Death of a Rake (1/3)

Tina Morton was enjoying her honeymoon, solo. For her whole life she’d wanted to see Italy and it had seemed like the perfect post-wedding destination. And, in fact, it was. The engagement had been marvelous, the Honeymoon wonderful. It was just the wedding itself that had been less than satisfactory.

One problem was that Brandon had another girlfriend, one he liked quite a lot more than Tina. Another problem was that she’d only learned of this attachment the night before the wedding. To give him credit, he had actually come clean before the papers were signed. And he’d been apologetic about it all. He said he didn’t mind if she kept the ring (which was beautiful and extremely expensive) and that he was totally happy to fund her trip to Italy.

Florence had been heavenly (except for that purse-snatching incident), Rome majestic, Naples a sensory explosion (literally, when the Vespa had knocked into her), Sicily enchanting. And now she was in Venice, the final stop before a return to real life. The classroom full of teenagers. The tactful sympathy of her colleagues and family...ugh.

As soon as she stepped out of Santa Lucia Station, she felt an odd sense of disappointment. It was winter, early morning and the place was practically deserted. Against a fine, cold drizzle, a crowd of pigeons huddled under the station’s overhanging roof. She didn’t see any gondoliers serenading passengers, just a hard-bitten character in an oilskin raincoat piling crates into a dinghy, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Pull yourself together Tina,” she told herself, “This is Venice. You’re here at last! How many times have you dreamed of this?”

She looked at the view again, carefully editing out the unsightly boatman and the scraggy pigeons. Squinting, she discerned the Venice of the paintings: a low-lying mist, the gentle splendor of spires and domes. After all, in the glare of full sunlight they’d probably look decrepit and moth-eaten.

Seeing that she had her buttercup-yellow umbrella, transparent raincoat and bright-pink gumboots, she decided to walk to St. Mark’s rather than take a ferry. As she picked her way through the maze of small streets and cramped piazzas, over tiny bridges and past grand churches, she drank in all the atmosphere she could, but again she felt that bitter pang of disappointment. It was all dank, dark and deserted.

The canals seemed like glorified ditches, the locals seemed bad tempered and eyed her with cynical disfavor. A gnome-like man had tied his boat up at a corner showing his day’s catch. A few women prodded at the pitiful offerings with critical fingers and croaked out numbers; the affronted vendor gesticulated pleadingly in response. Battered cats lurked a safe distance away, hoping for scraps.

Turning a corner, she ended up on a street that looked depressingly like any other city street in an Italian city. Tall apartment buildings rose on either side. Neighbors chatted in the entrance ways, a baby’s cry escaped from an open window, a beefy woman stood on a balcony and shook out a rug. From another balcony a small dog barked sharply at her passing. In a ground-floor window, an ancient face watched her with disconcerting intensity.

Tina hurried on, feeling like an intruder. She ducked into an arcade, nearly bumping into a teenaged couple exploring each other’s tonsils with their tongues.

“I beg your pardon! Scusate!” Tina said, but the couple took no notice.

She hurried on, noting that the wall was covered with graffiti. She hadn’t expected to see that here. Everything was turning out to be too ordinary, too grimy, too human.

“Well, what did you expect?” she muttered angrily to herself. “A some kind of lurid adventure?”

It was hard to admit it to herself, but the amorous couple had brought it home to her: she missed Brandon. Or maybe not Brandon himself, who she’d realized was actually the worst kind of sniveling worm, but being a newlywed in Venice, in love, floating on a cloud of romance. She felt cheated.

Turning a corner, she stopped in her tracks.

In front of her, a Gothic window cut into a stone wall offered a dramatic view of the grey-green lagoon beyond. Gulls and terns winged their way over the water, congregating near small fishing boats.

It was not the wall or the sea view that stopped her, though. Rather it was the body. He seemed to be wearing fancy dress. Next to him, a kind of glutinous puddle, was a pool of blood.

