Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 19

  ‘Gossip in Venice? Surely not,’ she mocked. ‘But then we’re leaving soon and can kiss Venice and gossip goodbye, unless you were planning another trip to Rome.’ Or wherever it was you went yesterday, she added silently to herself.

  ‘We’ll be leaving in two days,’ he said abruptly. ‘Archie has gone to Santa Lucia to confirm our reservations. But in the meantime, can’t we be kind to each other?’

  Nancy looked at him and tried to feel kindness, but his words had stung. Leo might deny he was trying to curb her, but that’s how it felt. She knew she should not have gone to the casinò and even more that she should not have been at the boathouse last night. But she had no need of a husband to tell her so.

  Leo held out his hand to her and she willed herself to be loving. His behaviour this morning, though, was too reminiscent of what she’d endured before, and she hesitated. Was her experience of Philip March making her unduly sensitive? Perhaps so. And she needed this marriage to go well—her future happiness depended on it. Both their future happiness.

  She reached out and took her husband’s hand. ‘I’m sorry I upset you, Leo. My going to the casinò was a silly whim. Archie certainly didn’t want me with him, but I insisted. It was as I said: I was bored, stuck at home in the fog, and thought it would fill an evening. But I agree, it was a foolish thing to do.’

  ‘Friends again?’ His eyes held the warmth she’d come to know, a far cry from the ice of last night.

  ‘Friends.’ She smiled at him. ‘But I’m so sorry you have to return to the police station.’

  ‘It’s tedious, but I shouldn’t be long. Try not to get bored again while I’m gone.’ He flicked a finger against her cheek. ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

  ‘I know. But come back soon.’

  It was only as Nancy made her way up to her bedroom to find a book she’d been reading that she realised Leo had said nothing of the boathouse. He could not, after all, have overheard Salvatore’s account. She said a little thank you to the gods for that small charity.

  *

  She ate an early lunch in the kitchen, with Concetta humming in the background, and was half way through a plate of chicken and salad when Archie appeared by her side and helped himself from the bowl of washed lettuce, sprinkling it liberally with olive oil.

  Concetta waved to him from the sink where she was busy washing up.

  ‘So,’ he said quietly in Nancy’s ear, ‘was it a mugging?’

  ‘Luca Moretto?’ She spoke quietly, too. Concetta seemed not yet to know that another member of the family she loved had met with death and Nancy needed to break the news gently.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Do you?’

  He shook his head and plunged his fork into the salad. ‘But if it isn’t, who did it and why?’

  ‘If we knew that, we’d know who killed Marta.’

  She felt him glance sideways at her. ‘You’re sure it’s the same person?’

  ‘It has to be. If you discount a random attacker—and what random attacker would stuff money into a victim’s mouth?’—she felt sick again at the thought of it. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘So who’s still left on your grand list of the guilty?’

  ‘I haven’t yet discounted Mario. As for the others, Francesca? But she was in the casinò, expecting her husband back.’

  ‘So she says.’ Archie reached for a slice of roast chicken.

  ‘You really think she planned her husband’s death last night?’

  ‘It would suit her by all accounts, but my guess is that it’s more likely his erstwhile business chum who did the deed. A falling out among thieves, perhaps. The stuffed notes might carry a message—you died because you wanted too much money, so here it is.’

  ‘But Dino was in the casinò, too. So he has to be out of the picture—for Luca’s murder at least.’

  ‘Not Dino in person. Far too fastidious to cut throats. Salvatore though…’

  ‘You’re prejudiced.’ Nancy put her empty plate to one side.

  ‘Being drowned by someone tends to have that effect. But think about it—Salvatore goes to the casinò to tell his tale to Dino. He leaves before we get there, and when we leave by the same exit and walk along the same path half an hour later, what do we find?—a dead Luca.’

  ‘What is that?’ Concetta had come over to the table while they were deep in conversation. ‘Signor Luca dead?’ Her mouth was open and her expression bewildered.

