“No,” she replied, her breath now shallow.
“Good,” he said firmly. He removed his hand from her breast and ran his fingers down the front of her dress, reached down beneath her knees, picked up the hem and lifted it, exposing her legs. Slowly, as if performing some kind of examination, he moved both his hands between her thighs, rubbing his thumbs on the soft skin there, reaching upwards until his fingers touched cotton. Then he lifted the evening dress further until it exposed what his hand felt and, with a gentle circular movement, slid his thumbs beneath the elastic, probing.
Amy sighed, not knowing herself what the noise meant. Hugo’s feverish fingers worked at her. He removed them and, in a single movement, lifted her in his arms. He held her like a child, staring into her eyes as he carried her into the bedroom, where every wall seemed a mirror.
She saw their reflection in the glass, watched it all the time as he lowered her on the bed, then tore at his own clothes until he knelt by her, face suffused with red. She had seen a boyfriend naked once before, and refused his invitation. Hugo was, by comparison, huge, almost terrifying in his size.
She looked at him. “Hugo,” she said. “You must wear something.”
“I believe not,” he said, and took both hands to the front of her dress, then tore the thin fabric apart in a single vicious gesture which jerked her body off the bed. She struggled out of her underwear, fearing he would rip that from her too. His head came down to her shoulder. She felt his teeth bite sharp and hard into her neck, and cried out softly from the pain.
“Hugo,” she repeated, pulling at his neck so that he could see her face. “I’m frightened.”
“You’ve nothing to fear. With me, you never will.”
She wanted to cry. She wanted to run from the room. Amy remembered the previous Saturday, when she had offered herself so openly to Daniel and he had refused, setting these events in train.
Her head fell down on her chest. She refused to look him in the face. “I don’t… want to,” she said quietly.
His hands moved again, fingers poking, searching, entering.
“Oh, but I do, my love,” he answered. “Now, if you please…”
46
The Roman magistrate
I stayed with Marchese on the Quirinal, a little way down from the palace where the Pope was in residence, fleeing the heat and malaria of the Vatican. With my mind in such turmoil, I was grateful to discover I had a genial host. Marchese occupied a small patrician mansion with his wife and a single manservant, Lanza. Marchese was elderly, with a stooped back, an awkward gait, and a shock of white hair. Yet his eyes were as bright and sharp and querulous as those of a child. For all his cheery demeanour, I suspect few villains had found their way past this chap in his prime.
I arrived late at night, after two days, each of ten hours, on the road, and was grateful to be offered a bath, fed a good meal, then despatched, exhausted, to bed. The Marcheses had never had children, I’ll warrant, since both master and mistress fussed around as if I were their offspring. It had yet to dawn fully upon me that I was in Rome, with all its sights and possibilities, for I climbed into a comfortable divan on the second floor and fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep, waking only when a cock crew and the sun, bright and warming, fell through the curtains.
I spent the morning scanning through Marchese’s manuscript. Leo had his limits — we would not publish absolutely anything. It took only a little while to discover that this particular commission would pose no problem, and could even shift a few paid copies. As a writer, Marchese possessed a slightly rambling fashion, though nothing which a spot of editing couldn’t improve. But he had flare. While there were dull patches, which I skipped, there was much of interest in these tales of city low-life.
Most of those who pay the House of Scacchi to see their names in print do so out of vanity. That smudge of ink upon the page bestows immortality in their own eyes, I imagine, though if they saw the sorry pile of unsold volumes in our cellar, they might feel differently. Marchese did not fit this description. His purpose, as he explained to me, was to set down his methods of investigation in the hope that others in his trade might learn from them and, over time, find better ways of bringing the guilty to book. To him the law, as it stands, is a random process. On most occasions some hapless victim is first sought out, and only then does the search begin for evidence by which to establish his culpability. Marchese believes the first step should be to establish facts and wonder where they lead, not follow the gossiping throng to wherever it happens to point the finger and arrest the first person with a guilty look on his face. I did not say as much, but this seems to me an idea that is too revolutionary for the Italians, who have hot blood and a thirst for instant satisfaction. The Germans or the English, perhaps, could stomach the slow and painstaking practice which Marchese recommends. I doubt it would satisfy many of those who hang around the side entrance of the Doge’s Palace when a plot’s about and the old man’s temper’s up, counting those unfortunates who go in, then noting how few come out again.
Each chapter had some melodramatic title: “The Tuscan Fragment and a Spray of Camellias.” Or “How an Egyptian Cat May Bark at Midnight.” The magistrate had, however, a higher intent than mere entertainment. He wished to inform his readers of the process he described as “forensic mechanics.” He also believed that by setting down personal characteristics of the scoundrels he apprehended, he would dispel the notion that they were wicked by nature or choosing, a separate species altogether from the average, honest citizen who walks the streets.
“The greatest delusion,” Marchese declared, waving a fat, wrinkled finger at my face, “is the belief that this world must be divided into black and white, the sinner and the righteous. Nowhere is there evidence for such a nonsensical notion. Each argument has many facets, each individual a panoply of traits, some praiseworthy, some obnoxious, and most of them inherited, I suspect. It is how each man selects— or has selected for him — a particular version of events and set of characteristics that makes the difference. I am as close to being a murderer as you. Only fate, a lack of temptation, and, I hope, a certain steel within our character save us from the scaffold. Always beware those who would tell you this world falls into two camps — good or bad. They are either fools or, worse, manipulators seeking to enhance their power by gulling those poor, sad folk among us who crave some distant enemy to explain their present plight.”
He sniffed the air. A most delightful aroma was making its way out of the kitchen. A mountain of meat and potatoes and two small jugs of wine later, we were back in the armchairs. I felt sated and sleepy, and glad, too, that he had taken my mind off events in Venice. Whatever was happening with Rebecca and Leo, however much progress Delapole had made in heading off my uncle from his vile plans, nothing I might think or do in Rome had any consequence.
“Money,” he said, and I covered my cup as he swung a flagon of grappa my way. “I’ll pay the going rate and nothing more. I know you Venetians are the very Devil when it comes to negotiations.”
I had no mind to haggle with this lovable old chap, though I doubted he was short of a bob or two. So I cast aside the inflated price list Leo used as an opening gambit and, to foreshorten matters, gave him the real one, which was, in all honesty, as cheap a deal as he might get of any Venice publisher.
He slapped me gently on the shoulder. “Oh, come, Lorenzo. There’s always space for bargaining in these affairs. How much for cash on the nail, eh?”