Every Hidden Thing

Chapter 21

  Libby was very aware of Michel walking next to her. The slighting remarks she had rehearsed over the last few of months were buzzing around her mind, but none of them would come to her lips. As they moved into the open, the moist wind whisked her curly hair into a golden nimbus around her head and her cheeks were glowing. She couldn’t know that Michel wanted to kiss her there and then. He placed his arm around her shoulders as they ran for the embarcadero as a vaporetto arrived.

  Dusk was falling and the light from the windows of the ancient buildings shimmered on the water. She had a fleeting impression that the lamps along the water’s edge were fairy lanterns lighting the steps and landing stages outside enchanted palaces. She wished she could stand and admire the scene but they hopped on board, ducking into the warm fug of the cabin. As they took their seats, she looked around at the closed faces of the other passengers and marvelled how the locals could journey daily through a Renaissance wonderland reading their newspapers. She wondered whether they were really unmoved by the splendour that surrounded them. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. It was Michel who spoke first,

  ‘Libby . . .’ he started in a confiding tone and then seemed to change his mind about what he wanted to say, ‘Would you mind coming back to my place before I take you back? It isn’t far. I don’t want to carry this around with me, I’d rather put it in my safe. We could even have a bite to eat there, if you like. I am sure that supper has been prepared.’

  ‘I would love to, but won’t Elvira mind?’ she said waspishly. She wasn’t a flirt herself and did not like to be led on in the way he had done at the party in Paris.

  ‘Elvira? Why should . . .? Oh!’ He put his head back and roared with laughter, oblivious of the stares from other passengers. ‘No, Elvira won’t mind! In fact, I would like you to meet her properly. She had a terrible headache that night and she realised afterwards that she had been very rude, not waiting long enough to be introduced,’ he finished, still grinning. He did not pursue the subject and they sat in silence as the vaporetto chugged into the Basino San Marco and up the Grand Canal. Libby was very baffled by his amusement and couldn’t utter another word.

  Within a short time they had arrived at the ca’ Rezonicco stop. The wind did not seem to be so fierce here. As they walked towards the Campo San Barnaba, the early dusk faded rapidly into night and the water fragmented the reflections that played over the choppy surface of the Rio St Barnaba.

  ‘It’s stopped raining and if it holds off, we can walk the rest of the way to your hotel afterwards. Nothing in Venice is very far. It will give you the opportunity to see a bit more of the city by night.’ Michel smiled down at her. She nodded, aware of the light touch of his hand on her back. The campo San Barnaba was cheerful, as inviting light splashed out onto the pavement in front of the church. They hurried past and down the Calle Lunga San Barnaba and into a side alley where they came to an old palazzo.

  ‘Here we are,’ he stopped and opened the front door with a key, ‘the palazzo was divided into two in the early 1900s,’ he explained, ‘The family was much smaller than in previous generations and they fell on hard times, so they kept the top half and sold the two lower floors. Those are now uninhabited since the terrible floods of ‘66. There was a lot of damage, so the people just gave up and moved to the mainland.’

  This building was in much better shape than Bragadin’s although quite as old, she realised, as the huge door closed behind them. While the inevitable line of damp was there, the stairs were well-lit and Michel opened the door on the third floor into a beautifully appointed entrance hall.

  ‘Come in. I’d like you to meet my aunt.’ He led her to the sitting room that was gently lit by several table lamps. The overall impression was one of expensive good taste; comfortable couches and what must have been original art works on the walls. Over the fireplace hung a well-executed portrait of a dark-haired, elegant young woman. That must be a portrait of Elvira, she thought glumly. There was no other occupant in the room. He helped her off with her jacket and offered her a drink. Then he left the room and she walked to the window, her mind in turmoil while she looked out at the ancient buildings across the narrow canal. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have let myself be dragged here on this self-destructive dead-end path! OK. No-one forced me to come, but . . . thoughts were buzzing through her mind as she walked aimlessly about the room, vaguely looking at the paintings on the walls.