  Nancy jumped up and put her hands on the maid’s shoulders. They were already beginning to shake. ‘Concetta, dear, sit down for a moment. Archie, do something useful, make a cup of tea.’

  ‘With grappa?’ he asked, pretending innocence.

  ‘This is no time for joking,’ Nancy said.

  ‘No joke,’ Concetta ground out. ‘Give me grappa. Then tell me.’

  *

  It was some considerable time before Nancy could leave the kitchen. She had sat and listened for nearly an hour to Concetta’s muffled voice telling stories of Luca as a baby, Luca as a small boy, how wonderfully he had grown to manhood, what a beautiful house he had and a beautiful wife, this latter said less enthusiastically, every story followed by an outburst of weeping. The Moretto deaths were exerting a heavy emotional toll on them all, Nancy reflected, making her way upstairs to the salon and flopping exhausted onto the battered sofa.

  ‘Is she okay?’ She hadn’t noticed Archie sitting in the shadow thrown by blinds that had been drawn against the midday sun.

  ‘Just about, but it’s hard for her. She must be one of the few people in Venice who truly loved those two.’

  He nodded and took up the newspaper he’d been reading, but saw her looking across at him. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll finish this article and then be gone.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not that… Archie,’ she began, ‘I don’t understand why Leo was at the casinò last night. Do you?’

  Archie looked puzzled. ‘He told you why.’

  Leo had, but she hadn’t believed him. She admitted that to herself now. It felt dreadful to do so, but she’d begun to feel sure her husband, in some way or another, was connected to the disreputable crew that seemed to run a large part of Venice. Her protector, if not a wrongdoer himself, was perhaps an accomplice of wrongdoers. It seemed she had escaped the terror of London to be plunged into another frightening situation.

  Archie was looking strangely at her. ‘What’s the matter with you? Your face is the colour of Concetta’s mixing bowl. Don’t upset yourself over Moretto. He wasn’t exactly a valuable contributor to society.’

  ‘It’s not Luca, though his death was horrible. It’s Leo. I’m not sure… I’m not sure I can believe what he said.’ Her voice faltered. She couldn’t believe either that she was saying this to Archie.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Something feels wrong. I don’t know what it is, but Leo’s involvement with Dino feels wrong.’

  ‘You honestly think the boss is connected to whatever scam Di Maio is running? C’mon, be sensible.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, but there are too many questions and none of them has an answer. It’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘Crazier than usual?’ Archie got up from his chair in leisurely fashion and threw the newspaper onto the seat. ‘There’s one question we could settle. Do you still have that scrap of canvas we found?’

  ‘The one from the boathouse? Yes. It’s in my slacks’ pocket.’

  ‘Then go and fetch it. There’s an answer there.’ He folded his arms and waited.

  ‘How is that? It’s just a small piece of a picture, a dead end.’

  ‘Not that dead. Didn’t you say the painting was signed by a bloke called di Cosimo, but that it didn’t look right?’

  ‘Yes… and?’

  ‘If it doesn’t look right, then it must be a forgery.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And if it’s a forgery, someone is forging. Now, who do we know who’s a painter, desperate for work, d
esperate for money?’

  ‘Renzo Hastings,’ she said slowly, light beginning to dawn.

  ‘Renzo Hastings, indeed. Why don’t we pay a visit to Mr Hastings? It’s past midday. He might have got out of bed by now.’

  ‘But Leo—’

  ‘Leo has just left for the Questura and if I know anything about Italian police, he’ll be there a very long time.’

  ‘Are you willing to risk it? I mean… I’m sorry l caused you trouble last night.’ She had wanted to apologise but hadn’t known how best to do it. ‘I don’t want to land you in any more.’

  ‘Leo bawled me out but at least there were no awkward questions.’

