Sarah Caudwell - Thus Was Adonis Murdered

“Do have some brandy, Ragwort,” said Selena. “You’ll feel much better.”

It was a day of many and diverse pleasures. The best of which was the discovery, on our return to the Cytherea, of the lovely Ned sitting all alone in the bar. Alone and discontented: Kenneth, it seemed, had been busy all day with something serious and artistic; Ned, deserted, had wandered round Venice with no one to talk to and been very bored. He was sadly looking forward to an equally tedious Sunday.

Well, Selena, one has not a heart of stone. Marylou and I, having already agreed to spend Sunday morning together at the Lido, invited Ned to join us. If he had been a plain young man, we could hardly have done otherwise.

On Sunday morning, therefore, I rose in a mood of optimism — I had great hopes of the Lido.

“The signorina is very happy today,” said the pretty waiter who brings my breakfast.

“Who could fail to be happy,” I answered, “who is given breakfast by a young man with such beautiful eyes?” My linguistic ability was not equal to expressing this in Italian, nor his to fully understanding it in English; but he gathered, sufficiently to look pleased, that a compliment was intended.

Arriving first on the terrace, where we had arranged to meet, I settled down in my usual corner. In consequence of this, I came to overhear a most peculiar conversation, or rather fragments of one, between Eleanor and Kenneth Dunfermline. I will report it in as much detail as I can manage and see what you make of it.

They came together on to the terrace and sat down at a table at the other end of it. I stayed where I was, concealed by the vine or similar shrub. That I might have the embarrassment of overhearing them did not occur to me, for anything said in normal tones would not have been audible. I had not allowed for the resonance of Eleanor’s voice in moments of irritation.

For a few minutes, indeed, they talked quite quietly and peaceably, so that I heard nothing. Then I heard Eleanor say, “It’s no use blaming me, Kenneth. Of course I thought he knew about it — I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.” Then Kenneth said something I didn’t hear, which seemed to soothe her a little. The next thing I heard her say was, “Well, I’ve warned you about him and that’s all I can do. As long as you keep it properly locked up while he’s anywhere about the place, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

I at first assumed, I don’t quite know why, that she was talking about the Major. The Major strikes me, for some reason, as the sort of man in whose vicinity it might be prudent to lock up the spoons. It seems, however, that I must have been wrong about this, because soon afterwards I heard her say that someone called Bruce had stolen an armchair and a rococo looking-glass which she rather liked. I concluded that Bruce, whoever he is, must have been the subject of her previous warning.

I cannot imagine, however, what Kenneth could have in his possession of sufficient value to be in danger of theft — unless, of course, one counts the lovely Ned. So it all seemed rather odd; but not nearly as odd as the next part.

Built, as I have mentioned, like an ox, Kenneth had hitherto displayed a corresponding placidity. Soon after the reference to Bruce, however, he seemed to become enraged. He rose from his chair and stood in front of Eleanor, head down and shoulders forward as if about to charge. Indignation now made him, too, sufficiently resonant to be audible to me. I cannot attempt a verbatim account of his remarks: the general burden was that Eleanor didn’t own him, that he wasn’t employed by Frostfield’s and that she’d already had her money’s worth out of him. Something, too, about not letting down his friends to please her.

After which he left the terrace, evidently in dudgeon. Eleanor, to my relief, left soon afterwards, saving me the embarrassment of discovery.

Don’t you think it extraordinary, Selena, that Eleanor and Kenneth should in two days have reached a sufficient intimacy to have a row? Rancour, I have always supposed, is the fruit of long acquaintance. But you, with your usual agility of mind, may perhaps arrive at some reasonable explanation.

“I like the Bruce chap,” said Cantrip.

“You mean,” said Ragwort, “that you see him as a kindred spirit?”

“No, I mean I like him for the murder. I think he did it.”

“With respect,” said Timothy, “are you not theorizing a little in advance of the evidence? A single mention of his name in an overheard fragment of conversation—”

“Jolly significant, though. Because now we know that this sculptor chap’s got something valuable with him. And we know this Bruce chap knows he’s got it. And we know it’s the sort of thing this Bruce chap will go to any lengths to get hold of. We don’t know what it is, of course. I expect it’s some more of this rocky cocoa stuff, if that’s what Bruce goes in for. Is rocky cocoa valuable?”

“One imagines,” said Ragwort, “that a good piece of genuine rococo furniture would command an attractive price.”

“Right. So what the Bruce chap does is hang around the Cytherea till he thinks there’s no one about. Then he weasels into the annexe with a view to knocking off the rocky cocoa armchair or whatever it is. Only the chap from the Revenue comes back unexpectedly and catches him at it. Threatens to call the fuzz. The Bruce chap pleads with him a bit, I expect, says he’s got a wife and five children and so on and they’ve got no armchairs to sit on. But it’s no good, because chaps from the Revenue are specially trained not to listen to hard-luck stories. So the Bruce chap gets desperate and stabs him. I like it, myself. What do you think?”

“I think,” said Selena, “that we’d better go on and find out what this unpleasantness is that Julia is worried about.”

Marylou and Ned joining me soon afterwards, we took the vaporetto across the lagoon to the Lido. There we swam very energetically and drank a good deal of Campari soda. That, I mean, was the sum of our joint achievements: Marylou and Ned did most of the swimming and I drank most of the Campari. Ned, when disrobed, is a fraction more muscular than I had imagined, but not distastefully so. And not at all hairy, which was a great relief to me.

I begged them both to avoid sunburn. It would be disgraceful, I said, to take out with me the two most beautiful people in the Cytherea and bring them back looking like boiled lobsters.

“Only in the Cytherea?” asked Ned, looking reproachful.

“In Venice,” I said. “On the whole coast of the Adriatic.”

“Why not the whole Mediterranean?” he asked, still not satisfied. But I was not to be drawn into such gross exaggeration.

I did not forget to show an interest in Ned’s hopes, dreams and aspirations. I asked if he really intended to spend all his days in the service of the Revenue, sending ever more menacing letters in ever more buff-coloured envelopes. “Surely,” I said, “it is a very soul-destroying occupation?” This seemed to me to be rather subtle.

“I don’t know,” answered Ned. “Perhaps there’ll suddenly be some amazing transformation in my circumstances. My friend Kenneth has plans to make both our fortunes.”

Encouraged, however, to speak more of these, he said, “Oh, they won’t come to anything. You know what artists are like. I take Ken’s plans as seriously as your compliments, Julia. No, I expect I’ll stay with the Revenue.” He even seemed a little irritated at having mentioned any alternative: I therefore felt no obligation to pursue the subject further.

“Don’t you think,” said Selena, “that that is also a significant conversation?”

“Well,” said Timothy, “he was right, in a way, about the sudden change in his circumstances. But presumably he wasn’t thinking of being murdered, poor boy. What have you in mind?”