Death of a Rake (2/4)

“This way, madame!” said Lord Hibbert, pointing the way with his ivory walking stick. “I will fetch the Capo di Sestiere anon and report the dastardly deed.”

The image of the diamond ring was in Lord Hibbert’s eyes much in the way a roast chicken would be in the eyes of a hungry dog.

As they walked, Tina started to notice an ambient stench.

“Gorrgh, what’s that smell?” she said, practically choking.

“The bouquet of Venice. It is close, I grant you.”

“It didn’t smell like that this morning,” said Tina, her eyes watering. “It’s like…a rotten egg in a sweaty sock that’s been steeping for a week in a hot cup of sewage. And then a fish ate the sock and the fish died…”

“You don’t have a smelling bottle on you?”

“What’s a smelling bottle?”

“Perhaps it is a custom you don’t have in your region—it must be a more wholesome region. You hail from the Americas, I’ll wager?”

“I’m from Seattle.”

“Is that in Virginia?”

“Um, no. But what’s a smelling bottle?”

“A vial containing some pleasant smelling concoction. Ladies carry them to mask the earthy aroma of the modern city.”

“Do you have one?”

“I have a scented kerchief. I would loan it you but it’s deucedly expensive. You’ll excuse me.”

“Whatever,” said Tina.

“Your husband is here with you?” Hibbert asked.

“I’m not married,” she said.

“Your fiancé then?”

“I’m not engaged. Not anymore, anyway.”

“I see. Then you are travelling with your people?”

“No, I’m alone.”

“Gadzooks! Alone! And wandering about in the middle of the night in a strange city. Madam, this is madness.”

“It’s fine,” Tina snapped. “I’m not a baby.”

“Assuredly, assuredly. He brought his scented handkerchief to his nose.”

They passed a canal where a man was selling his morning’s catch. A crowd of women were bunched around him, all dressed in skirts shawls and bonnets, jostling to get a look at the merchandise.

“Wow, it’s all so scenic. Is someone filming? I don’t see any cameras or trucks around.” Tina looked at Hibbert suspiciously. “You’re not an actor are you?”

“I have dabbled in writing plays and I know several local actresses and actors who have tried to persuade me. But thus far I have not trodden the boards in a pair of buskins.” He twirled his walking stick.

They passed along the canal. Tina recognized one of the buildings she’d seen earlier in the day, it had been decrepit and crumbling. Now it was repaired, with a fresh coat of paint. A crowd of children, raggedy and barefoot, ran past them babbling happily together. Two priests in black robes strode by, deep in discussion.

A stunning thought occurred to Tina.

“Lord Hibbert,” she began.

“Milady?”

“What’s the date today?”

“All Saint’s Day.”

“Which year?”

“The year of our lord 1755.”

“Oh God,” she said, stopping in her tracks.

Hibbert stopped, observing her closely and with some distaste. His eyebrows were raised.

“A problem has arisen?”

Tina stared at him blankly for a few moments, her mind racing. Suddenly, she dug her hand into her purse, brought out her cellphone, and waved it in his face.

“Do you know what this is?”

He stared at her in surprise then took it.

“Why? A small brick? A diary? A snuff box?”

He took it in his gloved hands and stared at it curiously.

“Then it’s true.” She leaned against a pillar to support herself as her head swam. “No no no, this is not happening right now.”

“Zounds!” Hibbert gasped as the bright torchlight function dazzled his eyes, causing him to drop the phone on the cobblestones. Luckily, it had its silicone bubblegum-pink protective case on. He picked it up and examined it.

“It’s some kind of lamp. How is it done? How is the fire contained?”

“It’s not fire. It’s electricity.”

“How does it work?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Tina said truthfully. “Where I’m from, everyone has them.”

Hibbert looked at her with round eyes.

“What is it?” said Tina. “Why are you looking so weird?”

“Come, you’re a witch!” he said in a low voice. “I’ve heard there are colonies of you and your kind in America. You said where you’re from everyone has them—then you must come from a coven. What a find! I must introduce you to the Mage. Why, the boys’ll be betwaddled when I tell them,” he grinned.

Tina stared at him.

“A witch?!”

“I visited the occultists yesterday and they predicted I’d meet an uncanny maid.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Tina.

“Ah, you guessed my secret, Lord Hibbert. I flew here from Seattle on this here umbrella-broom. Just thought I’d have a look around, you know. Hey, can I have my, er, prognosticator back?”

“Prognos—?” Lord Hibbert handed her the phone as if in a trance.

“Prognosticator. I use it to predict the future and to….uh…cast spells” she smiled at him and, awe-inspired, he passed it over to her. Quickly, she thumbed the ‘This Day in History’ app, hoping she wouldn’t need an internet connection to access the last post. Sure enough, the post she’d seen that morning was still there:

THIS DAY IN HISTORY

At 9.40 local time, on November 1, 1755, the Great Lisbon Earthquake wreaks havoc in Portugal, Iberia and the North West coast of Africa. Estimated to be a magnitude of 7.7, it causes tsunamis, fires and destruction. An estimated 12,000 people perish in Lisbon alone. Shocks from the earthquake were felt as far away as Finland and the Caribbean.

“So it will be 8.40 our time…” she calculated.

“Pardon me?” Hibbert asked.

“Nothing. Breath mint?” She slipped the phone into her purse and produced a box of Tic Tacs.

“What is this?”

“Something that magically makes your breath sweeter.”

Cautiously, he accepted it, sniffed it then popped it on his tongue. About three seconds later he spat it out.

“By snum! What in the devil’s radish-seed is this?”

“Peppermint,” Tina said. “Too hot for you huh?” She clicked her tongue sympathetically. She took a couple of the little tablets and sucked on them thoughtfully.

“See that palazzo there?” Hibbert said, shoving his stick at a big white mansion with tall skinny Spanish-style windows. “Tiepolo’s there now doing a fresco.”

“Who?” Tina said.

“Tiepolo! The great fresco painter.”

“Ah. Well, us witches don’t hold with modern artists,” she said casually. “We prefer the old masters. Like, uh, Michaelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Van Gogh.”

“Who?”

“I mean Van Dyke.”

“What a piece of luck,” said Hibbert suddenly. “There’s just the blunderbuss we’re looking for.”

“The police?”

“The very one. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fade into the background. Use your feminine wiles so he doesn’t look too closely at my face, me being a wanted man and all that.”

Tina looked skeptically at the man pointed out to her. He was about five feet tall and enormously fat, like a little ball. Not only that, his face was covered with warts and he looked in a very bad temper. His wig was almost as tall as he was. Next to him were two other men, taller but not better tempered.

Hibbert approached him and spoke to them.

Ten minutes later, the little fat man was staring down at the beautiful corpse and stroking his warty chin. He murmured something to his colleagues, and all of a sudden they grabbed Hibbert by the arms. He writhed and wailed like a banshee but the men were obdurate.

“What are you doing? He’s not the killer! He’s my friend, let him go!” Tina yelled.

The little man frowned at her.

“Take me too!” she said.

“Witch!” called Hibbert as the black-cloaked gang carried him away. “Pray, go to the Piazza San Marco and find my friend. He’ll take you to the Mage. With your powers and his, I’ll be out of Purgatory anon. These addlepates won’t know what hit them!”

“Right!” she called encouragingly.

“Because it’ll be that easy,” she whispered bitterly.