'My dear sir!' he exclaimed. 'Come in, come in!'

I thought initially that he must be mistaking me for someone else, but no: Longman was merely bored to tears, and had little enough to do. As he told me at some length, once I had signed the book to confirm my presence and cast myself officially under his, and the Government of Her Britannic Majesty's, care while in the city.

'Nothing to do here, you see,' he explained once I had been settled down – quite against my will – into an elaborately carved chair in his office. 'It's virtually the life of a recluse.'

I enquired about his duties. 'None, to speak of,' he said. 'And a salary commensurate with the responsibility. I keep a fatherly eye on British subjects here and once a quarter compile a report on economic activity for the Board of Trade. But there are few enough visitors and little enough trade.'

'A useful task,' I said drily.

'Indeed. Venice is not as interesting as it was.'

'I've noticed. How many people are there here? British people, that is?'

'Never more than a hundred. At the moment,' he paused to glance at his register, 'I have sixty-three on the books. Most of those are merely passing through; only about twenty have been here more than a couple of months. And that's including women and children.'

'I met a Mr William Cort yesterday,' I ventured. 'And a Mr Macintyre, whom I found quite interesting.'

Longman chuckled. 'Ah, yes. Macintyre is one of our more difficult residents. Northern bluffness, you know. He can be quite overbearing on occasion. Cort, on the other hand, is a very gentle fellow. You must meet his wife; she is in the kitchen talking with Mrs Longman at the moment. I will introduce you before you leave.'

I didn't really want to meet her, but nodded politely. 'And Cort?'

'Mr Cort, yes. He's been here about four months now. From the way he talks, he'll be around for another decade at least. He comes from a good family in Suffolk, I believe, although both his parents died when he was young, and he was brought up by his uncle. Spellman, the architect, you know?'

I shook my head. I did not know.

'He is being trained to take over his uncle's practice, as there are no direct heirs. But I fear it is not a good idea.'

I prompted, as required.

'No business sense at all. It may be his designs are all very well, but the workmen here run rings round him. I found him crying – can you believe it? – crying, a week or so back. They bully him terribly, and he does not possess the strength of character to impose himself. Not entirely his fault, of course. He is much too young to take on such a task. But it's ruining him, poor boy. His wife even asked Marangoni about him, she was so worried.'

'Marangoni? Is he the physician of choice among exiles?'

'Not precisely, but he is willing to lend such expertise as he has and he speaks good English. Delightful man. Delightful. You must meet him. About the only Italian whose society is tolerable. He is an alienist, sent by the Government to reorganise the asylum. He is from Milan and so is in exile, like all of us. Anyway, Mrs Cort asked him about her husband's state of mind.'

'And?'

Longman sighed. 'Alas, no one could understand the answer. These doctors do talk in a peculiar fashion. Nonetheless, it accomplished one purpose. Marangoni is alerted, and Cort is being watched, to make sure no harm comes to him.'

'I'm surprised there are so few people in Venice. English people, I mean.'

Longman shrugged. 'Not so surprising, really. It is ferociously expensive, as you will soon enough discover. And terribly unhealthy. The miasmas arising from the canals are poisonous, and sap the vitality. Few people wish to stay for long. The sensible go to Turin.'

'And you have been here . . . ?'

'Far too long.' He smiled sadly. 'I don't suppose I shall ever leave now.'

There was a note in his voice of disappointment, of hopes frustrated, of someone who had expected more from life.

'Now, tell me about yourself, sir.' Here he hesitated. 'You are English, I take it?'

'You doubt it?'

'No, no. Not at all. But every now and then some fraud and charlatan does try to hurl himself on our good offices, you know.'

I do not, I suppose, look like an Englishman. I inherited far more of my mother's looks than my father's and that side of my ancestry is very much more obvious. It is another of the things that have always set me aside from my countrymen; the difference is always noticed, even if unconsciously. Others have always been slightly suspicious of me.

I had already sized up Mr Longman as an incorrigible gossip, and had the distinct feeling that everything I told him would not only be noted, but also relayed to any interested party in due course. Such people can oil the wheels of society, but too great an interest in the doings of others, I find, is often accompanied by a degree of malice which is dangerous. So I replied in as brief a fashion as was commensurate with good manners.

'Then you are rich! Must be!' he cried.

'Far from it.'

'That depends on your point of reference. It may be that three hundred yards from Threadneedle Street you are a pauper among your fellows. But here you will be rich. Few people here have any money. Especially among the Venetians; it is why society is so drab. But one can live a rich life with little money, do you not agree?'

'Of course,' I replied.

'You should be careful, though. It is dangerous to have a reputation for wealth. You will be amazed by how many people wish to borrow money from you, or forget their wallets when you dine with them.'

'Then it would be better if they do not develop a false impression,' I replied, with a slight tone of warning in my voice. I could not tell if he took the hint.

I prepared to leave, and Longman bustled around me to show me to the door. 'Mrs Cort!' he called. 'You must meet another resident before he goes. He has already met your husband and has only been here a few hours.'

I turned to present myself to the woman, and got the shock of my life when the door to the little salon opened. Louise Cort was beautiful. In her early thirties, a few years older than I was, with beautiful skin and eyes, and a delightful, rounded figure. About as different from her husband as could be imagined. She looked directly at me, and I felt a soft stirring as my eyes met hers. She never looked at Longman, barely acknowledged his existence as she shook my hand.

I bowed to her, and she nodded. I expressed my pleasure in meeting her, and she did not reply. I said I hoped to meet her again.

'And my husband,' she said with the faintest tone of mockery in her voice.

'Naturally,' I said.

CHAPTER 5

I had a dream that night, which I remembered. This was so strange that it unsettled me for days. Not that I had a dream, but that I should remember it, that it should come back to me. Indeed, it has come back to me ever since. Sometimes, for no reason that I can think of, this insubstantial fragment of memory will well up in my mind. Not very often, only perhaps once every couple of years, although more often of late. It is so very perplexing; great events that I have witnessed, taken part in – momentous events, I should say – I can scarcely recall at all. But a fevered imagining of no reality and less importance still stays with me, the images as fresh as if they were brand new.

I was standing by an open window and could feel the wind blowing over my skin. It was dark outside, and I felt the terror of indecision. I did not know what to do. About what, I do not know; that was part of the dream. The indecision was independent of all cause. Then I heard a footfall behind me, and a soft voice. 'I told you,' it said. Then I felt the pressure of a hand on my back, pushing.