  Minutes later she heard a sound behind her and whirling around, she found herself face to face with the gorgeous Elvira, who held out a hand in a friendly way. Libby’s heart sank. On closer inspection, she realised that Elvira was more striking than she had remembered. She was slightly shorter than Libby and looked like a ballerina, with dark hair scraped back into a knot in the nape of her elegant neck. Large dark eyes and delicately arched eyebrows and a proud tilt of her head completed the picture. Wearing a full-length silk evening dress in shimmering peacock green, she was the epitome of La Bella Figura, the typical Italian sense of style. Once again, Libby felt at a disadvantage in her Aran sweater and clumpy walking shoes.

  ‘I am Elvira, and you are Libby, I believe?’ she said in delightfully accented English.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Libby stiffly.

  ‘I am so glad to meet you. Michel tells me that some important delivery has brought you here and now I can apologise for being so impolite to you in Paris,’ she said smiling, ‘but when I have the headache I cannot think. I had spent the whole day at the fashion shows and that can be very painful, even without having a pain in the head! Then this wicked man dragged me off to that reception when I should have gone to bed early.’

  ‘I know what you mean, about headaches . . . I get them too . . .’ Libby commented for want of anything better to say. She had taken Elvira’s hand not wanting to be discourteous, but she still wanted to excuse herself and disappear. How did you allow this to happen, you idiot! Just then, Michel came back with drinks on a tray.

  ‘I was hoping to meet your aunt!’ she said, immediately ashamed of the truculence in her voice. He was unperturbed. He put the tray down carefully. Then without saying anything he put his arm around Elvira’s shoulders and posed, as if for a photograph. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. Elvira laughed up at him.

  ‘You naughty boy! Did you tease Libby?’ she flicked his nose with one elegant finger and turned to Libby. ‘I am his aunt Elvira.’

  ‘His aunt?’ she asked incredulously. She avoided Michel’s twinkling eyes; she knew he was on the brink of laughter at her comic dismay and she felt very foolish. ‘You beast!’ she said, ‘You deliberately misled me!’ She tried to sound angry, but she couldn’t be. He had the grace to look repentant.

  ‘Yes it is true,’ Elvira said, ‘I am the youngest half-sister of Michel’s mother Adelina. Her mother died young and our father remarried and I am the youngest of three daughters born to them. Michel and I virtually grew up together. After the war, he often came to stay in Venice.’ Elvira’s eyes were dancing as she finished this tale.

  Libby hardly heard this rapid explanation as she was startled at the realisation that she felt far more for him than she had been prepared to admit. She sat back in her chair, the wine suddenly tasting like champagne. Vaguely she heard Elvira explaining that she lived in Milan most of the time and came to Venice for a couple of weeks a year to live a little slower,

  ‘And although I am married to a wonderful man whom I love to distraction, Aldo is, and will always be Milanese! Motor cars, motor cars, motor cars. They are his life, I am afraid.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘My father willed this house to Adelina and it now belongs to Michel but from time to time he has to put up with his old aunts when they come to visit. He is lucky my sisters live in America, otherwise he’d always . . .’ the doorbell interrupted her chatter. ‘Ah, they are early! I have to leave you. I am going to dine with my friends and then we go to La Fenice. Goodbye, Cara mia. I am sure we will meet again very soon.’ With that s
he was gone.

  Michel escorted Elvira to the door, helping with her fur coat. He stood there for a moment, talking and laughing with the people who had come to fetch her and then came back to the sitting room.

  ‘Well, supper is ready. Shall we eat in the dining room? Usually, when I’m alone I eat in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, eating in the kitchen is so friendly.’ Libby felt relieved. She was a bit shy of him now that they were alone and felt that the less formal setting would be easier to cope with.

  ‘By the way, who cooks for you? Surely not your aunt?’

  ‘That would be the day!’ he laughed. ‘Guiseppa is an old family retainer who has been with the family for years. She lives upstairs and acts as caretaker when I am not here, which is often, unfortunately. When I am here she bullies me as though I was seven again. She has put something in the oven for us.’

  Libby could smell the wonderful aromas of some kind of casserole. Helping to set the small table gave her something to do, as he poured more wine and took the dish out of the oven.