  There might be a very good reason for Leo’s forbearance, but she wouldn’t voice the thought. Instead she apologised again. ‘It couldn’t have been pleasant for you.’

  Archie shrugged. ‘Leo is the commanding officer. He lays down the rules.’

  She wasn’t sure how much Archie believed that. His chippiness never quite left him; it bubbled always beneath the surface. The odd word, the fleeting expression, the occasional flash in his eyes. It was always there, and why wouldn’t it be?

  His family, like many others, relied on houses like Penleven to make a living, to put a roof over their heads and food on the table. The inclining of heads, the doffing of caps, was something they did in order to survive. The fact that Archie liked Leo as a man, that he’d been shown kindness and to a large extent been taken into Leo’s world, didn’t change the gross inequality. An inequality that was reinforced every single day.

  ‘Well?’ Archie was looking enquiringly at her.

  Did she dare go against her husband again? But would it really be going against him? Why shouldn’t she visit a poor painter and maybe offer him work?

  ‘Do you know where Renzo lives?’ she said.

  ‘No, but I know someone who does. And so do you.’

  ‘Concetta!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Renzo Hastings lived on the Giudecca, though his home, it turned out, was a far cry from the luxury of the Cipriani. Concetta had naturally wanted to know why they were interested in the boy and Nancy, sensing she might well need the maid’s help in the future, had been at pains to invent an imaginary offer of work for Renzo, prompted by seeing him in such a pitiful state at San Michele.

  She was on her way down from her bedroom when she met Archie on the landing. He put out a hand as though to stop her going further. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. I can question the boy on my own.’

  ‘I thought you were keen that I come. Why the change of heart?’

  He pursed his lips, appearing to deliberate. ‘Second thoughts, perhaps. It feels to me there’s some kind of web here, and you’ve broken into it. And what do we know about webs? That it’s their job to trap.’

  She tilted her head to one side. ‘A bit dramatic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Okay, but the nearer the centre you’ve got, the more dangerous it’s become. You’ve been followed, I’ve been hit over the head and left to drown. So what’s next on the list?’

  ‘You think calling on Renzo could be dangerous?’

  ‘Who knows? I didn’t think I’d nearly die breaking into a boathouse.’

  ‘Whatever happens, I’m going to come,’ she said determinedly. ‘It may be dangerous, but I’ve had enough of being scared of my own shadow.’

  ‘That bloke in London—he really got to you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ she agreed, then slipped past him and ran down the stairs. Archie spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, but followed her out of the palazzo.

  He didn’t speak again until he’d closed the gates behind them. ‘That man—what was his name?’

  ‘Philip March.’ Her voice was dull. She hated speaking about Philip, though she was warmed by Archie’s concern.

  ‘So where were your parents when this March character was tormenting you? That’s if they’re still alive.’

  ‘They are alive. And they were nowhere in sight,’ she answered briefly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They were angry. They liked Philip, they were in awe of his job, and delighted I was finally getting married. I was the unwed daughter, you see, and they were ashamed of that.’

  Archie said nothing but strode ahead, as always setting a rapid pace. The most direct route to the Giudecca was by vaporetto from Murano and as they approached the landing stage, they struck lucky. A number four was pulling in and they settled themselves into adjoining seats.

  ‘So…’ Archie was not going to let the subject go. ‘You must have told your parents what was happening.’

  Nancy sighed. ‘I tried to explain, but they didn’t understand. Or maybe they pretended not to. They thought I was being unjust, abusing an honourable man. I was the one harming him. They didn’t believe me when I told them some of the things he’d done. I couldn’t tell them the worst of it.’

  There was silence for a moment and then, unexpectedly, Archie reached out for her hand. ‘So no support there,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘None. I shouldn’t have been surprised. My home life was never particularly easy. But even so, it felt very bad.’ She let go of his hand. It had been a little too comforting.

  ‘And now? Do they know you’re married?’

