“She said you would say that. But she told me about you, Stone. How you attacked her, raped her. The poor defenceless, sweet woman! And it’s all my fault! If only I hadn’t brought her here, been able to give her the sort of life she wanted. But it will be all right. I’ll look after her now. I love her so much. From the moment I saw her, I loved her. I must look after her.”
“Cort, don’t be absurd,” I said. “This is nonsense. She told me the same things about you. She’s a liar, Cort. She says these things.”
“Oh, Mr. Drennan!” Cort said, frighteningly conversational again. Drennan had been moving softly around the column as I talked. “Please stand where I can see you. Otherwise I will put this match into the gunpowder here. It will only take a moment to ignite it. Would you be so kind as to stand next to Mr. Stone?”
Drennan did as he was told.
“Listen, Cort,” I said urgently and as calmly as I could manage. “It’s not true, do you understand? It’s not true. She does that to herself. I know she does. I’ve got proof, back at my rooms. Do you want to see it? No one has been beating her, whipping her, anything. She’s been saying things like that for years. It’s all invented.”
“Who would invent a thing like that?” he snarled, reverting to his furious, demented state in an instant. “Are you saying my wife is a liar? Haven’t you done enough already?”
“Look at me.”
He did, suddenly, but only briefly, obedient. His eyes were glassy, wide open. And dark, as they had been on the night of the Marchesa’s séance.
“Cort, you’ve taken opium.”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“She gives it to you. What did she give you to drink or eat?”
“You’re lying. I can always tell when someone is lying. He was lying too,” he said, gesturing at the still immobile Macintyre. “He said he was only trying to help. ‘Only trying to help. Only trying to help,’” he said in a high-pitched childish mimicry which bore no resemblance at all to the way Macintyre spoke.
“So you hit him.”
He nodded.
“And these explosives,” I continued, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation, “who set those up?”
“Macintyre did. He brought them over a few days ago. Once they’re prepared, the rest is quite straightforward; I just added the rest of the boxes, the ones he didn’t use. I don’t need help. I can do this job on my own. Wait and see.”
“But Cort, you’ve used all of it. Far too much,” Drennan said in alarm. “Listen, I know about explosives. There’s enough there to blow up half of Venice.”
“No, no. Just enough to bring down that column. Look, I’ll show you.”
His face cleared, and he smiled. And he leaned forward and lit the fuse, which began sputtering.
“Macintyre told me the fuse would last for about ninety seconds. Don’t come any closer, mind. I can still set off the whole thing. I’ll stay here to make sure it doesn’t go out. Don’t worry. I’ll be quite safe. Macintyre will help.”
“I’m not going without Macintyre. And you,” Drennan said. I could hear that even he was now very worried.
“No.” Cort moved nearer to the explosives, the flame now perilously close.
“What’s the point of you killing yourself? How can you look after her if you die as well?”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing. Then I’ll take care of Stone.”
I looked at Drennan. I didn’t know what to do; I rather hoped he did. He’d been a soldier, hadn’t he? I could see him looking carefully, his eyes darting from Cort to Macintyre to the explosives. Back again. Measuring, calculating. And I could see that he was giving up. We were about four yards away; too far a distance to grab Cort and bring him to the ground before he saw what we were doing. He only had to move his hand a couple of inches.
“About a minute left, I would guess,” Cort said thoughtfully.
“Let us take Macintyre, just in case.”
“Oh, no. He has to supervise. He insisted on it. He said he wouldn’t trust me to pull a cork out of a bottle.”
Drennan took hold of my arm. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We have to get out of here.”
“We can’t. We have to do something.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Macintyre is going to die.”
“And so is Cort. And we will too unless you start moving.”
