“We almost didn’t come. I’m afraid Sophie’s had a bit of a scare.”
“Is that so? Nothing too bad, I hope.” Mr. Dane motioned to the waiter for coffees. It gave me a moment to survey him. He looked well put together, in his deep-brown coat and fashionably checked trousers, though I suspected he wasn’t wealthy—I saw no watch chains dangling from his waistcoat pocket, and no rings or studs at all. A poet, Joseph had said, but there were no ink stains on his fingers either.
I was so busy studying him it was a moment before I realized they were all waiting for me to say something. I struggled to remember what the question had been—my scare. “Oh. Oh, well, yes it was bad, I’m afraid. Terribly so.”
“She stumbled upon a body today,” Joseph said.
“A body?” Giles Martin asked, clearly shocked. “A corpse, you mean?”
I nodded. “Yes, though the police assure me it was a suicide and not a murder, which is what I thought at first.”
Nicholas Dane raised a sandy brow. “A suicide?”
“He was a poet, like yourself, Mr. Dane. His name was Nelson Stafford.”
He took a hard breath. “Dear God.”
“However did you manage to stumble upon him?” Mr. Martin asked.
“It was not nearly so difficult as it might seem,” I said wryly. “I was looking at lodgings. He was in the courtyard of one.”
“I hope you didn’t lease it!” Giles Martin said.
“I nearly had. But then . . . well . . . of course I couldn’t.”
The coffees were brought. Mr. Dane played with the handle of his tiny cup, saying thoughtfully, “I had not heard. It’s strange. Venice lives for gossip. And a suicide. How tragic.”
“We only found him a few hours ago,” I said softly. “I don’t think there’s been time for word to get around. Did you know him?”
Giles Martin shuddered. “No, though we’d seen him about once or twice.”
Mr. Dane brought his cup to his well-shaped mouth. His eyes met mine over the rim. “A horrible thing for a gently bred young lady to see,” he said when he’d taken a sip. “I cannot imagine you’re recovered, Miss Hannigan.”
I reached reflexively for my brother’s hand, which dangled near my shoulder. He gripped my fingers tightly, reassuringly.
“Why d’you suppose he did it?” Mr. Martin asked meditatively. “God, I hate suicides. They always make me think there must have been something I could have done.”
“But you said you didn’t know him,” Joseph said.
“Well yes, but still . . . I hope he doesn’t take it into his head to haunt you, Miss Hannigan.”
“You’re as superstitious as any Venetian,” Mr. Dane said dismissively.
Joseph laughed lightly. “Well, it’s easy to be so here, isn’t it? Last night, coming to our hotel . . . it felt as if time stood still. All that history . . . Venetian spies, murders around every corner. The place feels full of ghosts.”
“Oh, I’m certain it is,” said Mr. Dane. “And I imagine those with a sensitive disposition feel it most keenly.”
“Spirits in the water and in the wind,” murmured my brother, staring off into the soft glow of the arcades.
“Is that what brought you here?” Mr. Dane asked. “Searching for those elusive spirits?”
I saw the familiar haunted look come into Joseph’s eyes—a brief moment, but enough for me to despair at what he was remembering. I tightened my hand on his, and the motion seemed to call him back to himself. He gave me a faint, wistful smile and said, “I’ve no wish to go looking for spirits. But I feel them just the same. Don’t you?”
Nicholas Dane said, “One would have to be numb not to. And Venice loves a mystery, doesn’t she? The place seems made for it. It’s what brings artists here in droves. It’s what brought Giles. Something in the air calling, an unstoppable force—”
“You make it sound like idiocy,” Mr. Martin protested.
“Well, half of genius begins with an idiotic whim,” Mr. Dane said affectionately.
“Is that so? Nothing too bad, I hope.” Mr. Dane motioned to the waiter for coffees. It gave me a moment to survey him. He looked well put together, in his deep-brown coat and fashionably checked trousers, though I suspected he wasn’t wealthy—I saw no watch chains dangling from his waistcoat pocket, and no rings or studs at all. A poet, Joseph had said, but there were no ink stains on his fingers either.
I was so busy studying him it was a moment before I realized they were all waiting for me to say something. I struggled to remember what the question had been—my scare. “Oh. Oh, well, yes it was bad, I’m afraid. Terribly so.”
“She stumbled upon a body today,” Joseph said.
“A body?” Giles Martin asked, clearly shocked. “A corpse, you mean?”
I nodded. “Yes, though the police assure me it was a suicide and not a murder, which is what I thought at first.”
Nicholas Dane raised a sandy brow. “A suicide?”
“He was a poet, like yourself, Mr. Dane. His name was Nelson Stafford.”
He took a hard breath. “Dear God.”
“However did you manage to stumble upon him?” Mr. Martin asked.
“It was not nearly so difficult as it might seem,” I said wryly. “I was looking at lodgings. He was in the courtyard of one.”
“I hope you didn’t lease it!” Giles Martin said.
“I nearly had. But then . . . well . . . of course I couldn’t.”
The coffees were brought. Mr. Dane played with the handle of his tiny cup, saying thoughtfully, “I had not heard. It’s strange. Venice lives for gossip. And a suicide. How tragic.”
“We only found him a few hours ago,” I said softly. “I don’t think there’s been time for word to get around. Did you know him?”
Giles Martin shuddered. “No, though we’d seen him about once or twice.”
Mr. Dane brought his cup to his well-shaped mouth. His eyes met mine over the rim. “A horrible thing for a gently bred young lady to see,” he said when he’d taken a sip. “I cannot imagine you’re recovered, Miss Hannigan.”
I reached reflexively for my brother’s hand, which dangled near my shoulder. He gripped my fingers tightly, reassuringly.
“Why d’you suppose he did it?” Mr. Martin asked meditatively. “God, I hate suicides. They always make me think there must have been something I could have done.”
“But you said you didn’t know him,” Joseph said.
“Well yes, but still . . . I hope he doesn’t take it into his head to haunt you, Miss Hannigan.”
“You’re as superstitious as any Venetian,” Mr. Dane said dismissively.
Joseph laughed lightly. “Well, it’s easy to be so here, isn’t it? Last night, coming to our hotel . . . it felt as if time stood still. All that history . . . Venetian spies, murders around every corner. The place feels full of ghosts.”
“Oh, I’m certain it is,” said Mr. Dane. “And I imagine those with a sensitive disposition feel it most keenly.”
“Spirits in the water and in the wind,” murmured my brother, staring off into the soft glow of the arcades.
“Is that what brought you here?” Mr. Dane asked. “Searching for those elusive spirits?”
I saw the familiar haunted look come into Joseph’s eyes—a brief moment, but enough for me to despair at what he was remembering. I tightened my hand on his, and the motion seemed to call him back to himself. He gave me a faint, wistful smile and said, “I’ve no wish to go looking for spirits. But I feel them just the same. Don’t you?”
Nicholas Dane said, “One would have to be numb not to. And Venice loves a mystery, doesn’t she? The place seems made for it. It’s what brings artists here in droves. It’s what brought Giles. Something in the air calling, an unstoppable force—”
“You make it sound like idiocy,” Mr. Martin protested.
“Well, half of genius begins with an idiotic whim,” Mr. Dane said affectionately.
Similar Books