  ‘Mmmm! What’s that?’ Lunch time was so long ago, she couldn’t quite remember what she had eaten and she almost groaned with hunger. He lifted the lid.

  ‘It looks like a favourite of Giuseppa’s. Osso buco Milanese, I would say. She always cooks it in honour of Elvira, even if she doesn’t get to eat it, like tonight when she’s out for dinner. Have you ever tried this? It is superb.’

  She marvelled at the ordinariness of the situation, and how natural and unpretentious he was. Here he was, behaving just like any average man in his kitchen. He caught her looking at him and smiled,

  ‘I have to fend for myself from time to time, so I am quite a dab hand at this. You should see me in my apron!’ Soon the succulent meal was ready and they sat down and ate in a sociable silence. When they had almost finished eating, he flicked on the small television that was on a shelf in the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I have to see if there is any mention of Dubois’ escape on the news.’ They watched through the local news and then the newsreader turned to international news. Michel sat forward, his food forgotten. Libby followed the rapid Italian with difficulty, but understood that a wanted man had escaped from hospital in France and was on the run. Suddenly a man’s face appeared on the screen and Libby gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide,

  ‘I don’t believe it! That is the man who paid for my coffee yesterday!’

  ‘Are you sure? What happened?’

  She quickly told him how she had landed up in the coffee bar without enough money. ‘Yes, I would recognise him anywhere. I thought at the time that his looks were very distinguished. He really wasn’t trying to hide. Come to think of it, he could have boarded my train in Lausanne. He was with a woman and two men. I thought I recognised the one man from the train, but I was so tired from the journey, that I couldn’t swear to it. And as I told you, I didn’t follow the story in the press in Paris and to my knowledge, I had never seen him before yesterday morning,’ she finished.

  ‘That means that Dubois is not in Switzerland, but here in Venice,’ he whistled, raising his eyebrows. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here. Can he know that this is where Ari keeps his evidence? Or is it a co-incidence? There is the port here of course. He could be meaning to escape by boat or something.’ The news story had changed and was now an excited revision of the day’s soccer, so he reached up and switched the television off. ‘Excuse me for a bit, please. I’m going to call someone about your having seen him.’ He was out of the kitchen for a few minutes and Libby gathered up the dishes and placed them in the sink. She was looking in the cupboards for soap, when he came back with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘The French Sureté has traced him as far as Lausanne, but had a tip that he might have taken the train to Venice. They have contacted Venier, the Venice chief of police, and they are co-operating at the highest level. They will probably watch the port and try to pick him up. We can relax and leave it to the professionals now, so let’s get comfortable.’ He took their glasses with the half-empty bottle of wine in one hand and her hand in the other, as he led her through to the sitting room.

  ‘What about the dishes? Do we just leave those for your housekeeper?’

  ‘That is one job I will not do and I have to say that Guiseppa would give me a thorough talking to if I tried. So we are both happy.’ In the lounge he poured them both another glass of wine and raised his and toasted her. He watched her profile as they sipped the glowing red liquid.

  ‘I never thanked you for the flowers you sent,’ she said shyly, almost choking with embarrassment. ‘But I have to confess that I thought you and Elvira . . . I thought that you were just . . .’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘I have to apologise too,’ he interrupted her. ‘I should have introduced her at the time, then there would have not been any misunderstanding. But she moved away from us so quickly and she really was in distress. I didn’t realise what construction you would have put on our relationship. I wondered why you were so aloof at Ettore’s place. I’m sorry. I only realised that that was what you thought when we were on the way home just now and I’m afraid the habit of years took over. When we were young, we often used to pretend that I was her boyfriend, just to help fend off unwanted suitors, of which she had many! You must have thought me all kinds of scoundrel,’ he smiled ruefully as she nodded in agreement, eyebrows raised, ‘to pay so much attention to you, when I was apparently attached to someone else. I am very sorry. I wanted to come and see you,’ he said quietly, ‘but this case has also taken up much of my time since then. You didn’t respond to my card with the flowers, and when I considered it, I thought perhaps that our meeting hadn’t meant the same to you as it did to me, so I left it at that. Forgive me?’

