Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Other Books in this Series

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Free Copy of The Dangerous Promise

  Other Books by Merryn Allingham

  About The Author

  VENETIAN VENDETTA

  Merryn Allingham

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First published in Great Britain 2020 by The Verrall Press

  Cover art: Berni Stevens Book Cover Design

  Copyright © Merryn Allingham

  Merryn Allingham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Other Books in this Series

  The Dangerous Promise (2020)

  Caribbean Evil (2020)

  Chapter One

  Venice, September, 1954.

  Nancy bounced from her chair and stood at the front of the gilded box, her hands raised in salute. She had never heard anything so beautiful, so sublime. The soaring strains of Puccini had wrung from her a myriad of emotions and she clapped on, ignoring the tears trickling down her cheeks, longing to share the moment. Leo should be here, not left at the palazzo, wrestling with words. Theirs had been an unconventional wedding, it was true, a rushed ceremony to keep her safe, but they were only days into their honeymoon and a box at the opera had been a special treat.

  She had known something was wrong when Leo returned from the conference early. He’d been full of apologies—he wasn’t going to make this evening after all. A colleague had handed him new material and he needed to include it in tomorrow’s keynote speech. It meant rejigging the whole lecture and he’d be tussling over it for hours. But she was to go, he wouldn’t have her miss the opera for the world. Leo’s assistant—his bag carrier, Nancy thought sourly—would go with her. She hadn’t imagined Archie Jago would have a taste for opera and she’d no more wish than he to spend time together. But here they both were. No wonder Archie wore an even glummer face than usual, standing feet away, arms folded, every contour of his body screaming boredom.

  It was as the singers were taking a third curtain call that it happened.

  Nancy had been momentarily distracted, looking up at the blue-painted ceiling, when something—somebody?—tumbled from a box on the opposite side of the theatre, a hand loose and helpless scraping the velvet-topped barrier on its downward flight. She started forward, craning her neck to pierce the darkness of the auditorium, unable to believe what she had seen. Surely it could not have been… Bewildered, she looked across at the box opposite. Was that a shadow, the suggestion of a movement?

  But then the house lights flashed on, the theatre a flood of red and gold. A scream, thin and terrified, echoed around the open space as the clapping dribbled to a stop. An infinitesimal pause and then the thick green velvet curtains swished across the stage. There was an eerie silence. Someone coughed, a bag fell to the floor. Then a sudden outburst of frantic voices. For a moment Nancy had been paralysed, but certain now of what she’d seen, she sprang into life and made for the door, overturning the chair in her haste.

  ‘I have to go down. Something bad has happened.’

  Archie strode past her to the front of the box and leaned over. ‘Certainly looks it. We need to leave.’

  ‘I must go down,’ she repeated. ‘I might be able to help.’

  ‘There won’t be any helping,’ he said grimly. ‘Unless you drive a hearse. The theatre will be calling the police—we need to be away before they get here. There could be problems and Leo won’t want you involved.’

  ‘Problems?’ His lack of feeling made her voice shake. ‘Someone has been badly hurt.’ She couldn’t bring herself to speak what must be the truth.

  Archie remained dogged. ‘Once the police come, there will be problems. Come on.’

  He attempted to take hold of her arm, but she shrugged him off, tussling with the door handle and throwing the door back with such force, she almost fell into the passage beyond. La Fenice was a maze of corridors but the way to the stalls was well signposted. She ran towards the stairway, down and down and down, her wide organza skirt brushing the marble walls, silver heels soundless on the carpeted steps.

  Within seconds, she had reached the scene. Most of the audience had slipped away—taking Archie’s advice, she thought angrily—but a small number had gathered around the prone figure. The women patted the jewels at their necks, the men pulled on their satin lapels, no one knowing quite what to say or what to do. Several of the singers, still in their costumes—not the principals, Nancy noted—had emerged from behind the stage curtains and joined the small group. They must have witnessed the terrible fall.

  There were whispers among the crowd. Nancy spoke enough Italian to manage a rough translation. Terrible accident… Or maybe worse... Someone spoke quietly to their neighbour—la povera signora… troppo emotiva, and then the word, suicidio.

  She sidled forward until she was part of the circle. A woman’s body, she could see now. And quite dead. She felt sick to her stomach. It seemed that disaster pursued her wherever she went.

  The woman had fallen into the aisle that separated the two banks of red velvet stalls, and so escaped further mutilation. That was something for which to be thankful, though when Nancy looked down at the twisted figure, she was filled with an immense sorrow. A large red stain bloomed from behind the head, hardly noticeable against the brilliant hued carpet unless you were looking hard.