I wish I had been more heroic. I wish I could have seen an opportunity to dash forward and grab Cort’s arm. I wish I could have thought of something to say to bring Cort to his senses, or at least distract him for a moment and give Drennan a chance. I wish many things now, and that is enough to indicate that I managed none of them. Drennan had to drag me out, not because of my determination to stay, but because I had frozen, could not move. He dragged me to the door—about thirty-five seconds left—then pushed me down the steps. Only when I fell on the slippery floor did I come alive again, and the panic swept over me. I got up, stumbled—I remember it all—and then ran into the darkness, heedless of where I was going. Just following the sound of Drennan’s feet.
We got back to the boat, Drennan screaming at the man we had left behind. Twenty seconds. Fell into it so hard that it almost capsized, the American reaching out at the same time to pull the painter loose and push the boat away from the side. Fifteen seconds. Began to row furiously, seeing the light of the day outside come closer and closer. Ten seconds. Got halfway into the normality of the canal outside, the boats laden with fruit, clothes, wood. People calling to each other, some singing. Five seconds. Then we were clear, but still heading across the canal, Drennan shouting like some lunatic at the other boats, telling them to get out of the way, keep their heads down. Two seconds. And I looked back and up, and saw Cort standing by the window, the one I had once seen open as an old man had sung below it. He rested his elbow on the sill, his chin on his hand. He looked content.
There was a tremendous explosion, followed by another and another as other charges ignited around the column. Masonry and plaster and roof tiles began flying through the air and the inside of the building was suddenly lit up by a bright red-and-orange light. Something like a tidal wave swept outwards across the canal; our boat capsized, and so did many others which were on our side of the palazzo. Fruit and vegetables and washing and people were flung into the water, and when I rose gasping to the surface and looked back, I could see that the entire roof and upper storeys of the building had vanished, the thin walls had collapsed like paper, falling inwards with a deafening noise, a huge cloud of dust rising above the scene, pushed upwards by the blast.
Drennan and I managed to get to our boat, which had spun round so completely it was now the right way up again, half full of water but floating. Then the masonry, flung into the air by the explosion, began crashing down into the canal like some bombardment. Enormous fountains of water erupted randomly; one boat was sunk by a piece of what looked like a chimney; windows were smashed and brickwork stoved in. People were screaming, running, lying on the ground with their heads in their hands. Our oarsman had swum for the far side, and I saw him dragging himself out of the water, pale-faced but apparently unharmed. Then I looked around. The water was littered with debris and people thrown out of the boats; men and women alike were panicking and were being rescued; I grabbed a woman who was sinking and got her to hang on to the side of our boat. Drennan and I tried to push her into it, but she was too fat, her clothes too heavy with water, and she started screaming and hitting us instead, so we stopped and began pushing her to the side. A crowd was gathering by the edge of the canal, some were jumping in to assist, others were just looking, open-mouthed at the catastrophe before them.
We said nothing; we were too out of breath, too much in shock, to say a word, but our boat eventually drifted close to the far side of the canal, and Drennan started kicking with his feet to finish the job. I helped, then we pulled ourselves round until we were within reach of outstretched arms, waiting to
pull us out, and drop us on the warm stone, where we lay, panting furiously from terror and exhaustion.
Drennan recovered much faster than I, standing up shakily, and accepting a thick blanket to wrap around his shoulders. I took longer but eventually stood, my legs shaking so much I almost sank back to the ground again.
At least it didn’t look as though any passersby had been hurt; they had been given a nasty shock and a soaking, that was the extent of it. But I knew there was no hope for the other two. Nothing could have survived that; anyone inside must surely have died.
Then Drennan touched my arm and pointed. A body was being dragged from the water, and people were shouting for assistance. It was Cort. He was mortally pale, and blood had soaked the sleeve of his black coat and matted his hair, but he seemed to be alive—at least those around him seemed to think so as they were shouting for a doctor to come as quickly as possible, laying him with touching gentleness on the ground, holding his hand.
“He must have been blown through the window,” Drennan said softly.
“And Macintyre, you think?”
