Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Read online

  ‘And Leo? How about you?’ Dino asked.

  ‘A juice for me, too. Much the best choice this early in the day.’ There was a flash of anger in her husband’s eyes as he spoke.

  ‘So have you been to any more operas, Nancy?’ Dino asked genially, in an effort to sidestep the growing hostility.

  It was a tasteless question. Spectacularly so. She saw Francesca watching her closely and made an effort to change the subject. ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy finding my way around Venice. I visited the Rialto the other day. The markets were amazing.’

  ‘Tourists always find them fascinating.’ Francesca laid back in her chair, manoeuvring a footstall into place with her feet.

  ‘Not only tourists,’ Nancy retorted. ‘I met plenty of Venetians. Crowds of them shopping at every stall.’

  ‘But shoppers of a certain kind, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘The kind who need to buy food?’ Leo intervened. ‘Where do you shop, Francesca?’

  She looked scandalised. ‘I don’t shop. I have a housekeeper for that. Don’t you employ one? If not, Leo, you are treating your wife very badly.’

  ‘We have Concetta,’ Nancy said mildly, ‘and she is excellent. She’s made this a true holiday—for me at least.’

  ‘A true honeymoon for both of you!’ Dino assumed a false exuberance.

  ‘Venice has been a beautiful city in which to spend our first days of married life,’ Leo put in gallantly.

  ‘Dino tells me you live in London. What do you do there, Nancy?’ Francesca looked at her over her glass.

  ‘Before I was married, I worked at Abingers. It’s an auction house. Do you know it?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I imagine you might. Moretto buy and sell works of art, don’t they? Abingers auction them. I would guess there must be an occasional contact between the firms.’

  Francesca puffed her lips. ‘Perhaps, but I have little interest in the family business. What was your job at this… Abingers?’

  ‘I was an assistant in the Fine Arts department.’

  ‘An assistant?’ The woman’s tone left no doubt of her opinion.

  ‘The work was varied and enjoyable. I catalogued, booked restorers, helped with auctions. Every day was different.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating.’ Francesca’s smile barely reached her lips. ‘And when you go back to London—I think Dino said you were returning soon—what will you be doing?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll be leaving any day now, but I’m not sure exactly what I’ll be doing.’ She looked across at Leo, who smiled but said nothing.

  ‘I’m sure the auction house will want you back.’ Francesca sipped at her aperitivo. She was already well into her second glass. ‘Assistants must be very precious.’

  Nancy had had enough of the blatant offensiveness and laid back in her chair, closing her eyes and allowing the sun to smother her in its warmth. The breeze was in her hair and on her face and she could hear the swishing of the waters as they cut a passage across the lagoon towards Burano. Gradually she fell into a dreamlike state, her mind empty, Francesca dismissed. It was enough.

  Chapter Twelve

  She came out of the dream when she felt Leo put his hand on her knee. ‘We’ve arrived.’

  Nancy opened her eyes and was astonished not to see the lagoon flowing past. They were in a narrow canal and berthed alongside a line of small boats. She walked to the boat’s rail and looked across at the houses clustered around the harbour. Her first impression was of colour. Bright, dazzling colour—pink, orange, turquoise, yellow, white—an extraordinary rainbow that stretched as far as her eye could see.

  ‘Is Burano what you expected?’ Dino had come up behind her.

  ‘I don’t know what I expected. Something like the Lido, probably. But it’s stunning. Is there a reason for the colours?’

  ‘There’s a legend the fishermen painted their homes the same colour as their boats, so that if they faced disaster at sea, the boat’s colour would tell people at which door to knock and relay the sad news. Whatever the reason, the tradition has stayed.’

  ‘It’s like a real-life canvas painted by a Fauvist,’ she said.

  Leo had joined them and laughed. ‘Spot on. Shall we go and explore this wonderful painting?’

  ‘We’ll leave you to do that together, my friend, if you don’t mind. Francesca and I have seen Burano many times,’ Dino said. ‘But we’ll meet you for lunch. I’ve made a reservation at Da Romano at one o’clock. It’s in the main street. I think you’ll like it. The walls are covered in paintings—drawings and messages, too. Some of them from the very famous. Matisse, Miró, you’ll see.’

  ‘What a kind thought, Dino.’ Leo put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, while a silent Francesca remained slumped in her chair.

  Nancy could understand—just about—what Francesca gained from this liaison, though it offended the moral principles instilled in her from childhood, but what Dino saw in this sulky, spoilt woman was a mystery.

  She gathered up her sunhat and followed Leo down the gangway. Then, hand in hand, they strolled up the main street, taking delight in the brightly hued houses and competing with each other to find as many different colours as they could. Every house appeared to have a balcony filled with flowers as brilliant as the building itself. A woman peered over her flower boxes to look down on them, and in holiday mood they waved up at her.

  They passed Da Romano half way along the street and paused for a moment to look through the open door into the trattoria’s bright, airy space. ‘I can see why artists come to this island,’ Nancy said. ‘It’s a fantasy of colour.’

