The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (8 page)

As their glasses clinked, Lucia’s eyes were glowing. While they ate, the conversation turned to Joly’s plans. He made it clear that they remained fluid. It was his style, he said, to
trust to luck. Sanborn challenged this, arguing that even a young man needed roots.

“Learn from my mistake, Joly. Until I discovered the wonders of this marvellous city, my life lacked direction. You need something to anchor your existence. A place, firm friends, perhaps
a trade.”

Zuichini nodded with unaccustomed animation. “Right. That is right.”

“Listen to this good man. He knows the joys of a craft, the unique pleasure that comes with creation. This is where you can steal a march on me, Joly. I am proud of my collection of books,
undeniably, but I have never experienced the delight of creating a masterpiece of my own. I cannot paint, or compose, or write to any level of acceptable competence. I lack skills of a practical
nature. But you, my young friend, are different. If you were to put your talents to good purpose . . .”

“I have an idea!” Lucia clapped her hands. Champagne went to her head. After a single glass, already she was raising her voice and her skin was flushed. “Once you have seen
Rome, you could come back here and train as Zuichini’s apprentice!”

The plague doctor’s face split in a horrid smile, while Sanborn exclaimed with delight. “Perfect! There, Joly, you have your answer. How clever you are, Lucia. That way two birds
could be killed with one stone. Joly would learn from a master at the height of his powers, and Zuichini would have a good man to whom he could pass on the tricks of his trade before it is too
late.” Sanborn lowered his voice. “And there is something else that I have omitted to mention. Zuichini, may I? You see, Joly. This good fellow here, as you may have notice, is
afflicted by a dreadful malady. Parkinson’s attacks the nervous system and he has been suffering stoically for some time. But it becomes increasingly difficult for him to work. An utter
tragedy, sometimes I despair. Not only because Zuichini’s disability saddens me, but also from a selfish motive. For who will succeed him in business, who will practise his very special
skills, so as to keep me supplied in fine books? In you, perhaps I have found the answer to my prayers.”

“I don’t think so,” Joly said slowly.

“Oh, but you must!” Lucia exclaimed. “Such an opportunity, to learn from a genius!”

Sanborn must have primed her with this idea and asked her to offer support. They’d met during the day, not only so that Sanborn could pay for the new dress. The American was, Joly thought,
like the most demanding parent. He wanted to have the young folk beholden to him, at his beck and call and used his control of the purse strings to make sure they did not escape.

“I suppose I can mull it over, when I am in Rome.”

He’d expected Sanborn to suggest that he abandoned his trip, but the old man surprised him, giving a broad smile and murmuring that he could not say fairer than that. Zuichini went so far
as to give him a playful punch on the shoulder.

“Good apprentice, yes?”

While Joly tucked into the succulent beef, Sanborn talked about the art of binding books. He spoke of the pouch binding of Japanese books and the unique technique of
nakatoji
, of Jean
Groller’s leather-bound tomes covered with intricate geometric paterns, inlaid with coloured enamels and books bound in the flayed skin of murderers and highwaymen. He told them about
cheverell, a goatskin parchment transformed into a binding both supple and strong with a bold, grainy pattern, popular in Italy during the fourteenth century, he described methods of fatliquoring
leather, he explained . . .

“Joly, wake up!”

He became aware of Lucia’s sharp elbow, digging into his side. Sanborn was beaming at him like a benevolent uncle, surveying a favourite nephew who has overdone the Christmas pudding.
Zuichini was savouring his wine, still casting the occasional frank glance at Lucia’s ample cleavage.

“Sorry, must have dropped off.”

“Please do not apologize, I beg you,” Sanborn said. “Put your sleepiness down to a combination of the wine and the weather. Perhaps accompanied by a tinge of
tristesse
–
am I right, young man? This is your last night in La Serenissima for a little while and who could fail to experience
a frisson
of regret at departing from here?” He
refilled their glasses, taking no notice when Joly shook his head. “So let us drink to our good friend Joly, and express the sincere hope that soon he will be back here for good!”