“Eek!” said Tina. She was not someone who liked to make loud noises, so she said it very quietly.

Gingerly, she knelt beside the body, fastidiously avoiding the blood puddle, and touched the man’s wrist. There was no pulse and his skin was cold to the touch.

So close, it struck Tina that he was very young, no older than she was, and quite beautiful. His eyes, wide open in an expression of surprise, were large and deep brown. His hair was dark, glossy and permed. His skin was thickly powdered and he wore rouge and lipstick. Under the powder was a hint of beard shadow.

She stood up and wondered what she ought to do. She fumbled in her purse for her Italian phrase book and flipped through to the back section, “Phrases for Emergencies”. Then she pulled her cheap cellphone out of her pocket to make the emergency call, something that she’d actually practiced in her hotel room because you never knew what might happen. There was no dial tone, not even the announcement saying “The number you have dialed cannot be reached.” Tina stared at the thing in consternation. It had been working just a few hours ago, when she called the taxi.

She remembered the teenagers in the arcade and briskly retraced her steps. She’d gone no further than ten paces, however, when she noticed something odd. The walls that had been covered with graffiti were no longer there. She was in a narrow stone alley that stank of stale urine. A disheveled looking man was lying on the cobblestones. Dead? No, he was singing quietly and kicking his legs up. Drunk.

Cautious of approaching the drunkard, she turned back and found herself again next to the dead youth.

“I have to find somebody,” she said with determination. This time she walked in the other direction and saw a group of five people in the distance. They seemed to be in the same kind of fancy dress as the corpse—two men wearing black frockcoats, wigs and tights; three women with hair piled up on their heads, ample decolletage flashing in the early morning light, big skirts flowing out from tiny waists.

From the sluggish and erratic way they were moving, it looked as if they were at the tail end of an epic night out. They looked rich, at least. They’d have cellphones.

“Hey!” she called, waving vigorously. “Scusate!”

They only looked over at her when she started running over to them.

“Ragazzi, mi aiutati per favore!” she called.

They stared at her in astonishment. As she came up to them, she heard the tallest man, a mustachio’d dandy, drawl to his friend.

“Damned odd species of Tuscan, that.”

“You speak English?” she asked, overcome with relief.

“I am the original John Bull,” he slurred, bowing. “I go by the sobriquet Lord Hibbert, John Chichester. And this young blood is my comrade-in-arms Griffiths.”

The other man nodded, with a slightly sardonic smile.

“And who might you be?” said Hibbert.

“Tina Morton,” she said. “I’m a tourist. But that’s irrelevant. There’s a man over there—dead!”

He and his friend exchanged a glance and raised their eyebrows.  The ladies smiled pleasantly, unaware of the situation.

“How ghastly,” Hibbert murmured. “But…what sort of a man?”

“What do you mean what sort of a man? He’s young, quite good looking.”

“Is he a…gentleman?” Lord Hibbert had leaned close to her and murmured the question, as if trying not to let the others hear. Tina caught a whiff of his breath, which was very alcoholic and redolent of old fish. She winced.

“Yes, he looked like one,” she said, confused. “But please come. I don’t know what to do.”

Hibbert took charge.

“You take the wenches home, Griffiths. I’ll see you at Trionfante this evening.”

Griffiths gave his friend a curious look but nodded. He spoke to the ladies in a strange tongue and ushered them away. The one with the pockmarked face looked longingly after Hibbert. He blew a theatrical kiss to her and proceeded to accompany Tina at an unhurried pace and with the assistance of an ivory-handled walking stick.

“I like your get-up," said Tina admiringly. "What were you all at—a fancy-dress party?”

“You are speaking Egyptian, madam,” Hibbert said curtly.

“Your clothes and hair,” she persisted, “The whole ensemble—even your speech. It’s excellent. Almost like a costume drama.”

“Your clothes too,” said Hibbert, rolling his eyes from her umbrella down to her gumboots, then smiling slightly, “Are most particular.”