  She gave a loud gasp. She knew the woman. She had spoken to her only hours before.

  Archie had followed hard on her heels and was at her shoulder. ‘We have to go.’ His voice was uncompromising, the usual Cornish lilt submerged beneath harsh command.

  ‘I know this lady,’ Nancy said softly.

  He ignored her and repeated, ‘We have to go. Now.’

  Her heart went out to the broken figure lying amid a pool of blood. She wanted to gather the woman up, smooth her hair, hold her close. She had spoken to her for less than an hour, yet she’d felt a deep sadness in her, one that was greater than simple loneliness. It had been the oddest thing, Nancy thought, the way s
he had sensed an immediate bond with this stranger, as though she had met a soulmate.

  Archie’s insistent tap on her arm made her round on him. ‘I should stay. I should speak to the police when they come.’

  He looked mystified. ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘I told you. I met this lady earlier today. At the gelateria on the Zattere.’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’ Puzzlement had turned to annoyance.

  ‘She was involved in a nasty incident there and I should tell the police about it.’

  It had been nasty. Nancy remembered how she’d tensed at the loud voices, her hands feeling clammy as the familiar sense of panic threatened to overwhelm her… but somehow she’d managed to contain her fear. She wasn’t in London now. She was in Venice … safe… with Leo.

  It had happened just as she was finishing the most perfect ice cream—she couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed an ice cream more—but the sound of raised voices had made her lift her head sharply. The now lifeless figure lying at her feet was being harangued by a young man, his voice growing ever louder. He was towering over her in an intimidating manner, his hands gesticulating wildly, his body language threatening, until the woman had had no choice but to back away, one leg limping badly. The waiter who had served Nancy earlier seemed about to intervene when the young man, with one final aggressive gesture, had turned abruptly and strode away, his hands in the pockets of a pair of shabby trousers.

  ‘Whatever you witnessed, keep it to yourself.’ Archie’s irritation broke through her thoughts. ‘I’ve been told to escort you and that’s what I’ll do. Are you coming?’

  In the few days Nancy had known him, she had been made to feel Archie Jago’s resentment, hot and clear. He was implacable now, standing at her shoulder, tight-lipped and glowering. Yet the feeling that she owed something to the woman who’d befriended her, the feeling that the incident at the café was important, persisted still.

  ‘I think I should stay,’ she said defiantly. ‘The only way I can help the poor woman now is to tell the police what I know. Leo would want me to.’

  Archie was unmoved. ‘Leo would want you home, not at a police station for hours. And for what exactly?’

  Nancy wanted to rebel, to tell him to go away and leave her to do what she thought just, but she knew Archie was right. Leo would not wish her to be involved and, if she persisted, she would risk putting them at odds. Her husband had come to her rescue, and she was grateful, too grateful to upset him so early in their marriage.

  Greatly reluctant, she gave in. Within minutes, Archie had steered her through the double doors of the auditorium, past the bar where cigarette stubs filled the ashtrays and half-finished drinks lay uncollected, through the ornate lobby and towards the narrow calle that ran along one side of the theatre. A launch, blue light flashing rhythmically from the forward cabin, pulled up at the side of the small canal, a policeman at its helm. The small boats moored on the opposite side bobbed in its wake.

  ‘Just in time,’ Archie said. ‘We go this way.’ He jerked his head towards the dimly lit calle.

  ‘Those people in the theatre—they were suggesting it was suicide, weren’t they?’

  In the muted light she saw a pained expression cross his face. ‘Of course it’s suicide. What else could it be? No one falls over a barrier that high by accident.’

  ‘I don’t think it can be.’ Nancy’s voice was firm. ‘When I spoke to her, she told me she was looking forward to this evening’s performance. Looking forward to the future, too. She made that clear.’

  ‘So she changed her mind.’

  Nancy’s lips tightened at his flippancy. ‘There’s something else. Before she joined me in the café, she was talking to a man, arguing with him. He was very angry—I thought he was going to strike her.’

  ‘That’s the answer then. She fell out with her boyfriend. She’s Italian—wanted to make the grand gesture.’

  She was shocked at Archie’s callousness and, when he strode forward, remained standing on the spot.

  He stopped and walked back, his shoulders rigid. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is about, but I do know I’ve been charged by Leo to see you safely home.’ His face was hard, his jaw thrust forward. He turned and once more walked ahead.

  ‘There was someone there,’ she called after him.

  He stopped again. ‘What now? Someone where?’

  ‘In her box. In the box opposite. In the tier above ours. I looked across the theatre… when the body… I looked over… I didn’t know what was happening. But I saw someone.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Someone? That’s usefully vague—who did you see?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was only for an instant. It seemed… more like a shadow.’

