As Felix had correctly predicted, Bill Hewson had been optimistic in proposing supper so soon after his evening at the Palazzo Reiss. Nevertheless, true to his word, he did indeed book a table for a few days hence at one of the newer establishments near the Ponte delle Ostreghe, a charming trattoria fast becoming a favourite with Venetians and tourists alike.
They had sat under a canopy by a canal, the small terrace dotted with candles and lanterns. Rosy had been placed next to Edward Jones who explained that his sister could not be with them owing to a previous engagement at the opera, ‘Being seductive with some poor sap in a private box no doubt,’ he had said dryly; and then with a muffled hoot added, ‘She can’t stand music you know!’ As a means of breaking social ice Rosy thought the remark a trifle crass. However, she smiled politely and enquired how long he was staying. ‘Until my sister boots me out,’ had been the curt reply.
Initially it was a fairly agreeable evening with Hewson bouncily expansive, Hope-Landers his amiable self, Felix a little muted (nursing disapproval of the painter’s boisterousness?), Cedric relaxed, and Edward, in between bouts of disdain and affectation, relatively civil. Yet beneath the general amity Rosy detected a festering tension between the young man and the American. Now and again she had seen the exchange of covert looks and caught the tone of mutual scorn. (A long-held irrational distaste? Or were there deeper hostilities? It hardly mattered.) As for herself, after the disappointment of the book her spirits were not at their best but she enjoyed things well enough and found Guy Hope-Landers’ presence on her right an engaging antidote to Edward’s somewhat puerile and increasingly bibulous conversation on her left. At one point, draping a confiding arm around her shoulders and nodding towards Bill Hewson, he had whispered slyly: ‘Don’t trust that one, my dear, he’d cut your throat given half a chance … and he’s a lousy painter too!’ This had been followed by a splutter of mirth but Rosy had not been amused. She disliked being addressed as ‘my dear’ by one several years younger than herself and in any case had found the comments in poor taste.
But despite such moments the meal itself had been good with copious antipasti, delicious saffron risotto, and sizzling mussels with clam sauce. Hewson had ensured that the Bardolino was more than plentiful, and Rosy couldn’t help noticing that both his own and Edward’s glasses were continuously replenished; so frequently in fact that by the coffee stage both men were clearly somewhat the worse for wear: the younger shrill and garrulous, the older truculent. It was, Rosy felt, time to leave.
Indeed that was exactly what Guy Hope-Landers was preparing to do. Thrusting a sheaf of lire under Hewson’s plate he stood up, and bidding them all good night explained he had promised to call on Lucia when she returned from the Fenice.
‘Oh and you can tell my big sister to go hang!’ yelled Edward suddenly.
Hope-Landers waved his napkin in salute. ‘Will do, old chap,’ and he strolled off into the night.
‘Christ,’ muttered Edward, ‘do I want him for a brother-in-law?’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Er, is that likely?’ Rosy ventured.
The young man snorted. ‘God knows, you never know with Lucia, tight-fisted bitch!’
It was Cedric who broke the further silence. Clearing his throat he said pleasantly, ‘Oh come now, I daresay she’s a teddy bear really.’
‘Doubtless,’ was the caustic reply, ‘and miserly with it!’ He leapt up, and with face transformed from fury to merriment thumped the table with both fists; and addressing Hewson shouted, ‘Remember, Rembrandt, I’ve got your number! Come on old man, catch me if you can!’ The next moment, chair overturned and wine glasses smashed to the floor, he had shot out of the terrace and was seen racing along the fondamenta leapfrogging over the capstans.
They stared after him stunned and embarrassed. And then hastily heaping more lire on the table departed with as much dignity as possible, the cheers and boos from other diners ringing in their ears.
‘Do you think he’s mad?’ Felix whispered to Rosy.
‘Well one thing is definite,’ Cedric remarked, ‘we can’t go to that restaurant again!’
The American said nothing. Too drunk? Too shocked? Or merely peeved at being addressed as ‘old man’?
The mist swirling around the quay had thickened and it was damp underfoot. Rosy’s pensione was some way off and it was agreed that the quickest route for her might be by vaporetto, and Hewson said he knew a shortcut to the landing stage. This involved turning off the quay into a couple of narrow passages, traversing a small campo and then snaking along a side canal from where they could join the Canal Grande and the vaporetto stop. Emerging from one of the alleyways they were confronted by a small bridge. The mist made it difficult to see, but straddling its balustrade there appeared to be a figure flailing its arms. They caught the strains of a song. The words were in English – ‘My old man’s a dustman’ could just be heard echoing across the water.
‘Oh God, it’s him,’ groaned Hewson.
Whether the figure had seen them was not clear but it certainly seemed to wave, and at the next moment Edward Jones emitted a loud whoop and nosedived into the canal.
‘Where does he think he is,’ protested Cedric, ‘Magdalen Bridge? Really this is too much!’
‘Presumably he can swim,’ Felix said.
‘He can’t,’ Rosy exclaimed, ‘he told me when we were at supper. And look, he’s in trouble!’ They hastened to the canal’s edge and watched horrified as the diver splashed around in eddying circles, his arms frantically churning the water. He sank beneath the surface, the waves subsided and for a few seconds there was an eerie quiet. Then with a violent eruption the surface broke and a head emerged and the threshing started again, and for a sickening moment Rosy thought she heard a faint wail. Yet, whether by effort or luck, the floundering form seemed to be gradually moving nearer the bank.
‘Will he reach us?’ she cried.
‘Not sure … Oh Lord he’s gone under again,’ muttered Felix. ‘But it can’t be all that deep, he may just make it. Surely there’s a lifebelt somewhere, but in this damned fog one can’t—’
At that moment there was a loud splash and another body hit the water: Hewson’s. He struck out strongly towards the drowning man. The dark and the fog made it difficult to get a clear view. They heard a shout followed by much splashing and thrashing. It seemed to last an age. And then at last through the murk they could see the rescuer back-paddling slowly towards the bank, one arm firmly gripping Edward’s shoulders.
‘Thank God,’ Rosy breathed. ‘Is he all right?’
Cedric and Felix knelt down to haul the swimmer and his burden up on to the towpath.
‘Sorry,’ Hewson gasped, ‘he kept going under, I just couldn’t hold on – kept slipping away. Afraid he’s a goner, poor little sod.’
The immediate aftermath was of course dreadful. Police and press descended, the latter working so quickly as to be able to feature a brief report the following day lamenting the tragic death of the young Englishman and proclaiming Hewson to be ‘il pittore coraggioso’, adding that Venice was proud to have him in its midst. As witnesses Cedric, Felix and Rosy were asked for immediate statements on the spot and required to remain in the city until further notice pending further enquiries into the cause of death – which in any case everyone knew to be drowning by misadventure. Lucia was notified and Hope-Landers, roused from his quarters, looked bleak.