  ‘It became popular after the First War, but I read somewhere that Leonardo da Vinci discovered Burano centuries before. I’m not sure if I believe that.’

  ‘The island is quite isolated. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live here in winter.’

  ‘Tough, I think, and likely to get tougher if the waters continue to rise. Some of the figures presented at the conference were frightening. If the predictions are true, this place, the other islands, Venice itself, will be under threat and not too far into the future.’

  It was what Marta had said, though she’d seemed resigned to the yearly flooding of her home. She had laughed at the suggestion that she might move house. Marta would never have moved, Nancy realised, she was part of the fabric of Venice. Only death could have moved her—and it had. Even on a pleasure outing like today’s, Nancy’s mind was never far from the tragedy, yet Marta’s own family appeared to have brushed it from existence.

  Trying hard to push the sadness away, she looked again at the beauty that surrounded her. ‘I guess it’s tourism that earns the island its money.’

  ‘Visitors are certainly important,’ Leo said, ‘but fishing even more so. The seafood is magnificent—for a fraction of the price in Venice. I imagine Dino has already ordered our meal at Da Romano and it’s sure to be fish, fish and more fish!’

  ‘Do we have to go?’

  Her husband stopped walking and stared at her.

  She touched him lightly on the arm. ‘I really don’t want to share a meal with that appalling woman.’

  ‘I agree. She is appalling.’ Leo took her hand again. ‘But we can’t avoid it. Dino is a good friend and he’s keen to give us a special day.’

  Nancy shook her head despairingly. ‘What on earth does he see in her? And what about her husband? Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘I think that’s pretty obvious, but perhaps we shouldn’t make judgements. We’ve no idea what goes on in a marriage.’

  Was Leo thinking of his own? Theirs was an unlikely pairing and it was doubtful that anyone would ever guess the truth behind it.

  ‘I still think it’s odd that Luca hasn’t come,’ she said determinedly. ‘And that young man at the port. That was odd, too.’

  ‘What young man?’ Leo frowned.

  ‘Pietro, that was his name. There was something strange going on between him and Dino.’
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  ‘There’s something strange going on here.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘Let’s not worry about Dino—or Francesca. Let’s enjoy the day as much as we can.’

  Nancy said nothing but she knew she was right. There had been something disturbing about that young man’s gaze, as though he knew Dino’s secrets, was storing them up, enjoying the sense of power it gave him.

  ‘What about this shop?’ As they were passing, Leo’s eye had been caught by a window display and he pulled her over to look.

  A trio of lace sunshades sat proudly on a pedestal. ‘They are beautiful!’ she exclaimed. . ‘Are they handmade, do you think?’

  ‘Almost certainly. It’s what many of the women do in Burano. Their lace is exported all over the world.’

  She pressed her face to the window, taking in every curve and stitch of the three sunshades. ‘They are exquisite.’

  ‘Let’s go in. You might see something else you like.’

  Nancy thought it only too possible and all of it far too expensive. She glimpsed the price tag on the simple tablecloth displayed to one side of the sunshades and knew she was right. But she followed Leo inside and wandered along the shelves, admiring everything she saw. Runners and napkins to match the tablecloths, fans and collars, and fabulously worked blouses.

  The shopkeeper came forward, a hopeful expression on his face. ‘You would like to try?’ He unhooked one of the blouses from its rack.

  ‘No, no,’ she said in a hurry. ‘I’m afraid it’s too expensive.’

  ‘It is handmade. Needle lace,’ the man said. ‘Very difficult work—each woman makes only one stitch that is her own, so the garment must be passed from one to the other. That is why the work is expensive.’

  ‘I can see.’ Regret sounded in her voice.

  ‘But we have cheaper,’ the man was quick to point out. ‘These are made by machine. Much cheaper.’ He gestured to a second rack of blouses, but even from where Nancy stood, she could see the work was nowhere as fine.

  ‘Maybe I’ll be content with one small thing.’

  ‘You should have the blouse,’ Leo whispered in her ear. ‘We have the money.’

  She tried to smile. She knew he had the money, but she wanted no more spent on her. He had spent enough already, buying expensive presents, paying for a ceremony at the Fitzrovia Chapel, then a wedding breakfast at the Goring Hotel and now this honeymoon in Venice. She’d sometimes had the uneasy sense of being another of Leo’s projects, and was determined that a blouse of handmade lace would not be added to the list.

  ‘This is what I’d like.’ She had seen a case of lace bookmarks, small and delicate. One of them depicted the Madonna and child and she swooped on it. ‘This is quite lovely. And so unusual. I shall keep it with me always.’

  Once the shopkeeper had wrapped the small present in coloured tissue and tied it with a satin ribbon, he presented it to her with a solemn handshake. ‘If you are interested in Burano lace, signora, there is a School of Lace not far from here. You may visit and watch the women at work.’

  ‘I’d love to see it.’ She turned to Leo, her face alight. ‘Can we go?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I doubt we’ll have the time. If you want to see the square and the church—oh, and its leaning bell tower—we won’t make Da Romano by one.’

