Paths of Glory (14 page)

“One more question,” said Finch.

“And only one,” said Young.

“Do you have any idea when this expedition plans to leave for Tibet?”

“Yes,” replied Young. “It can’t leave any later than February next year. We’ll have to establish base camp by May if we’re to have time to reach the summit before the monsoon season sets in.”

Finch seemed satisfied with this reply, but George could only wonder how Mr. Fletcher, the newly appointed headmaster of Charterhouse, would react to one of his staff requesting a six-month leave of absence.

Young led them slowly back down the mountain, not wasting any words on small talk until they were on safer ground. When their hotel came into sight, he uttered his last words on the subject. “I would be obliged, gentlemen, if this matter was not referred to again, even between ourselves, until the Foreign Office has made an official announcement.”

Both men nodded. “However,” Young added, “I hope you don’t have anything else planned for 1915.”

Finch was on his way down to dinner, dressed in an open-necked shirt, flannel trousers, and a sports jacket, when he spotted Mallory at the reception desk writing out a check.

“Off on another little adventure, are we?” inquired Finch, looking down at the suitcase by Mallory’s feet.

Mallory smiled. “Yes. I have to admit that you’re not the only man I’m trying to stay a yard ahead of.”

Finch glanced at the label attached to the suitcase. “As there are no mountains that I’m aware of in Venice, I can only assume that another woman must be involved.”

George didn’t reply as he handed his check to the clerk standing behind the counter.

“Just as I thought,” said Finch. “And as you’ve already implied that I’m something of an expert when it comes to the fairer sex, allow me to warn you that trying to juggle two women at once, even if they do live on different continents, is never easy.”

George grinned as he folded his receipt and placed it in an inside pocket. “My dear Finch,” he said, “allow me to point out that there has to be a first woman before there can be a second.” Without another word he picked up his suitcase, gave Finch a thin smile, and headed toward the front door.

“I wouldn’t repeat that when you come face to face with Chomolungma for the first time,” said Finch quietly. “I have a feeling that particular lady might well turn out to be an unforgiving mistress.”

George didn’t look back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
26
TH
, 1914

E
VER SINCE HE
had set eyes on her at Westbrook, George hadn’t been able to get Ruth out of his mind, even when he was climbing. Was that the reason Finch had reached the top of the Matterhorn before him, and Young had chosen Somervell and Herford to join him on the Everest Committee? Was Finch right when he had suggested that at some time George would have to decide between them? No choice was necessary at the moment, thought George, as both the ladies in question were studiously ignoring him.

George had slipped away from Zermatt on Tuesday night, leaving his colleagues to settle their differences with one or two of the lesser peaks. He boarded the train for Lausanne, changing at Visp, where he spent most of his time planning how they might casually bump into each other—that was, assuming he managed to find her.

As the train rattled along, George couldn’t help thinking that although mountains were not to be depended on, at least they remained in one place. Wouldn’t it be all too obvious that he’d traveled from Switzerland to Italy specially to see her? He knew one person who would work it out immediately.

When George disembarked at Lausanne, he purchased a third-class ticket on the Cisalpino to Verona, from where he would join the express for Venice. There was no need to waste money on a more expensive ticket when all he intended to do was sleep. And he would have slept if he hadn’t been seated next to a Frenchman who clearly felt that every dish he ate should be liberally laced with garlic, and whose snoring rivaled the engine for noise.

George was able to grab only a few moments’ sleep before the train reached its destination. He had never visited Venice before, but Baedeker’s guide had been his constant companion for the past month, so by the time he stepped out onto the platform at Santa Lucia, he knew the exact location of every five-star hotel in the city. He even knew that the Firenze was the first hotel in Europe to offer what they described as an en-suite bathroom.