“No hope there. None.” He said no more, but I knew he must be right. The engineer had been lying only about two feet from the main explosive charge. That alone, quite apart from the falling masonry and fire, would have killed him instantly.
“We will be questioned by the authorities,” Drennan said quietly. “We need to decide what we will say.”
“The truth, I imagine.”
But Drennan nodded at Cort. “And what about him?”
I looked at Cort’s poor white face and felt suddenly sick. I knelt back on the ground, and leaned my forehead on the stone, trying desperately to control the violent heaving of my stomach. I failed.
Drennan dragged me upright again and shook me violently. “Pull yourself together,” he hissed in my ear. “We have to get away from here before the authorities arrive. We can go and talk to them later when we know what we’re doing. Follow me quickly.”
No one paid much attention to us as we disappeared into a little side alley, then hurried off. I took Drennan back to the Marchesa’s, where I ordered hot water from the maidservant, and insisted that it be brought immediately. Faster than immediately. Then we went to my rooms, stripped off and wrapped ourselves in towels to wait. Neither of us said a word; I slumped in a chair, conscious only of the smell of rank mud that was in my nose and my hair and all over my body. Drennan paced up and down impatiently but was no more capable of speech than I. I poured two large tumblers of Italian brandy—harsh, unpleasant stuff but strong and effective, and we drank that instead. Then another, until the water arrived, and was poured into the tin bath by the servants.
Then we were done and dressed, Drennan looking slightly baggy in a borrowed suit, for he was smaller than I.
“Listen, Drennan, I have to tell you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I do not think that what we witnessed today was Cort murdering Macintyre.”
“No?”
“I believe we witnessed Louise Cort trying to murder her husband.”
I sat down and told him, very meticulously and honestly, everything that had happened. He showed no surprise, indeed gave no reaction at all. I ended by handing him the letters which had been delivered that morning. He looked at them, and gave them back.
“I see. So you are afraid…”
“No. I am not afraid of her at the moment. I am afraid for the boy. The last time I spoke to her she said all she had to do was to free herself of her husband and the boy, then she would deal with me. I didn’t take her seriously then, but now it worries me.”
Drennan stood up. “Do you want me to go to his lodging and see?”
“If you’re up to it, I would be very grateful. More grateful than I can say. I do not think my going would help.”
“I think that is right.”
He left, and I sent word for the Marchesa, to ask for a few moments of her time.
She heard me out impassively, then sighed sadly. “That poor man, of course I knew such a thing would happen. His aura…”
“Just stop this rubbish about spirits and auras,” I snapped. “We haven’t got time. Cort has killed a man. He might be insane, but if so, it was your ridiculous séance that set him off. How is that going to look when it gets round this city, eh?”
The spirits retreated whence they came as the Marchesa realised her peril. Scandal has killed as many people as knives and bullets.
“If it was just your reputation, then I wouldn’t care too much. But Macintyre had a daughter. Cort has a son. And there is Cort as well, who is now likely to spend the rest of his life in an insane asylum, if he is lucky.”
“Well, he must be packed off to England immediately,” she said breezily. “As for the dreadful accident which claimed the life of poor Mr. Macintyre…”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“The dreadful accident,” she repeated. “Which happens when people play with explosives…”
“You cannot possibly think anyone will believe…”
“I think people believe the simplest explanation.” She stood up. “I must talk to Signor Ambrosian. He is a friend, and is powerful enough to tell the police how to proceed.”
“I don’t want—”
“What you want is of no importance, Mr. Stone. You do not know this city, nor how it works. I do. And it sounds to me as if you have caused enough trouble already. You will leave it to me to arrange matters as I see fit. Go and rest, and do nothing until I get back.”
I was left alone for the rest of the afternoon, until well in the evening. It was dark before the Marchesa got back. Under any other circumstances, I would have been taken aback by her sudden transformation from ethereal spiritualist to political manipulator, but nothing could surprise me anymore that day. Marangoni was with her. Cort was fine, he said. “He’s some burns, cuts, bruises and a broken collarbone, but that’s all. He was extraordinarily lucky.