“Is that an insult?” Tina asked defensively.

“Not at all. I assure you. It is remarkable. I haven’t seen anything like it, not even in Paris.”

When they reached the body, Hibbert prodded him with his walking stick.

“Dead,” he declared.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” said Tina, who was starting to feel annoyed.

Looking around with a furtive expression, Hibbert crouched down and patted the man’s torso. He extracted a gold watch, an exquisite lace handkerchief and a silver locket and slipped them into a pouch hanging from his breeches. Then he pulled three rich looking rings off the cold fingers. They, too, went into the pouch.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tina cried, outraged. “They don’t belong to you.”

“My dear lady,” Hibbert replied with a smile, “That kind of language ill becomes you. As for these trinkets, they are of more use to the living than to the worms of Isola di San Michele. I find myself at the ebb-water and have need of balsam, if you catch my drift.”

“What about the locket?"

"What about it?"

"Can I at least see it?”

He handed it over to her. She opened it and gave a little cry of triumph.

“I knew it! There’s a portrait in here. If you take this, it will be of no use to you. As soon as you try to pawn it they’ll know where you got it from. Don’t you watch crime shows on TV?”

“Pawn? Tee vee?  Tell me, Goodwoman Morton, whence have you obtained such cramp-words? Are you perchance from one of our colonies in the Americas?”

“Can’t you drop the act for five minutes?” Tina cried. “A man has died and all you’re interested in is corpse robbing and fancy talk. She handed the locket back to him and at the sight of the portrait he gaped in amazement.

“Dodgast, it’s Lucy!”

“You know her?”

“In every sense, but particularly the Biblical one. Lucia Contarini. One of the Golden Book families, don’t you know. Zoonters, no wonder this fellow got skewered if he was strumming that young bag of mischief!”

“Aren’t you going to call the police?”

“You mean the Capi del Sestiere? Certainly not! I am persona non grata in the Serenissima right now due to the crime of supposedly despoiling this very Lucy, who is a senator’s daughter. This moustache is not real, and so far it has allowed me to elude my hunters. If I were to stroll up to them and give them a good look at my face, they’d certainly recognize it and it would be the Bridge of Sighs for me. I thank you, but I cherish my liberty.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” said Tina, feeling exasperated, “But could you at least tell me where to go?”

“I highly recommend the Ridotto di San Moisé. There are other casinos, of course, but they are illicit. A novice, particularly one of the fairer sex, runs the risk of being caught. Remember, the Republic of Venice is riddled with Puffs.”

“I’m not talking about casinos!” Tina snapped. “I mean where is the closest police station?”

“My dear lady,” said Hibbert, “My advice to you is this: Forget about this poor collection of bones. He will be collected and mourned in due time. Fate has claimed him for Her Own. Farewell.”

He turned on his heel.

“Oh no you don’t!” Tina said, grabbing his arm. “What about justice?”

“Justice!” He stared at her as if doubting her sanity.

“Yes, justice. A man has been killed. I’m all alone here and I don’t know what to do,” Tina said. “It’s our duty to get the police. And we have to get them here soon. The first 48 hours after a homicide are crucial, haven’t you read that?”

“Unhand me! I fain would strike a lady, but no lady would paw a gentleman so,” said the fop.

Something occurred to Tina.

“Listen, you’re broke, right? You need money?”

He nodded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“If you help me,” said Tina, “I will give you this ring. It’s a diamond.”

She waggled her finger in front of his eyes, which immediately widened.

“I’m not asking you to give yourself up to the police. Besides, surely no one would recognize you in that ridiculous get-up. I just need a bit of help with the language,” she said. “Please?”

He sighed, the first sincere sound she’d heard him make to date. The booze-and-fish smell was magnified.

“Very well. Against my better judgement, I will help you. After all, I know my scripture and Matthew himself says Jesus had mercy on the lunaticks.”

Tina ignored the insult and beamed.

“Hibbert, you’re a prince!”