Once the waterbus had dropped him off at the Piazza San Marco, George went in search of the one hotel he could afford that wasn’t miles from the city center. He checked into the smallest room on the top floor, a proper place for a mountaineer, and settled down, desperate for a good night’s sleep. He would, like all well-prepared climbers, have to rise before the sun if he hoped to carry out his little subterfuge. He was confident that the Turners wouldn’t be setting foot outside whichever hotel they were staying at much before ten o’clock.

George spent another sleepless night, and this time he couldn’t blame garlic or a rattling train, but rather a mattress with no springs and a pillow that had never been introduced to more than a handful of feathers; even his young charges at Charterhouse would have complained.

He rose before six, and was crossing the Rialto Bridge half an hour later, accompanied by late revelers and a few early morning workers. He took a list of hotels from the inside pocket of his jacket, and set about his quest methodically.

The first establishment he entered was the Hotel Bauer, where he asked at the reception desk if the Turner family—one elderly gentleman and his three daughters—were guests. The night porter ran a finger down a long list before shaking his head. At the nearby Hotel Europa e Regina, George received the same response. The Hotel Baglione had a Thompson and a Taylor, but no Turner, while the night manager of the Gritti Palace waited for a tip before he even considered answering George’s question, but then gave him the same response. The next hotel refused to divulge the names of its guests, even after George claimed to be a close friend of the family.

He was beginning to wonder if the Turners had changed their holiday plans until the head porter of the San Clemente, an Englishman, gave a smile of recognition when he heard the name, although he didn’t smile again until George had passed over a large-denomination note. The Turner party, he told him, were not staying at the San Clemente, but they occasionally dined there, and he had once been asked to book a vaporetto to take them back to…He didn’t finish the sentence until a second note of the same denomination had joined the first…back to their hotel. A third note secured the hotel’s name, the Cipriani, as well as the dock where its private water taxi always dropped off its guests.

George placed a thinner wallet back in his jacket pocket and made his way quickly to Piazza San Marco, from where he could see the island of Giudecca, on which the Cipriani hotel proudly stood. Every twenty minutes a water taxi docked with the name
Cipriani
on its bow. He stepped into the shadows of a large archway from where he could observe every boat as it disgorged its customers, confident that an elderly gentleman accompanied by three young ladies would be easy enough to identify, especially when the vision of one of those ladies had rarely left his mind for the past six weeks.

For the next two hours George checked every customer coming by water taxi from Giudecca. After another hour he began to wonder if the Turners had moved to a different hotel; perhaps the one that had refused to divulge its guest list. He watched as the cafés all around him began to fill up. The pervading aroma of freshly baked panini, crostini, and piping hot coffee reminded him he hadn’t had any breakfast. But he dared not desert his post, for fear that if he did so, that would be the moment the Turner family set foot on the shore. George decided that if they hadn’t appeared by midday, he might have to risk taking the taxi across to the island, and even entering their hotel. But if he were to bump into them, how would he explain what he was doing there? Mr. Turner would have known that a night at the Cipriani would barely have been covered by George’s monthly salary, however small the room was.

And then George saw her. His first thought was that she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. She was wearing a long, empire-line yellow silk dress with a wide red ribbon tied just below the bust. Her wavy auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and she shaded herself from the morning sun with a white parasol. If you’d asked him what Marjorie and Mildred were wearing, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

Mr. Turner was the first to step onto the quay. He was dressed in a smart cream suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He raised an arm to assist his daughters as they stepped off the boat. George was relieved to see no sign of Andrew, who he hoped was defending a goal in Taunton.

The Turners strolled off in the direction of Piazza San Marco with an air of knowing exactly where they were heading, as indeed they clearly did, because when they walked into a crowded café, the head waiter immediately guided them to the only unoccupied table. Once they had ordered, Turner settled down to read the previous day’s
Times
while Ruth leafed through a book that must have been a guide to Venice, because she kept sharing the contents with her sisters while occasionally pointing out landmarks.

At one point Ruth looked in his direction, and for a moment George wondered if she had seen him, although you rarely notice someone you’re not looking for, especially if they’re obscured by shadows. He waited patiently until Mr. Turner called for the bill, realizing that the next part of his plan could not be put off for much longer.

