but apparently unharmed. Then I looked around. The water was littered with debris and people thrown out of the boats; men and women alike were panicking and were being rescued; I grabbed a woman who was sinking and got her to hang on to the side of our boat. Drennan and I tried to push her into it, but she was too fat, her clothes too heavy with water, and she started screaming and hitting us instead, so we stopped and began pushing her to the side. A crowd was gathering by the edge of the canal, some were jumping in to assist, others were just looking, open-mouthed at the catastrophe before them.

We said nothing; we were too out of breath, too much in shock, to say a word, but our boat eventually drifted close to the far side of the canal, and Drennan started kicking with his feet to finish the job. I helped, then we pulled ourselves round until we were within reach of outstretched arms, waiting to pull us out, and drop us on the warm stone, where we lay, panting furiously from terror and exhaustion.

Drennan recovered much faster than I, standing up shakily, and accepting a thick blanket to wrap around his shoulders. I took longer but eventually stood, my legs shaking so much I almost sank back to the ground again.

At least it didn't look as though any passers-by had been hurt; they had been given a nasty shock and a soaking, that was the extent of it. But I knew there was no hope for the other two. Nothing could have survived that; anyone inside must surely have died.

Then Drennan touched my arm and pointed. A body was being dragged from the water, and people were shouting for assistance. It was Cort. He was mortally pale, and blood had soaked the sleeve of his black coat and matted his hair, but he seemed to be alive – at least those around him seemed to think so as they were shouting for a doctor to come as quickly as possible, laying him with touching gentleness on the ground, holding his hand.

'He must have been blown through the window,' Drennan said softly.

'And Macintyre, you think?'

'No hope there. None.' He said no more, but I knew he must be right. The engineer had been lying only about two feet from the main explosive charge. That alone, quite apart from the falling masonry and fire, would have killed him instantly.

'We will be questioned by the authorities,' Drennan said quietly. 'We need to decide what we will say.'

'The truth, I imagine.'

But Drennan nodded at Cort. 'And what about him?'

I looked at Cort's poor white face and felt suddenly sick. I knelt back on the ground, and leant my forehead on the stone, trying desperately to control the violent heaving of my stomach. I failed.

Drennan dragged me upright again and shook me violently. 'Pull yourself together,' he hissed in my ear. 'We have to get away from here before the authorities arrive. We can go and talk to them later when we know what we're doing. Follow me quickly.'

No one paid much attention to us as we disappeared into a little side alley, then hurried off. I took Drennan back to the Marchesa's, where I ordered hot water from the maidservant, and insisted that it be brought immediately. Faster than immediately. Then we went to my rooms, stripped off and wrapped ourselves in towels to wait. Neither of us said a word; I slumped in a chair, conscious only of the smell of rank mud that was in my nose and my hair and all over my body. Drennan paced up and down impatiently but was no more capable of speech than I. I poured two large tumblers of Italian brandy – harsh, unpleasant stuff but strong and effective, and we drank that instead. Then another, until the water arrived, and was poured into the tin bath by the servants.

Then we were done and dressed, Drennan looking slightly baggy in a borrowed suit, for he was smaller than I.

'Listen Drennan, I have to tell you something.'

'Go ahead.'

'I do not think that what we witnessed today was Cort murdering Macintyre.'

'No?'

'I believe we witnessed Louise Cort trying to murder her husband.'

I sat down and told him, very meticulously and honestly, everything that had happened. He showed no surprise, indeed gave no reaction at all. I ended by handing him the letters which had been delivered that morning. He looked at them, and gave them back.

'I see. So you are afraid . . .'

'No. I am not afraid of her at the moment. I am afraid for the boy. The last time I spoke to her she said all she had to do was to free herself of her husband and the boy, then she would deal with me. I didn't take her seriously then, but now it worries me.'

Drennan stood up. 'Do you want me to go to his lodging and see?'

'If you're up to it, I would be very grateful. More grateful than I can say. I do not think my going would help.'