He reached out and patted Joly’s arm. Blearily, Joly tried to focus on how to interpret the old man’s behaviour. His hand did not linger. Had it been unfair to impute to him some
sexual motive for such generosity? Perhaps in truth Sanborn’s generosity did not amount to anything out of the ordinary. For a rich man, the cost of a couple of meals and a few bottles of
fine wine was small change. Was it possible that Sanborn was no more than he seemed, a lonely old millionaire, keen to share the company of the young and beautiful, as well as that of his ailing
friend, and that he had no ulterior motive at all?

Sanborn made some remark and Lucia laughed long and loud, a noise that reminded Joly of a workman drilling in the road. She had a good head for drink, Joly knew that from experience, but even
she was beginning to lose control. He remembered her telling him about her last night with the Mafia boss. She’d plucked up the courage to put a small knife in her bag. If he’d attacked
her, she’d steeled herself to fight for her life. Joly did not doubt the strength of her survival instinct. If she thought herself threatened, she would lash out without a moment’s
hesitation. What would happen if Zuichini made her afraid with the clumsiness of his overtures?

He yawned. His head was spinning and he couldn’t keep worrying about what might happen between consenting adults.
Que sera, sera.

Next thing he knew, someone was tapping him on the arm. Through the fog of a hangover, he heard Sanborn’s gentle voice.

“Joly, my boy. Are you all right?”

Even the act of opening his eyes made him want to cry out, it hurt so much. Christ, how much had he drunk? He had no head for champagne, but he’d never felt this bad before. He blinked
hard and tried to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a hard bed in a small, musty room. The sun was shining in through a small high window but he had no idea where he might be. Sanborn was
standing beside the bed, arms folded, studying him. Suddenly, he felt afraid.

“Where am I?”

“Listen, my friend, you have nothing to fear. You just had rather too much to drink, that’s all.”

“The drinks were spiked.” Nothing else could explain how he had come to black out; this had never happened to him before.

“No, no, no.” Sanborn had a first-class bedside manner, though Joly was sure he was lying. “You overdid it, simple as that. And you threw up all over Lucia, which frankly
wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Lucia?” He gazed at the peeling wallpaper, the unfamiliar cupboard and door. “Where have you brought me?”

“Listen, it’s all right. Lucia was upset, that’s all. Zuichini took care of her, no need to worry. As she wouldn’t entertain you in her bed last night, I volunteered to
bring you here. Now, you need to get up and dressed. I think you said you plan to take the one o’clock coach from Piazzale Roma?”

A wave of panic engulfed him. Effectively, he was the old man’s prisoner.

“You haven’t told me where you’ve brought me.”

“There’s no secret, Joly, keep your hair on, my dear fellow. This is an apartment I bought six months ago. Hardly the lap of luxury, but it’s only a stone’s throw from
the restaurant. It seemed like the best solution. We could hardly leave you to your own devices, the state you were in, and Lucia was in no mood to take you back with her.”

Joly coughed. “Then – I’m free to go?”

Sanborn’s parchment features conveyed benign bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Why should you not be? I was only striving to do you a good turn.”

I’ve been a fool, Joly thought, this isn’t a man to fear. The question is – what happened between Lucia and Zuichini? Did he try it on, did she let him get away with it?

“Sorry, Darius. I’m not myself.”

“Not to worry, these things happen. There’s a bathroom next door. No gold taps, I’m afraid, but you’ll find the basic necessities. I’ll leave you to it, if I may.
Your bag’s over by the door, incidentally. I went over to Lucia’s this morning to pick it up.”

“Thanks,” Joly whispered.

“Here’s the key to the front door. Would you be kind enough to lock up for me? I have a little business to attend to, but I’ll be there at the coach station to see you off.
It’s the least I can do.”

Joly stared at the old man’s genial expression. Hoarsely, he said, “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it. That’s what friends are for, don’t you agree?”

Two hours later, Joly arrived at the Piazzale Roma, bag in hand. Within moments he caught sight of Sanborn by an advertisement hoarding and the American lifted his stick in greeting before
limping to greet him. He had a black velvet bag slung over his shoulder.

“You’re looking much better. Remarkable what wonders can be worked by a simple wash and brush up.”

“I’m very grateful to you,” Joly said humbly, handing over the key to the apartment.

