The Venice Sketchbook
PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN
“Rhys Bowen is a gift to all who love great writing, rich and complex characters, and a plot that grabs from first words.”
—Louise Penny, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Chief Inspector Gamache novels
“Thoroughly entertaining.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A truly delightful read.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Keep[s] readers deeply involved until the end.”
—Portland Book Review
“Entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting[s] for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.”
—New York Journal of Books
“[A] master of her genre.”
—Library Journal
“Masterful weaving of these tales builds a nuanced, thematic portrayal of the inherent strengths of women.”
—Historical Novel Society
“Will grab you from the first page.”
—San Diego Entertainer
“An author with a distinctive flair for originality and an entertaining narrative storytelling style that will hold the reader’s rapt attention from beginning to end.”
—Midwest Book Review
ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN
In Farleigh Field
The Tuscan Child
The Victory Garden
What Child Is This
Above the Bay of Angels
CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES
Evans Above
Evan Help Us
Evanly Choirs
Evan and Elle
Evan Can Wait
Evans to Betsy
Evan Only Knows
Evan’s Gate
Evan Blessed
Evanly Bodies
MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES
Murphy’s Law
Death of Riley
For the Love of Mike
In Like Flynn
Oh Danny Boy
In Dublin’s Fair City
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden
In a Gilded Cage
The Last Illusion
Bless the Bride
Hush Now, Don’t You Cry
The Family Way
City of Darkness and Light
The Edge of Dreams
Away in a Manger
Time of Fog and Fire
The Ghost of Christmas Past
ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES
Her Royal Spyness
A Royal Pain
Royal Flush
Royal Blood
Naughty in Nice
The Twelve Clues of Christmas
Heirs and Graces
Queen of Hearts
Malice at the Palace
Crowned and Dangerous
On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service
Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding
Love and Death Among the Cheetahs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com , Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542027120 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542027128 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542027113 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 154202711X (paperback)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First edition
This book is dedicated to my dear friend and choir director extraordinaire, Ann Weiss. Singing with her choir has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. Not only does Ann have the voice of an angel, she also has a love affair with Venice I hope she’ll enjoy revisiting vicariously with this novel.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: VENICE, 1940
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE: VENICE, 1940
“I have an ulterior motive for visiting you, apart from saying goodbye. I wondered if you’d care to work for your country?”
When I looked surprised, he went on. “What I have to say from now on is all top secret, and you must sign a document to verify this.” He reached into his pocket and put a sheet of paper on my table. “Are you prepared to sign?”
“Before I know what is entailed?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s how it works in wartime.”
I hesitated, staring at him, then walked over to the table. “I suppose there is no harm in signing. I can still say no to what you propose?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Mr Sinclair sounded far too cheerful.
“Very well, then.” I scanned the document, noting that betraying the trust could result in prison or death. Hardly reassuring. But I signed. He took it back and slipped it inside his jacket.
“You have a fine view here, Miss Browning,” he said.
“I know. I love it.”
“And I understand you own this place.”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said.
“We do. I’m afraid we had to check into your background before making this request of you.”
“And that request would be?”
In the kitchen alcove the kettle boiled, sending a loud shriek that made me rush to the stove. I poured the water into the teapot, then returned to the living room.
“You are in a prime position to watch the movement of ships. You know the Italians have navy vessels stationed here. Now they might well be allowing the German navy to use this as a base from which to attack Greece, Cyprus, Malta. I’d like you to give us a daily account of shipping activity. If ships leave the harbour here, you tell us and we’ll have planes ready to intercept.”
“How would I tell you? Who would be left to tell?”
“Ah.” He turned a little red. “Someone will be sent to install a radio. It will be hidden so that nobody else knows about it. You can’t use it when that woman of yours is here. She cannot be allowed to see it. Is that clear?”
“Of course. Although she is not the brightest. She probably wouldn’t know what it was.”
“Nevertheless”—he held up a warning finger—“you will broadcast as soon as possible after you witness shipping activity.”
“To whom do I broadcast? And what do I say?”
“Patience, dear lady. All will be made clear,” he said.
I went back into the kitchen and poured two cups of tea, then carried them on a tray to where we’d been sitting. Mr Sinclair took a sip and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“Ah, tea that tastes like tea. One thing I shall enjoy when I get home.”
I took a drink myself and waited.
He put the cup down. “Do you know Morse code?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I’ll get a booklet over to you. Learn it as soon as possible. Along with the radio, you will receive a codebook. You will keep that hidden apart from the radio, in a place where nobody would think of looking. Your messages will be sent in code. For example, if you see two destroyers, you might say, ‘Granny is not feeling well today.’”
“And if the Germans break the code?”
“The codes will be changed frequently. You will not know in advance how you’ll receive a new booklet. Maybe a package from your auntie in Rome with recipes in it.” He shrugged. “Our secret service is highly resourceful. The good thing is that you will never have to make personal contact with anyone, so should you be questioned, you will not have to worry about betrayal.”
“That sounds so reassuring,” I said drily and saw the twitch of a smile on his lips.
He took another sip, then put down his cup once more. “One more thing,” he said. “You will need a code name for communication. What do you suggest?”
I stared out across the canal. A cargo ship was moving slowly past. Was I mad to agree to this?
“My name is Juliet,” I said, “so my code name could be Romeo.”
“Romeo. I like it.” He laughed.