  ‘Forgiven.’ she said, trying to look severe but she couldn’t so she gave up and smiled frankly into his eyes. All thought of giving him a choking off had vanished.

  He couldn’t tell her yet, that her face had been constantly in his thoughts ever since he had met her that night in Paris. He thought it would be good to change the subject and so he stood up and moved to the window, looking out at the canal below before he turned around to face her, hands in his cardigan pockets as he leaned against the window sill.

  ‘I have been thinking about Dougie Brewer. The last time I met with Ari about two weeks ago, he mentioned that he had a student who had befriended him recently. For a long time he had just come to Ari for tutoring, but of late he had become friendlier, coming around to Ari’s place to chat. That was fine, but in the last few weeks he had become wary of the young man who seemed not to be interested only in history but seemed to be asking more personal, almost sinister, questions. However, Ari said he could not prove anything as it could simply be his perception and had tried not to get ruffled by this.

  ‘I tried to find out more about Brewer on an official level, but Ari didn’t know enough about him. A few days ago I got a call from Ari to say he had some crucial evidence against Dubois and he was going to bring the stuff personally. Ari is difficult and he told me he hates flying. So I booked him on the train and he was supposed to have arrived here yesterday morning. He also said that he may have told the young man too much about his investigations before he realised that he seemed to be milking him for information. He sensed too, that the young man was afraid of something. I wonder if this student is working for Dubois. It is possible he was the one who shot Ari.’

  ‘Remember I told you when we first met that I had been offered a job? Well it was with Ari. He was at Gilly’s party in June, but left before you arrived. That is how I got mixed up in all this,’ said Libby.

  ‘I did wonder how you got involved with this affair. How do the Tildens and Ari know each other?’

  ‘Apparently he was connected to Gilly through a relative in Scotland. She calls him uncle Ari, although I believe he isn’t actually related to her. The Goldstein family fostered him when he was evacuated f
rom France during the war. In fact Gilly is also related somehow to Ettore Bragadin.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That would have been Ettore’s late wife Sarah. Her maiden name was Goldstein. It’s interesting that Ari should have been there at the Tilden’s party, although I am sure I wouldn’t have recognised him. We only met again in August, when he first brought his papers to Ettore. We used to play together during the war, when Ari’s father used to cycle out to our home in the country with him and his brother. I was much younger than the two boys so I can’t remember too much about those days. ’

  ‘That’s an amazing co-incidence! Anyway, I just helped Ari sort out and tidy his office and store-room for a few months. I only really met Dougie once or twice, when he came to see Ari. Mind you, I remember the first time I saw Dougie, early in the autumn term. He didn’t realise that I was working in the storeroom next to the office, and he went straight to Ari’s desk and seemed as though he was going to open the drawer. He got a fright when I spoke to him and he left in a hurry. After that I only saw him a couple of times around campus. But Ari once said that he was worried about him. He didn’t elaborate and I just assumed he was talking about Dougie’s marks. I wish now that I had paid more attention.’

  ‘Ari obviously attracted the attention of the Neo-Nazi groups operating in Paris with the enquiries he has made about Dubois.’

  ‘Neo-Nazi? I thought all that Nazi stuff ended in 1945!’

  ‘Unfortunately there is a ground-swell of renewed support for Nazism in Europe,’ said Michel, ‘even though it was outlawed after the war and it has only worsened since the June war in Israel in 1967. In 1972, Jean-Marie Le Pen formed a right wing National Front Party in France, all above board, seemingly. As always there is a lunatic fringe and their secret agenda is xenophobic and particularly anti-Semitic. And of course, universities are seething with young people looking for a cause.

  ‘It is my feeling that Dubois is part of this, in that he has not been working alone and that he has secretly promoted the ideals of the movement all along. He is very devious, and appeared to support the Gaullists in France all these years. Ari was desperately afraid, but it didn’t stop him from looking for evidence against the man. He believes that Dubois was not just a collaborator but actually a Nazi agent who helped hundreds of Jews and others to be shipped off to concentration camps.’