“Think nothing of it.” Sanborn cleared his throat. “Actually, I talked to Lucia before I made my way over here. There isn’t an easy way to put this, Joly, but I
don’t believe she has any intention of joining you in Rome. I’m sorry.”

Joly took a breath. “Maybe things had run their course.”

Sanborn bowed his head. “That was rather the impression that I had gained. Well, I don’t care for prolonged farewells. I hope you will reflect on our conversation last night and that
soon we shall see you again in La Serenissima.”

Forcing a smile, Joly said, “Who knows, I might take Zuichini up on his kind offer. There are worse ways of making a living than binding fine books, I guess.”

A light flared in Sanborn’s old eyes. Voice trembling, he said, “Joly, the moment I first saw you, I knew you were made of the right stuff. In fact, I’ll let you into a secret.
I’d seen you a couple of times at the Campo Santi Apostoli before I made so bold as to introduce myself.”

“Is that so?” Joly didn’t know whether to be puzzled or flattered. “So did you see Lucia as well?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Such a pretty creature, with that gorgeous dark hair and honey skin. Oh, well, there are many more lovely girls in Venice. Despite my age, I can guess how sad
you must feel. I felt the same about my friend Sophia, after I’d talked to her for the last time. But she and I were not lovers; the physical loss makes it doubly hard for you.”

“These things happen.”

“Yes, life goes on. And you will never forget Lucia, of that I am sure. But your life will be so much richer if you take up Zuichini’s offer. Truly, his craftsmanship is unique.
Think of it! You could follow in his footsteps. Make a name for yourself and earn a not inconsiderable fortune.”

“Is Zuichini rich?”

“My dear fellow, do not be deceived by appearances. If – no,
when
you return, you will have a chance to visit his splendid home near the Rialto. Even though he and I are close
associates, he never fails to drive a hard bargain. But I, and others like me, are willing to pay for the best. For something unique.”

They shook hands and Sanborn pulled out of his shoulder bag a parcel wrapped in gift paper. He thrust it at Joly.

“I want you to have this. A token of our friendship. And a reminder of the esoteric pleasures that lie in store, should you accept Zuichini’s offer to help you learn his
trade.”

“Thanks.” Joly’s cheeks were burning. He’d harboured so many false suspicions and now he couldn’t help feeling a mite embarrassed. “I’m not sure that
bookbinding is . . .”

“Think about it. That’s all I ask.” Sanborn smiled. “I have seen enough of you in a short space of time to be confident that you would relish the chance to become a
craftsman in your own right. As you told me, you have a taste for the unusual. And with your love of books . . ah well, you must be going. Goodbye, my friend. Or as I should say,
arrivederci
.”

Joly found himself waving at the old man’s back as he limped away. At the notice board, just before he moved out of sight, Sanborn raised his stick in salute, but he did not turn his head.
The bus was waiting and Joly found himself a seat by the window. As the driver got into gear, Joly tore the wrapping paper from his present. He stared at it for a long time.

The present was a book, carefully protected by bubble wrap and old newspapers and that came as no surprise. The title was
A Short Treatise on the Finer Points of Bookbinding.
But it was
not the text that seized Joly’s attention, though deep down he knew already that, one day, this would become his Bible.

The front cover was tanned and polished to a smooth golden brown. He’d never come across anything quite like it. To the touch, it had slight bumps, like a soft sandpaper. The spine and
back cover felt more like suede. But what entranced him was not the texture of the binding.

At first sight, he thought the cover bore a logo. But with a second glance, he realized his mistake. In the bottom corner was a design in blue-black. A picture of a flying dove, with broad
outstretched wings.

He held his breath as he recalled kissing Lucia’s toes. Recalled the delicate heart shape traced in ink upon her ankle. Recalled, with a shiver of fear and excitement, Zuichini’s
admiration of the tattooist’s work, the way those dark and deadly little eyes kept being drawn to Lucia’s tender, honey-coloured skin.

He settled back on the hard seat. The countryside was passing by outside, but he paid it no heed. Sanborn understood him better than he understood himself. After searching for so long,
he’d finally found what he was looking for. Soon he would return to La Serenissima. And there Zuichini would share with him the darkest secrets of the bookbinder’s craft. He would teach
him how to make the book that Sanborn craved, a book for all three of them to remember Lucia by.