  ‘No, and they won’t. I’m no longer in contact with them. If I told them I’d married, they might pass the news on to Philip and he could trace me.’ Nancy’s body sagged at the thought. ‘I know that he will eventually,’ she said unhappily, then mustered a bright voice. ‘But I’ve fought my own battles for a long time, and if Philip March reappears, it will be another one I’ll have to fight.’

  ‘You’ll have Leo.’

  It was a familiar sentiment and she stiffened. But this time, she realised, it had been meant kindly.

  The journey was swift though chilly. Last night’s rain and fog had gone, but the sun had not yet recovered its strength and Nancy was glad that at the last moment she had taken a jumper.

  The Giudecca, too, seemed nowhere near as inviting as it had on the day of the reception. As the boat approached the landing stage, she saw the Redentore for the first time, the immense church built to thank God for delivering the city from a great outbreak of the plague. It dominated the skyline, looking placid enough in the pearly light, but when the skies darkened and the waters of the lagoon turned grey, she imagined it forbidding. It was altogether too white and too cold.

  Once on land, Archie took the lead. ‘I looked up the map and according to Concetta the layabout lives in the warren of streets across the Ponte Piccolo. First the Ponte Lungo, though. We go this way.’

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking of calling him a layabout to his face. It’s unlikely to get us much information.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you do the talking. You’re good at that.’

  Archie might have softened but he could never resist a taunt. She didn’t attempt to answer, but walked with him in silence until they’d crossed the two bridges that bisected the island. On the other side of the Ponte Piccolo, as Archie had said, there was a veritable warren of small alleys, narrow enough to rival anything in the city proper. The stink of sewers filled the air.

  ‘This way.’ He pointed to a street that looked poorer even than the rest. ‘It’s down here, I think.’

  She wondered what they would find. The danger Archie feared? Certainly misery. Renzo Hastings might be a layabout, though she disputed that, but if he was idling, it certainly wasn’t in luxury. The street smelt of poverty, the air raw and fetid.

  Arriving in Venice, Nancy had seen for herself how Italy still struggled to absorb the experience of war and occupation. She had glimpsed pockets of severe deprivation and been shocked. The long journey to an affluence that might transform people’s lives was slow and seemingly only just beginning.

  Renzo’s front door, when they reached it, was splintered and faded, looking as th
ough a strong kick would demolish it entirely. Archie raised a fist and knocked. There was an eerie silence and he knocked again, this time more loudly. Another silence, then the sound of shuffling feet, hardly the gait of a young man. Nancy supposed they had come to the wrong house. Archie’s Italian was better than hers but by no means fluent, and he must have misunderstood Concetta’s directions.

  The sound of bolts being pulled back had her straighten herself imperceptibly. It was Renzo at the door, white-faced and shivering, an ill-smelling blanket around his shoulders. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. ‘I’m unwell,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible. He spoke in English with the slightest American accent.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Archie said cheerfully. ‘If it’s not infectious, can we come in?’

  Renzo didn’t answer but turned to walk back along a narrow corridor, kicking aside a roll of flannel that had been placed beneath the front door.

  Nancy grabbed hold of her companion’s sleeve to stop him following. ‘Should we go in? If he’s got something catching… we’re leaving Venice in two days.’

  ‘Don’t fret, it’s nothing catching.’

  ‘But—’ she began.

  ‘The DTs almost certainly.’ He saw Nancy frown and added, ‘Delirium tremens. Our friend, Renzo, has been drinking cheap brandy or maybe meths.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘C’mon. In the state he’s in, he should talk.’

  Archie’s brutality stung, as it always did, but she followed him down the dim corridor, then along another dank passageway into a small, dark kitchen. In the middle was a very old kerosene heater hardly alight and an equally old armchair, layered with moth-eaten blankets that seeped a stale odour.

  She skirted the armchair, Archie too, both of them choosing to sit on rough, upright chairs instead. Renzo was still standing, but bent almost double.