  ‘That is horrible to think of! My grandmother, the South African one, was half-Jewish and was almost captured by Nazis when she and my mother were on holiday in Europe in 1938. That was when my Mum met Daddy, before the war, so I know a bit about that.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know the whole story; my parents were always a bit vague about it. But go on. I shouldn’t have interrupted.’

  ‘Then at least you know that the Nazi web was very strong and far-reaching. It seemed as though they were determined to destroy everyone on the planet with any Jewish blood. And it is rearing its ugly head again. More’s the pity!’

  ‘Ari is amazing, isn’t he? To pursue this case against Dubois, despite his fear. He obviously believes in what he is doing.’

  ‘I believe it too. I was very excited to meet Ari again and realise that we had the same goal,’ Michel continued. ‘I’ve also been on Dubois’ trail. I believe him to be the man who murdered my father.’

  Libby’s eyes widened at this.

  ‘I cannot prove it, because I was too young to remember details but he was responsible for my mother’s death as well. I am sure of that now.’

  ‘How old were you when she died?’

  ‘I was eleven or so.’ He was silent for a while, and then in an unemotional tone he began to tell her of how his father was killed and how the maquis moved in to their home under the leadership of a man calling himself Jacques Marteau. ‘When the Germans came to requisition the farm, Jacques showed them a Nazi Party membership card. When Grandmère asked about it, he laughed and said he kept it in order to get out of trouble. My mother bore the brunt of this whole episode and paid for it with her life because the locals thought she was a collaborator.

  ‘When I was twenty-one, just before I left for Oxford Grandmère decided that, as head of the house I should get Dubois to admit that he was the member of the maquis who had commandeered Dieu Donné for their hideaway. So I went to see him and was thrown out for my trouble! So you see I have as much of an interest in bringing Dubois to justice as Ari has, maybe more . . . ’

  ‘Your mother was a heroine, Michel. You must be so proud of her,’ Libby whispered, ‘but how did you manage to process these events? You were still so young!’

  ‘For a long time I struggled to come to terms with it, but it crystallised my ambition to bring criminals to justice. Becoming a lawyer was one way of fighting back. The legal way, that is! When I was a teenager, I used to dream of becoming a vigilante and hunting down crooks and administering rough justice. I expect I watched too many movies! It’s a good thing I grew up along the way. And I suppose I am blessed with a sanguine outlook on life!’ he smiled.

  ‘It is very disturbing to think that Dubois has been able to stay under the radar all these years! What are you going to do about him now?’ She stood up and moved to stand next to him at the window.

  ‘We’ll just have to find him and get him back to France to face the music.’ Michel turned his head and stared down at the canal without really seeing anything. He was silent for a long time.

  Libby had never met a man with whom she felt so at ease. She was so moved by what Michel had told her that she didn’t really see the gondolas with their flickering lamps fixed on their prows gliding along the dark water or the reflection of lights from the buildings opposite them, each painting ethereal patterns on the black watered silk of the canal.

  ‘How did your parents meet?’ she asked.

  ‘My father met my Venetian mother Adelina when he was in Venice on holiday before the war in the mid-nineteen thirties. They married soon afterwards. They said it was love at first sight. Fortunately her father took a liking to this bold young Frenchman and allowed them to marry. A year later I was born on our family farm, outside of Paris. I know my mother yearned for Venice. They only came back a couple of times after they were married. I was four years old when the war started and there was no more travelling of course. My father went off to war and came home secretly when France was over-run and started a résistance cell. I know that during the war my mother worried about the people here. She used to talk about her life in Venice when she was putting me to bed. Sometimes she would cry as she spoke and that made me feel so helpless. That’s her portrait over the fireplace which was done when she was eighteen.’

  ‘What a beauty! She looks just like Elvira. In fact, I thought at first that it was a portrait of Elvira.’ They stood at the window with an easy silence between them. ‘May I ask you a question?’ Libby asked shyly. ‘Tell me if you’d rather not answer, but, when we met in Paris you said your wife had died.’

