Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘Only to the other apartment. I’ve sold this one; I can’t stay here.’

‘You must have made a fortune.’

‘Not as much as I’d have made with the Titian,’ Tom replied, gripping the painting.

Recognising it, Ravenscourt blustered. ‘You can’t take that—’

‘I can and I will,’ Tom snapped. ‘The buyer got a good deal on the sale. He won’t miss one painting.’

‘But that one?’

‘What?’ Tom asked, holding the picture at arm’s length and looking at it. ‘What’s so great about this one?’

‘It’s Claudia Moroni.’

‘And that’s supposed to mean something?’

‘Look,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone mollifying. ‘Let me buy it off you. I’ll give you a good price.’

‘I don’t think so. The Italian currency’s failing. If I was going to sell it, I’d want US dollars.’

Ravenscourt nodded. ‘OK, OK.’

‘I said if I was going to sell it,’ Tom continued, staring at the painting intently. ‘Because you wanting it so badly makes me wonder why. Perhaps it’s valuable?’

‘Only to me. It’s important for my research.’

‘Into Angelico Vespucci?’ Tom countered, laughing. ‘You sad fag, where’s all that research got you? You could have had the Titian, but you fucked up. Killing Seraphina—’

‘ I didn’t kill your wife! ’

‘Someone did. And you were in Venice. And you wanted the painting. I wouldn’t put it past you to try and cut me out.’

‘Maybe it was you who cut me out. You were in trouble, banking on getting the Titian,’ Ravenscourt replied. ‘Don’t try and bluff me.’

They stared at each other, neither man giving way, neither believing what the other said.

‘Anyway, why are you still in Venice?’ Tom asked. ‘You told Seraphina you were going to spend Christmas in London.’

‘I had to leave London for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘I had some trouble. I needed to get the police off my back.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t have anything to do with Nino Bergstrom being back in Venice, would it?’ Tom could see Ravenscourt pale and laughed again. ‘Coming after you, is he?’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘About what?’

‘The Titian. About the plan you and Seraphina had.’

‘No!’ Tom replied, shrugging. ‘I haven’t seen Bergstrom for weeks. Anyway, why would I tell him what we were up to?’

‘You wouldn’t …’ Ravenscourt replied, his thoughts running on. ‘Bergstrom’s a nosy sod. I tried to get rid of him in London, but he’s cropped up again. I wonder why he’s back in Venice?’ His attention shifted back to his original topic. ‘We were talking about the painting. I’ll give you a good price for it – although, by rights, you should give it to me. Something to remember Seraphina by. I was her closest friend – she would have wanted me to have it.’

‘She wouldn’t have given a shit,’ Tom replied. ‘She used to laugh at you all the time, say what a sad case you were. She mocked your “intellectual pretensions” and all your Italian boys.’ He could see the colour leaving Ravenscourt’s face. ‘Seraphina thought you were a pig—’

‘She wasn’t like that!’

‘Oh, but she was. Seraphina was nothing like she appeared. So frankly, Johnny, if you killed her I wouldn’t let it keep you up at night.’

He paused, then suddenly pushed the painting at Ravenscourt, the dealer’s big hands grabbing it to stop it falling, then reached into Ravenscourt’s back pocket and took out his wallet.

‘Thanks,’ he said, putting the wallet back after taking out a wodge of notes.

‘You bastard!’

‘What are you complaining about? You got the painting,’ Tom said, guiding Ravenscourt out of the apartment and slamming the door behind both of them. Finally, he slid the keys through the letterbox and dusted his hands off.

‘I’m glad to be leaving. Seraphina never liked this place. Said it was bad luck.’

‘It certainly was for her.’

Shrugging, Tom moved past Ravenscourt. But halfway down the stairs, he hesitated and looked back at him. ‘I don’t buy it, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Your big dumb act. Like Seraphina, you’re not what you seem to be. I don’t know whether I should laugh at you, or be afraid of you.’ He paused, as though he was considering his options, then walked on, whistling.

44

Apparently the di Fattori marriage had been a charade for over a decade. Or so the Contessa told Nino as they sat in the apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. The height of the room prevented any intimacy, the arched ceiling as impersonal as a church. And seated under all this grandeur was the sparse frame of Seraphina’s mother, the Contessa di Fattori. When she spoke the impression of fragility continued, her voice as brittle as her appearance.

In the weeks since Nino had last seen her she had lost weight, the veins on her forehead pronounced under the skilful make-up, her tinted hair too dark for her pallor. Erect, she looked like a person who had been tied to her seat, rigid with unease.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said in Italian, then slid effortlessly into English. ‘I have matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you. And of course I ask for your complete confidence.’

Nino nodded. ‘You have it.’

She went on without a pause. ‘My husband and I are getting a divorce.’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘Please don’t be. Seraphina’s death was too much for us. They say people either grow closer in adversity or break apart. We did the latter.’ Her lips closed firmly, as though she was relieved to have the words out of her system. ‘I have something to show you, Mr Bergstrom.’ Reaching over to the table beside her, she handed him a substantial envelope. ‘My husband was of the opinion that family matters should remain within the family. I, however, do not agree. But then again, I married into the di Fattori line, so perhaps I don’t have the same loyalty to the name. Or the dead.’

Opening the package, Nino was struck by the age of the paper, a heavyweight embossed vellum.

‘What are these?’

‘Those are jottings written by the infamous Melania, the Contessa di Fattori. Painted by Titian, the lover of Pietro Aretino, the Harlot of Venice. Do you know what the name Melania means?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘ Dark ,’ she said wistfully. ‘And she was. Not in colouring —she had red hair – but Melania di Fattori had a dark heart. Of course you know of her death, her murder? Very like Seraphina’s, wasn’t it?’ She paused, sighing, although there was barely a sound. ‘I’ve been thinking a great deal. About my daughter, about what happened to her. And I was speaking to Gaspare Reni this morning – he told me about the Titian portrait.’ She put up her hands to prevent Nino interrupting. ‘It was right that he did so. I couldn’t go on in ignorance, Mr Bergstrom. It makes sense that there was some connection between Seraphina and Melania … What Gaspare told me made me decide to show you these.’

‘You want me to read them?’ Nino said, gesturing at the papers.

‘Every word. They might help you.’

‘Have you read them?’

‘Read them first, Mr Bergstrom, then we’ll talk again,’ she replied. ‘My husband would never have released this information, and I ask you to keep it secret. I only give it to you because it might be of use. Melania was an extraordinary woman. Immoral, without conscience.’ She breathed in. Again, the action was hardly audible. A wraith in a silk dress. ‘We disguise so much, lie to ourselves, hide so many secrets. Melania did that. So did my daughter.’