'And, lest you think I am being rude about England, I must assure you that in comparison with Venice, it was like being in paradise. Here the insane are still in the hands of the priests, who intone their mumbo-jumbo over them, and pray they will get better and beat them when their prayers are not answered. So you see, I have a big job on my hands. I must fight the insane and the Church simultaneously.'

'Which is worse?'

He waved his hand. 'Do you know, sometimes I can't tell them apart. Degenerates,' he said, as he sipped his drink. 'Little to be done for them except identify, isolate and eliminate. The city is inbred, generation after generation has never even left the lagoon. What you see as a city of unparalleled beauty and untold richness is, in fact, a festering, seeping sore of mental illness. A people weakened and debilitated, incapable of fending for themselves. You have read the history of the city, no doubt, about how it finally fell to Napoleon. It was not Napoleon who conquered this city; it was the steady eating away of the population by degeneration, which stripped it of all ability to resist.'

'And you recommend what, exactly?'

'Oh, if I had my way, I'd ship everyone out.'

'Everyone? You mean the whole city?' I asked slightly incredulously.

He nodded. 'If there is a house with plague in it, you don't adopt half measures, do you? That is what Venice is; a plague city, spreading corruption to all who are in contact with it. We are at last trying to build a nation here in Italy, we need a forceful, healthy population that will multiply and meet the challenges of modern life. We cannot take the risk of having a place like this undermining all our efforts, sapping our vitality with contaminated stock.'

He smiled as he saw my surprise at his remarks. 'I say that so forcefully because I know no one is going to listen to me. No one has the will to take the necessary measures. So, instead, I do what I can and must, case by case.'

'I hate to challenge the opinion of a scientist, but I have seen many idlers in London and Paris. And noted no tendency here to violence.'

He nodded sagely. 'There are degenerates everywhere. Particularly in Europe, which is crumbling. Do you know, one eminent doctor has estimated that up to a third of the entire population might be afflicted?'

'And you would like to get rid of all of them?'

'Not possible,' he replied, clearly suggesting he would like nothing better. 'What I am trying to do is identify them. If they could be stopped from breeding, for example, then eventually the problem would diminish on its own. As for the violence, don't be fooled. Their natural lassitude makes them seem passive enough, but when something snaps they behave like beasts. What is more, the city attracts more such people, every day they arrive, and find the place congenial. There is a man called Cort, for example—'

'I have met Mr Cort,' I said, no doubt a little stiffly. 'I found him very pleasant.'

Marangoni smiled in a slightly superior fashion. 'That is why there are alienists,' he said. 'To spot things the untrained eye cannot perceive. Mr Cort is a man on the edge, and could topple over into the ravine of madness at any moment. He should never have been sent here. But that's you English all over. He was sent here to toughen him up, I believe the saying is. It may well do the exact opposite, and finish him off. He is having hallucinations, you know. He thinks there is a man following him. And not just any man, oh dear me no. He is being followed by the city itself.'

'How do you know that?'

'Ah,' Marangoni smiled, touching his nose. 'There is little secret here, as you will discover.'

'You would consider him insane?'

'Cort, or the spectral Venetian?'

'Both.'

'If the Venetian exists at all, then both, naturally. Thinking yourself immortal is not unusual, of course, and persuading yourself that you are someone else is common enough. I have encountered Napoleon on many occasions, as well as princes and children of popes, all snatched away at infancy. Persuading yourself you are a city is most odd. I have never encountered such a thing. I rather hope he does exist. I would love to meet him.'

'And Cort?'

'A hypersensitive young man, in my opinion. He is picking up the unhealthiness of the city, but instead of responding in a rational manner, he embodies it in his fantasies. This Venetian is the degenerate city which killed his mother and it exerts an unhealthy fascination for him. He should leave immediately. I have told him this, but he refuses to listen. He says it would be cowardly, that he has a job to do here. But it will cost him his sanity, if he is not careful. Especially if he continues to keep his wife with him.'

Marangoni was no gentleman. It was bad enough, surely, for a doctor to discuss a man who was a patient in such terms, but to cast aspersions on Mrs Cort as well I found deeply offensive. I think he saw the look on my face.

'Oh, you chivalrous English,' he said, with a very faint air of contempt. 'Very well, I should not have said that. But Mrs Cort I find to be—'

'That is no doubt because you do not appreciate refinement and character in women,' I said, 'being used only to Italians.'

Still the wretched man did not take offence. 'That may be so; certainly they are very different in manner. Though not so different in nature. You have met the lady? I think you must have.'

'I found her charming.'

'So she is. So she is. Well, I stand corrected. You no doubt know her better than I, a mere Italian, ever could.'

I found his conversation somewhat alarming. I am used now to capitalists such as myself being detested for their pitiless fixity of purpose, their ruthlessness at the exploitation of others. Perhaps we are so, but I must say that I have never encountered a capitalist half as pitiless as one of those doctors of the mind. Should they ever be allowed to put their ideas into practice, they would be fearsome. The conviction that their method makes them unchallengeable, that their conclusions are always correct, leads them to lay claim to a remarkable authority over others. Capitalists want the money of their customers, the bodies of the workers. Psychiatrists want their souls.

Fortunately Marangoni was tiring of the subject as well as I, and out of politeness turned to questioning me about my trip. 'You have met some people already, I believe. It was Mr Longman who mentioned you to me.'

'A few,' I said. 'And I am about to move to new accommodation, in the palazzo of the Marchesa d'Arpagno.'

'Oh ho!' he said with a smile. 'Then you must be a special person. She is fussy in her choice. What did you say or do to win her over?'

'It's my aura, apparently. Or the size of my wallet.'

Marangoni laughed. 'Oh, yes. I'd forgotten. The Marchesa is a seer.'

I looked at him.

'Really, she is. The spirits positively queue up to chat to her. It must be like bedlam in her sitting room sometimes. She has the Gift. The Eye. That certain spiritual something which means she is – totally crazy.'

'Another one? You alarm me.'

'Oh, she's harmless enough. Remarkably so. Naturally, I scented a customer when I first came across her. But I was disappointed. You will note that apart from a few matter-of-fact comments, she is entirely normal.'

'And that means . . .'

'Clearly she is insane. It is only a matter of time before the madness bursts forth and becomes more explicit. At the moment, though, she is quite normal in her behaviour. Apart from the spirits, of course. You will, I imagine, be summoned to take part in a séance at some stage. Everyone is. But you won't have any excuse for not attending. So you'll have to go. Do you believe in spirits? Ghosts? Auras? Things that go bump in the night or under the table?'