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Possibly, her anxiety was well founded. Rathbone had been uncharacteristically rash in taking Zorah Rostova’s case before looking into it more thoroughly. It would be extremely difficult to defend. The more Monk learned, the more apparent did that become. The very best they could hope for would be some limitation of the damage.
He felt guilt at traveling in a manner he could not possibly have afforded on his own means. He was going to a country he had never been to before, so far as he knew, and on what he sincerely believed would be a hopeless quest, and doing it at Zorah’s expense. Perhaps honor should have dictated that he tell her directly that he did not know what he was looking for and thought there was only the slightest chance he could learn anything that would help her cause. In her interest, the best advice would be to apologize quickly and withdraw the allegation. Surely Rathbone must have said that to her?
The rhythmic rattle of the wheels over the rails and the slight sway of the carriage were almost mesmeric. The seat was most comfortable.
What if Rathbone withdrew his services? Then the Countess would have to find someone else to represent her, and that might be extremely difficult to do, perhaps sufficiently so to deter her altogether.
But Rathbone was too stubborn for that. He had given his word, and his pride would not let him admit he had made a mistake, and he could not accomplish the task—because it was not possible. The man was a fool!
But he was also, in some respects, Monk’s friend as well as his employer, so there was no alternative but to continue on this excellent train journey all the way to Venice, pretending to be a gentleman, and play the courtier to what was left of the exiled royalty and learn what he could.
He approached Venice by the new land bridge, arriving late in the afternoon as the light was fading. Stephan met him at the station, which teemed with people of extraordinary variety, fair skins and dark, Persians, Egyptians, Levantines and Jews as well as emperors of a dozen countries. A Babel of languages he did not begin to recognize sounded around him, and costumes of all manner of cut and color surged past him. Alien smells of spice, garlic and aromatic oils mixed with steam, coal smuts and salt wind and sewage. He remembered with a jolt how far east Venice was; it was the place where the trade of Europe met the silk roads and spice trails of the Orient. To the west lay Europe, to the south Egypt and Africa beyond, to the east Byzantium and the ancient world, and beyond that, India and even China.
Stephan welcomed him enthusiastically. A servant a couple of steps behind him took Monk’s cases and, shouldering them easily, forced a way through the crowd.
Within twenty minutes they were in a gondola moving gently along a narrow canal. High above them, the sun lit the marble faces of the buildings close in on either side, but down where they were, the shadows were dark across the water. Everything seemed to shift or waver, reflecting wave patterns on walls. The sounds of slurping and whispering came from every side, and the smells of damp, of salt, of effluent and wet stone were thick in the nose.
Monk stared to one side and then the other, fascinated. This place was unlike anything he had even dreamed. A flight of stone steps rose from the water and disappeared between buildings. Another mounted to a landing and an archway beyond which glimmered a door. Torches were reflected in shivered fire on the broken surface of the water. Other boats jostled up and down, bumping together gently where they were moored at long poles.
Monk was enthralled. He had not known what to expect. He had been too occupied with what he hoped to learn, and how he was going to go about it, to think of the city itself. He had heard tales of Venice’s glory—and its ruin. He knew it was an ancient and corrupt republic which was the seafaring gateway east and west of European trade, an immense power at its height, before the decadence which had brought about its fall. This was the Pearl of the Adriatic, the Bride of the Sea, where the Doge ceremonially cast a wedding ring into the lagoon as a symbol of their union.
He had also heard of its evil, its perversions, its stagnant beauty sliding inevitably into the waters, waiting for destruction. He also knew that it had been conquered and occupied by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and he would find Austrian officials in government and Austrian soldiers on such streets as there were.
But as the sun set in a flaming sky, daubing the fretted roofs of the palaces in fire, and he heard the calls of the boatmen echoing across the water and the hollow sound of the tide sucking under the stone foundations, all he could think of was the eerie beauty of the place and its utter and total uniqueness.
Without having spoken of more than necessities, they reached a small private landing and stepped ashore. The landing was the rear entrance of a small palace whose principal facade faced a main canal to the south. A liveried attendant emerged almost immediately carrying a torch which shed an orange light on the damp stones and for a moment showed the dark surface of the water almost green. He recognized Stephan and held the torch aloft to show them the way over the flagged stones to the steps up to a narrow wooden door which was half open.
Monk was cold only because he was tired, but he was glad to go up into the warmth and brightness of a wide entrance hall, marble floored but with thick Eastern carpets giving it a luxury and sense of immediate comfort.
Stephan followed him up, and the servant could be heard calling for a footman to fetch the cases.
Monk was shown his room in Stephan’s house, which was palatial, high-ceilinged, hung with dramatic tapestries now faded to earth tones of great beauty. Deep windows looked south onto the larger canal, where the light still played on the water, sending reflected waves rippling across the ceiling.
He walked straight over, ignoring the bed and the chairs, and leaned out as far as he could through the stone embrasure, staring down. There were still at least a score of barges and gondolas plying their slow way up and down the canal. On the far side, the carved and pillared facades were lit by torchflare, making the marble look rose and rust and the windows black sockets through which someone else might be staring, just as he was, from a darkened room, utterly enthralled.
Over dinner in a larger chamber, looking onto the Ca’ Grande, he forced his mind to the purpose for which he was there.
“I need to know a great deal more about the political alliances and interests of the people who were at the Wellboroughs’ when Friedrich died,” he said to Stephan.
“Of course,” Stephan agreed. “I can tell you, but I imagine you need to observe for yourself. My word is hardly evidence, and certainly not my opinion.” He leaned back and touched his napkin to his lips after the shellfish of the first course. “Fortunately, there are all sorts of occasions within the next few days to which I can take you and where you will meet the sort of people you need to.” His voice was full of optimism, but there was anxiety shadowing his eyes.
Again Monk wondered why he was so loyal to Zorah and what he knew of Friedrich’s death that moved him to take so much trouble trying to prove it had been murder. Was he part of the story or only an onlooker? What were his own loyalties? What would he lose or gain if Gisela were proved guilty—or if Zorah were? Perhaps Monk had been rash to have taken Stephan so completely at his word. It was a mistake he did not often make.
“Thank you,” he accepted. “I should be grateful for your advice and your opinion. You know these people far better than I ever will. And while certainly your view is not evidence, it may be the wisest counsel I shall have and the best guide towards finding proof other people will be obliged to believe, however much they may prefer not to.”
Stephan said nothing for quite some time. He looked at Monk at first with surprise, and then curiosity, and finally with a certain amusement, as if at last he had some measure of him in his mind.
“Of course,” he conceded.
“What do you believe happened?” Monk said bluntly.
The light was almost gone from the sky outside. There was only the occasional reflection of a drifting torch on the windows, and then more dimly on the water and back again on the glass. The air smelled of damp and salt, and in the background to everything there was always the constant murmur of the tide.
“I believe the atmosphere was right for murder,” Stephan said guardedly, watching Monk’s face as he spoke. “There was much to win or lose. People can convince themselves of all sorts
of moralities where patriotism is concerned.”
A servant brought a dish of baked fish and vegetables, and Monk accepted a generous portion.