CHAPTER 1
Juliet, Venice, May 20, 1928
At last Aunt Hortensia and I have arrived in Venice, after a long, sweaty, smoky and exceedingly uncomfortable train journey. Aunt Hortensia does not believe in wasting money and declared that sleeping berths on a train ride are completely useless as the cars stop, start and shake so much that sleep is impossible. So we sat up, all the way from Boulogne, on the French coast, through France, then Switzerland and into Italy. By day it was awfully hot. One could not open the windows as smoke and cinders would blow in from the engine. And during the night there was a man opposite me who snored loudly, as well as his wife, who stank of garlic and body odour. I know I shouldn’t be complaining. I am fully aware of how awfully lucky I am at being taken to Italy for my eighteenth birthday. The girls in my form at school were most envious!
All that is behind us now. We are here. We came out of the Santa Lucia train station and stood at the top of a flight of steps.
“Ecco il Canal Grande!” Aunt Hortensia said in dramatic fashion, spreading out her arms as if she was on stage and had created the scene for my benefit. My Italian was limited to “please,” “thank you” and “good day,” but I understood that this was the Grand Canal. Only it didn’t look very grand. It was wide, to be sure, but the buildings on the other side were rather ordinary. And it looked dirty, too. The odour that greeted my nostrils was not particularly appetizing. It was a watery sort of smell with a hint of fish and decay. I didn’t have much of a chance to study my surroundings, however, as we were immediately besieged by porters. It was a little alarming to have men fighting over us in a strange language, snatching at our bags and trying to bundle us into a gondola, whether we wanted one or not. But as Aunt Hortensia confessed, we had no alternative. We could not have managed all that luggage on one of the water buses they call “vaporetti.” Of course, I was thrilled to be in a gondola, even though the gondolier was not a handsome young Italian who sang love songs, but rather a grim-faced man with a paunch.
As we came around a bend, the Grand Canal became incredibly grand. On either side of us were amazing palaces, marble coated, or in shades of rich pink with arched Moorish windows. They appeared to float on the water in a way that was quite surreal—I wanted to get out my sketchbook right away. It was lucky that I didn’t, as the amount of traffic on the canal made the boat rock alarmingly. The gondolier muttered what must have been Italian swear words.
We were moving along quite nicely for a boat rowed with one oar, but the canal seemed awfully long.
“Ecco il Ponte di Rialto,” Aunt Hortensia exclaimed, pointing at a bridge that crossed the canal ahead of us, rising up in a great arch, as if suspended by magic. It appeared to have some sort of building on it because a row of windows winked in the afternoon sunshine as we approached. I wondered if Aunt H. intended to speak in only that language from now on. If so, conversation was liable to be rather one-sided.
However, this fear was dispelled as she now produced her Baedeker and began to inform me about each building we passed: “On your left, the Palazzo Barzizza. Note the thirteenth-century facades. And that large building is the Palazzo Mocenigo, where Lord Byron once stayed . . .”
This continued until an overcrowded vaporetto pulled out from its jetty. Our boat rocked again, and she almost dropped the book into the murky depths.
Just as I began feeling a bit queasy, another bridge came into sight, this one a more flimsy iron footbridge that spanned the canal at a greater height. I expected Aunt H. to say, “Ecco Ponte something or other,” but instead she said, “Ah, the Accademia Bridge. Now we are almost at our destination. That’s good. I was beginning to feel rather seasick.”
“You mean canal sick, don’t you?” I asked, and she actually smiled.
“Over on that side is the accademia. That white marble building beside the bridge. If you were studying art in Italy, this is where you would want to go. La Accademia di Belle Arti. The Academy of Fine Arts. And it houses the finest collection of Venetian paintings, too. We shall definitely want to see it.”
As she was speaking, we turned off the Grand Canal into a small side canal and pulled up at some well-worn steps. As if by magic, men came running out, hauled us up from the gondola and then grabbed our luggage. When Aunt H. went to pay the gondolier, she reacted as if she was horrified at the amount quoted.
In her stilted Italian, she asked our hotel porters if the amount was correct or if we were being taken advantage of.
“You see two defenceless Englishwomen,” she said, reverting to English, “and you think you can rob them of their meagre savings. Would you behave like this to your own mother? Your own grandmother?” She repeated the gist of this in Italian.
The gondolier looked sheepish. The hotel men smiled. Then the gondolier shrugged.
“Very well,” he said. “I charge you only two hundred lire. But just this once, because you have travelled far and the young lady is exhausted.”
Triumphant, Aunt H. strode into the foyer of a less-than-palatial yellow-painted building with green shutters, where a silver-haired man came forward, arms open, to greet her.
“Dear, dear Signorina Marchmont. You have returned to us. A thousand welcomes.”
I could see now why Aunt Hortensia liked this place, if she was greeted in this way. Frankly, I had been disappointed that we were not staying in one of the palazzos on the Grand Canal, but Aunt Hortensia had said, more than once, “There is only one place to stay in Venice, and that is the Pensione Regina. And that is because it has a garden. When one is hot and tired from sightseeing, one can sit in the shade and drink a citron pressé .”
We were taken up a flight of marble stairs into a large ornate corner room with windows on two sides, a painted wooden ceiling and furniture that looked as if it had come from a museum. At least the two beds looked normal enough, with their crisp white sheets, and there was a desk and chair in the front window, which looked out on to the garden, with a sliver of a view of the Grand Canal beyond. I went over to the window, opened it and gazed out. The scent of jasmine rose to greet me.
“Ah yes,” Aunt H. said when she had inspected our bathroom. “Most satisfactory.”
As I stood at the window, bells began to ring, their sound echoing out across the canals. A gondola glided past; this time the gondolier was young and handsome. I felt my spirits rise. I was in Venice, my first time in Europe. I was going to make the most of it.