The Venetian Venture by Suzette A. Hill Page B

whereas this seems definitely the right one – a first edition
and
with the required signature and inscription.’
    Felix bent over the title page examining Dr Bodger’s sepia flourish and the faded words underneath. ‘Like all academics,’ he said pointedly, ‘handwriting totally indecipherable; it could be anything.’
    Ignoring the jibe, the professor replied, ‘It could be something were you to wear your glasses. Perhaps you would like me to be your amanuensis?’
    ‘Be anything you like old stick, I’m for another drink.’
    ‘No doubt, but listen to this first. It says: “To Bella B. Ah what joyful days!”’
    ‘How very original,’ observed Felix dryly. ‘And who was Bella B – the wife?’
    ‘From what little I’ve read the good doctor was unmarried, led a bachelor existence in Christchurch.’
    ‘Presumably somebody else’s wife then.’
    ‘Presumably … unless of course it was that chorus girl Bella Biloxi. She was all the rage in the 1890s. Men would go up to London in trainloads to see her, young and old alike, mad keen to get a glimpse of a swelling bosom or gartered knee: you could say she was the Marilyn Monroe of her day.’
    ‘So you think Bodger was one of the smitten and thus dedicated a set of ancient Latin poems to her? It seems a trifle unlikely.’
    ‘Ah but you never know with academics. Not only is their handwriting indecipherable but their minds too are hard to fathom.’
    Felix raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘You can say that again! Now what will it be, with or without an olive?’
     
    They dined in that evening. And after a light supper of antipasti, cold roast mullet and late strawberries in kirsch and cream (all fastidiously prepared by Felix) they settled to coffee and the topic of Cedric’s find.
    ‘It seems very likely that it is the one Rosy Gilchrist has been making all the fuss about,’ the professor remarked, ‘but what a singular coincidence it should turn up here in your cousin’s palazzo. You didn’t mention she had classical tastes.’
    Felix shrugged. ‘Don’t know what her tastes are exceptdogs and music; haven’t clapped eyes on the old trout since I was an adolescent. But presumably if she likes Latin poetry there would be similar stuff somewhere. Have you looked?’
    ‘Nothing on the shelves that I can see. Mainly books on Venice, its history and architecture and so on. The rest is a hotchpotch – Bulldog Drummond cuddling up to Proust, but nothing that might be termed classical.’
    ‘In that case we might as well hand the thing over to Rosy … perhaps her gratitude will rise to a bottle of bubbly.’
    ‘It might,’ Cedric agreed. ‘But don’t you think you should square it with your cousin in Chicago first? After all we don’t want her to think we had pilfered the thing, might not get asked back again. Besides I am quite intrigued to know its provenance – how did it get here and why?’
    Felix lit a cigarette and consulted his pocketbook. ‘Really,’ he muttered, ‘the things one does for Rosy Gilchrist … Ah here’s the number. But, from what I recall my mother saying of Violet, she is as likely to be on the town with a group of Negro blues players as resting quietly in her hotel suite; but worth a try I suppose.’ He stood up and left the room. Ten minutes later he returned grinning broadly.
    ‘So you got her?’ Cedric asked.
    ‘You bet. Having her nails done in readiness for a date with Louis Armstrong. So I wasn’t so wide off the mark was I?’ He proceeded to give a detailed account of his elderly cousin’s projected evening, which apparently was to commence with cocktails at the La Salle, followed by dinner at the Drake and culminating in some exclusive jazzdive where her companion would serenade her with one of his own compositions.
    ‘Not bad,’ conceded Cedric, ‘not bad at all … And amidst all this jollity did you by any chance get on to the subject of the book?’
    ‘Briefly. She remembers it vaguely and