  Archie gave a snort of impatience. ‘It was pitch black in there. Whatever you thought you saw will be down to shock.’

  Nancy half thought that herself. The event was shocking. But still, in that split second, she had been certain there had been movement—at the point where the box curved outwards—something, someone, hovering.

  It had begun to drizzle now, a fine damp mist settling over the city. Ahead, Archie had turned up his jacket collar and walked on. Mutely, she followed him: he had decided the death was suicide and it was pointless trying to convince him otherwise. In their haste to get away, her wrap had been left at the theatre and she began to shiver in the thin dress. The season was changing, the last days of summer trailing slowly to a close. The dead woman had warned her only this afternoon that autumn would be with them soon and she must be sure to enjoy these days to the full.

  The small, silver-haired woman had taken a seat at the table next to Nancy, even though there were half a dozen others free. ‘What flavour did you choose?’ she’d asked.

  Nancy had been startled. She had deliberately closed her eyes, pushing the angry voices from her mind and sinking into the sun’s warmth.

  ‘The flavour?’ She gathered her thoughts. ‘Chocolate,’ she said, and looked down at the empty glass cup, ‘cioccolato and crema? Do I have that right?’

  ‘You have made a good choice. Is it your first taste of Italian ice cream?’

  ‘It is and it’s very good.’

  The woman gave a brief nod as though she would have expected nothing else and sipped the espresso the waiter had brought her. There was little space between the tables and Nancy felt as though she had been joined by an acquaintance, a friend even, someone who’d recognised her from a distance and sat down for a chat. She gave the woman a quick sideways glance, judging her to be around sixty years old, small as a bird, but elegantly and expensively dressed.

  ‘You are English. You make no ice cream?'

  ‘We do, but not like this. And not for many years.’

  ‘Ah, the war. You have the rations.’

  It was an awkward moment. The conflict that had consumed the world for six long years was still vivid in the memory and Nancy was uncomfortably conscious that Italy had been on the losing side. Embarrassed, she began to gabble: such an amazing number of different flavours… she could never have imagined how many… next time she might be brave and try pistachio.

  ‘You must try every flavour—if you have the time. How long are you in Venice?’

  The woman’s English was extremely good and that was far from usual, despite the growing influence of cinema. Nancy had learned her Italian at night school, keen to improve her job prospects within the Fine Art department, but she was finding Venetian Italian, a rich dialect, hard to understand. When Concetta, the maid Leo had hired for their stay, slipped into dialect, she was most often lost and forced to retreat to English.

  ‘We are here for a week,’ she answered. ‘Maybe more. My husband is attending a conference at the Cini library, but then we hope to have a few days' holiday. It’s our honeymoon.’ She felt herself flush.

  ‘Then many congratulations. I hope the conference will not take too much of your husband’s time. There are
far more important things to be doing.’

  Nancy felt her face grow hot and thought how absurd it was to be playing the blushing newlywed. ‘I'm sure we’ll have time together, but the conference is important,' she said quickly. 'I believe experts have come from all over the world. To discuss how best to protect Venice—if the rise in sea level continues.’

  Somewhere she had read that the dredging of entrances to the lagoon and the dredging of canals inside the city had seriously increased the flow of tides.

  The signora gave a long sigh. ‘The city is sinking. St Mark’s Square has five older pavements beneath the present one, you know. It is industry on the mainland that I blame. Mestre is the most horrible place on earth. What does your husband do at the conference?’

  ‘I think for the most part he is making contacts and collecting information. When we return to London it will help him gather support for a fund he hopes to establish. A rescue fund. He thinks it will be needed. He’s a professor of art, you see.’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘A professor? I may know him. Who is he?’

  Nancy thought it unlikely, but answered willingly enough. ‘His name is Leo Tremayne.’

  ‘Ah, Professor Tremayne. I have spoken to him—often. Such a gentleman. And so very knowledgeable. But I did not know he had married.’

  ‘It was a whirlwind wedding.’ Why had she said that? It made it seem as though she’d been swept off her feet by passion.

  ‘How romantic! Often these are the very best marriages. Two people so in love they can do nothing but marry immediately.’

  Nancy felt her flush deepen. Fear had driven her particular whirlwind and, though she felt affection for Leo and admired him hugely, passion was sadly absent. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘How do you know my husband?’

  ‘I own an antiques business. Moretto. It is the largest of its kind in Venice. We buy and sell paintings among other things, and Professor Tremayne has been a great help in the past. My name is Marta, Marta Moretto.’