'I think that is right.'

He left, and I sent word for the Marchesa, to ask for a few moments of her time.

She heard me out impassively, then sighed sadly. 'That poor man, of course I knew such a thing would happen. His aura . . .'

'Just stop this rubbish about spirits and auras,' I snapped. 'We haven't got time. Cort has killed a man. He might be insane, but if so, it was your ridiculous séance that set him off. How is that going to look when it gets round this city, eh?'

The spirits retreated whence they came as the Marchesa realised her peril. Scandal has killed as many people as knives and bullets.

'If it was just your reputation, then I wouldn't care too much. But Macintyre had a daughter. Cort has a son. And there is Cort as well, who is now likely to spend the rest of his life in an insane asylum, if he is lucky.'

'Well, he must be packed off to England immediately,' she said breezily. 'As for the dreadful accident which claimed the life of poor Mr Macintyre . . .'

'It wasn't an accident.'

'The dreadful accident,' she repeated. 'Which happens when people play with explosives . . .'

'You cannot possibly think anyone will believe . . .'

'I think people believe the simplest explanation.' She stood up. 'I must talk to Signor Ambrosian. He is a friend, and is powerful enough to tell the police how to proceed.'

'I don't want . . .'

'What you want is of no importance, Mr Stone. You do not know this city, nor how it works. I do. And it sounds to me as if you have caused enough trouble already. You will leave it to me to arrange matters as I see fit. Go and rest, and do nothing until I get back.'

I was left alone for the rest of the afternoon, until well in the evening. It was dark before the Marchesa got back. Under any other circumstances, I would have been taken aback by her sudden transformation from ethereal spiritualist to political manipulator, but nothing could surprise me any more that day. Marangoni was with her. Cort was fine, he said. 'He's some burns, cuts, bruises and a broken collarbone, but that's all. He was extraordinarily lucky.

'Physically, that is,' he continued. 'As for his mental state – well, that is another matter. I'm afraid he has had a total breakdown. Not unexpected, but unfortunate, nonetheless. Well, we shall see how he is in a few days' time. Luckily, he is in hospital, so he won't bump into his wife . . .'

'What do you mean?'

'She was brought to me a few hours ago. I am beginning to resent being used as a convenient way of hushing up English scandals, you know.'

'Why?'

'For having set fire to her apartment block. With her child still in it. When they realised there was a blaze, all the occupants fled into the street in panic but no one thought to check Cort's apartment. Drennan did, when he arrived, and he was nearly too late. He kicked in the door – very bravely, I must say, as the fire was a bad one – scooped up the infant and ran down the stairs with it. The child has a burn on his left arm, and Drennan has a bad cut on his cheek from flying glass. Apart from that they are both fine. But many people's apartments and possessions have been destroyed. It's a bad mess.'

At that moment I felt more grateful to Drennan than I could express. He had saved me, as well.

'What makes you think she started it?'

'She was seen doing it,' he said, 'and she was later found at the railway station about to board a train to Switzerland. She had all her money, clothes, jewellery and passport with her. Everything but her child and her husband, in fact. And her reaction when she was told her son had been saved from a fire was not that of a loving mother. When I also told her that both her husband and you had had a narrow escape her response was so violent she had to be restrained.'

'So what happens to her?'

'That is out of my hands, of course. It will depend on what the authorities think appropriate.'

'They will regard it as a terrible misfortune,' the Marchesa said firmly.

'Will they?'

'Yes. You are a lucky man, Mr Stone,' she continued, turning her attention to me. 'You have friends with influence. Signor Ambrosian was most concerned about your mishap and will interest himself in the matter. The explosion was indeed an accident, apparently caused by the carelessness of Mr Macintyre. As for Mrs Cort, she must be dealt with in a manner which causes no embarrassment.'

'And that's it?'

'Well, there is, of course the question of Mr Macintyre's daughter, and Cort's son. There, I don't know. I suppose we must ask Mr Longman what is to be done. That is his job.'