  ‘Yes, I want you to know about that. We were married for five painful years. She was about nineteen when we married and Béatrice never wanted to grow up. She loved to party. I realised very quickly that I should never have married her in the first place. I had just come back to France when I had completed my studies at Oxford. She was pretty in a bold way, very sexy in fact! She fascinated me into marrying her, I suppose, but I didn’t realise she was a nymphomaniac and that one man wasn’t enough for her. Eventually she told me she was leaving me for another man who had more money. The unfortunate thing was that we were driving along a very treacherous road on the coast near Amalfi at the time and she threw my wallet out of the window in a fit of rage when I asked her who the man was. I hit the brakes and the windscreen at the same time. Fortunately, the car stalled but I was knocked unconscious. She must have tried to get help, but she fell down a cliff. I was found a short while after the accident by a passing motorist and her body was retrieved the next morning. That was about ten years ago. That’s how I got this
shapely nose!’ he rubbed it ruefully.

  ‘I’m sorry. You must have cared a great deal about her, seeing that you still wear your wedding ring.’

  ‘Don’t waste your sympathy! Our marriage was a farce right from the beginning. She told me very soon that she was bored being a lawyer’s wife and hated living in the country. In those days I didn’t have the Paris apartment and I commuted into Paris every day. I found out after her death that she had had many lovers all the time we were married and knowing that certainly helped me to get over her very quickly. And I wear the ring simply out of habit.’ Then he said lightly, ‘Can we start over?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Libby replied, although she knew exactly what he meant. She felt a flush rising to her cheeks.

  ‘I mean can we go back to the beginning again, as though we had just met? Erase the mistakes. Pretend this is the hectic party at the Tilden’s place and you are looking out of the window.’ She nodded and turned away, smiling at her reflection in the glass.

  ‘Hello Penny,’ he said close to her ear.

  ‘I’m not Penny, I’m Libby!’ she said turning to him, her face bright with laughter. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the expression in his eyes, his face so close to hers.

  ‘I’m not mistaken; you look like a bright copper Penny.’

  She moved her head back to look up at him, ‘That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you that night. How do you, a Frenchman, know about copper pennies?’ Laughter bubbled out of her.

  ‘Ha! You’re trying to distract me, mademoiselle! In fact, I lived in Oxford for four years. I’m practically an Englishman! Ok? Where were we?’ he raised his brows, amused. ‘Mmmm, yes, you look like a bright copper penny . . .’ he said slowly, eyes on the ceiling, as though he was going over a list in his mind. ‘Next I’ll ask the question again I asked you that night, because I really need to know the answer. Is there some unlucky fellow left behind in London who is waiting for you?’ He didn’t add that he hoped with all his heart that the answer would be negative. ‘And, will you come out to dinner with me, Libby Wentworth?’

  A picture of Dreadful Donald floated into her mind. She was well rid of him. Happily consigning him to oblivion she said, ‘Well, it’s a ‘no’ to the first question and to the other . . . Why yes, kind sir, I would like that very much indeed.’ She bobbed a curtsey.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, her cheek. Don’t rush her, he thought suddenly and put his hands in his pockets. Michel longed to hold her in his arms. He knew when he first saw her that she was unique. She had stood out in that smoky, noisy party as a pool of quiet. He had never met anyone whom he wanted to protect as much as he wanted to protect Libby. But he perceived, too, that she was strong and courageous, someone who knew her own value. She was someone who was independent and funny and altogether captivating. He had known many women; many had thrown themselves at him but until he had met this dazzling girl, his heart had never been involved. He had never loved Béatrice or any of the women he had been involved with, he knew that now. He took a deep breath and moved away to the middle of the room.

  ‘We’ll make that dinner very soon, then. I think I should take you back to your hotel now my pretty Penny. It’s getting late,’ he said gently.

  She nodded, a bit puzzled at his seeming withdrawal. She realised she was tired; it had been a very busy day and she didn’t want to explore her own feelings yet.

  ‘Thank you. I’ve enjoyed this evening,’ she said as she reluctantly moved away from the window.