“Physically, that is,” he continued. “As for his mental state—well, that is another matter. I’m afraid he has had a total breakdown. Not unexpected, but unfortunate, nonetheless. Well, we shall see how he is in a few days’ time. Luckily, he is in hospital, so he won’t bump into his wife…”
“What do you mean?”
“She was brought to me a few hours ago. I am beginning to resent being used as a convenient way of hushing up English scandals, you know.”
“Why?”
“For having set fire to her apartment block. With her child still in it. When they realised there was a blaze, all the occupants fled into the street in panic but no one thought to check Cort’s apartment. Drennan did, when he arrived, and he was nearly too late. He kicked in the door—very bravely, I must say, as the fire was a bad one—scooped up the infant and ran down the stairs with it. The child has a burn on his left arm, and Drennan has a bad cut on his cheek from flying glass. Apart from that they are both fine. But many people’s apartments and possessions have been destroyed. It’s a bad mess.”
At that moment I felt more grateful to Drennan than I could express. He had saved me, as well.
“What makes you think she started it?”
“She was seen doing it,” he said, “and she was later found at the railway station about to board a train to Switzerland. She had all her money, clothes, jewellery and passport with her. Everything but her child and her husband, in fact. And her reaction when she was told her son had been saved from a fire was not that of a loving mother. When I also told her that both her husband and you had had a narrow escape her response was so violent she had to be restrained.”
“So what happens to her?”
“That is out of my hands, of course. It will depend on what the authorities think appropriate.”
“They will regard it as a terrible misfortune,” the Marchesa said firmly.
“Will they?”
“Yes. You are a lucky man, Mr. Stone,” she continued, turning her attention t
o me. “You have friends with influence. Signor Ambrosian was most concerned about your mishap and will interest himself in the matter. The explosion was indeed an accident, apparently caused by the carelessness of Mr. Macintyre. As for Mrs. Cort, she must be dealt with in a manner which causes no embarrassment.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, there is, of course, the question of Mr. Macintyre’s daughter, and Cort’s son. There, I don’t know. I suppose we must ask Mr. Longman what is to be done. That is his job.”
St. James’s Square,
London 15 March 1909
10 p.m.
Dear Cort,
You will find with this letter a bundle of papers which I wish you to keep entirely confidential. It will explain my current actions, as you, above all men, need to know. In the package you will find all the relevant documents concerning the battleships, and guidance as to how you should proceed over the coming months. You will also find a memoir which, to my mind, is of greater significance.
You will see from those pages how my rise to success began, and it will also tell you of my involvement with your mother, many long years ago. You will finally know the circumstances of your father’s breakdown and why you were abandoned. It was my doing; your mother was a terrible woman, I say this frankly. I have little sympathy for her. But if she was mad, then it was I who drew out that madness, and turned it from petty cruelty into something much more dangerous. Marangoni used to say that the madness of the degenerate was latent, and needed merely the right circumstances to awaken it. Perhaps so; perhaps such fury builds up over the generations until it bursts out like some festering sore. Perhaps I was merely the trigger, not the underlying cause. I do not know. I do not excuse myself with such arguments. Her punishment was harsh, but at the time I regarded it as a relief, a satisfactory solution to a problem which allowed me to forget all about it. I do not claim that I was better than she. Merely more fortunate.
Your father broke down completely after these events, and never properly recovered. He was always of an excessively sensitive temper, and the duties placed on him in Venice were too great. He was an easy target for someone like Louise, who not only tormented him but enjoyed his suffering. Drennan accompanied him back to England, and I ensured that he never wanted for anything in the financial way. It was little enough to do. He was a kind, gentle man, who deserved better. I also made the necessary arrangements to allow Mr. and Mrs. Longman to look after Esther Macintyre, and continued paying her an allowance when she married.