The moment the Turners left the café, George stepped out of the shadows and headed toward the center of the square. His eyes never left Ruth, the guidebook still open in her hand. She was now reading passages out from it while the rest of the family listened intently. George began to wish he was back on top of a mountain, even if it had meant that Finch was his only companion. Surely the moment they saw him they would twig. There was only one way he was going to find out.

He emerged from behind a group of ambling tourists, and when he was just a few paces away, came to a halt in front of Mr. Turner.

“Good morning, sir,” said George, raising his boater and trying to look astonished. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Well, it’s certainly a surprise for me, Mr. Mallory,” said Turner.

“And a most pleasing one,” said Marjorie.

“Good morning, Miss Turner,” said George, once again raising his hat. Although Mildred rewarded him with a shy smile, Ruth continued to read her guidebook, as if George’s unexpected appearance was nothing more than an irritating distraction.

“‘Before the five arched portals of the Basilica,’” she declared, her voice rising, “‘rests the Piazza San Marco, a vast, paved, arcaded square once described by Napoleon as the drawing room of Europe.’”

George continued to smile at her, feeling like Malvolio, because like Olivia, she didn’t return the compliment. He was beginning to feel that he had embarked on a wasted journey, and should never have allowed himself to imagine, even for a moment…He would slip away, and they would soon forget he’d ever been there.

“‘The bell tower,’” continued Ruth, looking up, “‘rises to a height of 325 feet, and visitors can reach the parapet by ascending its four hundred and twenty-one steps.’”

George raised his hat to Mr. Turner, and turned to leave.

“Do you think you could manage that, Mr. Mallory?” asked Ruth.

George hesitated. “Possibly,” he said, turning back. “But the weather conditions would have to be taken into consideration. A high wind might make it difficult.”

“I can’t imagine why a high wind would make it difficult if you were safely inside, Mr. Mallory.”

“And then one must always remember, Miss Turner,” continued George, “that the most important decision when considering any climb is the route you select. You rarely end up going in a straight line, and if you make the wrong choice, you might have to turn back unrewarded.”

“How interesting, Mr. Mallory,” said Ruth.

“But if a more direct route does present itself, you should always be prepared to consider it.”

“I can find nothing in Baedeker to suggest that there might be a more direct route,” said Ruth.

That was the moment George decided that if he was going to leave them, he might as well do it in style.

“Then perhaps the time has come to write a new chapter for your guidebook, Miss Turner.” Without another word, George took off his hat and jacket, and handed them to Ruth. He took one more look at the tower, then walked toward the public entrance, where he joined the line of tourists waiting to go inside.

When he got to the front of the queue, he leaped onto the turnstile and reached up to grasp the archway above the entrance. He pulled himself up and stood on the ledge. Moments later, with a line of startled onlookers following his progress, he was hanging from the first parapet. He paused for a moment to consider his next move. It was to place his right foot on the statue of a saint—Saint Thomas, Mildred noted—who looked doubtful.

Mr. Turner turned his attention away from George for a moment, as he progressed from ledge to ledge, buttress to buttress, to observe his daughters. Mildred appeared fascinated by George’s skill, while Marjorie had a look of awe on her face, but it was Ruth’s reaction that took him most by surprise. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her whole body seemed to be trembling. When George appeared to lose his footing only a few feet from the top, Mr. Turner thought his favorite daughter was going to faint.

George looked down into the crowded square, no longer able to identify Ruth among the patchwork quilt of speckled colors below. He placed both hands firmly on the wide balustrade, pulled himself up onto the top parapet, and joined the visitors who had made the ascent by a more orthodox route.

A small group of mesmerized tourists took a step back, hardly able to believe what they were witnessing. One or two of them had taken photographs so they could prove to the folks back home that they hadn’t made it up. George leaned over the balustrade and began to consider his route back down—that was until he spotted two members of the Carabinieri running into the square.