  ‘Da Romano,’ the man said, replacing the case of bookmarks. ‘That used to be a lace factory many years ago. But then everything changes.’

  *

  They made it to the restaurant only five minutes late. Two jugs of local wine—a red and a white —were already on the table and it looked as though Francesca and perhaps Dino, too, had managed several glasses while they waited. Francesca tapped the crisp linen tablecloth with polished fingernails. She wore her customary bored expression.

  ‘Have you finished being tourists?’ she drawled. ‘If so, we can order.’

  ‘We’ve finished,’ Leo said brusquely, ‘and very enjoyable it was, too.’

  Dino sprang into action, pulling out a chair for Nancy and handing her a menu covered in signatures. ‘You see, Nancy, messages from the rich and famous who have enjoyed this restaurant. And an art gallery to browse as you eat.’ His hands waved expansively at the walls.

  The restaurant was certainly special—a treasure chest of artwork filled every available space—and Nancy tried to feel grateful for his thoughtfulness. But Francesca’s presence made it difficult.

  ‘After the antipasto, I think a primo of fish and asparagus risotto,’ Dino was saying ‘We’ve had it here before and it was excellent. What do you think?’

  Leo spread his hands wide. ‘We’re happy to go with whatever you’ve chosen.’

  ‘Good, good. Then a secondo perhaps of branzino al forno with a fresh salad. Dessert? We will have to see if we have the room.’

  He beamed. Nancy thought that almost certainly she would not. She was unsure how she was going to manage the three substantial courses he had already ordered. But by dint of leaving a little on her plate each time, manage them she did.

  Conversation over the meal was desultory though Nancy tried, recounting how much she had enjoyed simply walking through the streets, how she’d liked the church with its mosaics and its beautiful old statues. And how astonished she’d been at the leaning tower.

  ‘But souvenirs, Nancy, did you buy any?’

  She was encouraged to unwrap the lace bookmark and show her small trophy. Francesca looked bewildered that anyone could have come away with so little.

  *

  Nancy walked back to the boat feeling very glad she had worn a dress with a forgiving waistline. A narrow sheath such as Francesca’s would have given her immense trouble, not that she possessed any such dress or was ever likely to. Francesca herself had hardly eaten a mouthful of the bountiful lunch; it was no wonder she could pour herself into the dress.

  Back on board, they took up position in the easy chairs and once Salvatore and his young helper began guiding the boat from its mooring, the regular thrum of the engines, the heat of the sun the sheer feeling of well-being, had Nancy slowly close her eyes and fall into a doze.

  When she woke, Francesca had disappeared down the stairs and, though Nancy could feel her arms burning in the hot sun, she covered them with a scarf rather than joining the woman on the lower deck.

  Dino had pulled his chair close to Leo’s and was talking animatedly. ‘You remember I wrote to you last spring?’ he asked. ‘After my house was burgled? I lost a whole room of paintings and it nearly broke my heart. I gave the police photographs of every missing item—the insurance company had copies on file—and the art fraud people circulated them around Europe. To be honest, I never thought I’d hear anything more. There’s a lucrative smuggling racket between here and Albania, you know. I reckoned that’s what had happened to my paintings.’

  ‘But it’s a closed country, isn’t it—under Enver Hoxha?’ Leo asked.

  ‘There will always be openings for men who want money, and Albania has an interesting coastline. All that wild landscape, all those small coves where a boat can land unseen. I’ve heard there’s a group of men there willing to move pictures around Europe almost overnight.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Men not to be tangled with.’

  There was a pause, then he went on, ‘But a few days ago, I had a call from Rome, from the art fraud chaps there. They think they’ve recovered two of my paintings.’

  ‘That’s good, but how did it happen?’ Leo yawned, lying back in his chair, his face to the sun. He seemed to be finding it difficult to drum up the necessary interest.

  ‘The pictures were sold. On the black market, of course. The scoundrel who stole my Chassériau, for instance, had money from some shady dealer, who then took his cut by passing the artwork off as his own property. I don’t know how much the villains earned from the paintings, but it will be far less than they’re worth. You would think the man who finally bought them would have suspected something. But no, the stupido paid up.’

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p; ‘Maybe he didn’t want to know they were stolen.’

  ‘But then he is stupid. Because he took them to a dealer in Rome to be valued. The dealer immediately checked his list of stolen items, and puff: the man has no paintings.’

  ‘The police are sure they’re yours?’ Leo asked lazily.

  Dino nodded. ‘They’re fairly certain. And they’re pretty good, the fellows who work in art fraud. They have to be, there’s so much of it. But they want me to go down to Rome and identify the works. And I have to take with me as much paperwork as I can find.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘The thing is, Leo, I need an expert to come along—to testify that the paintings are what they appear to be.’

  ‘Can’t the dealer do that? The one who was asked to value them.’

  ‘Apparently not. It has to be an independent expert, someone not involved in the theft in any way. And you were the chap who discovered the paintings.’

  ‘One of them, Dino. And though I found it for you, I’m not an expert in the period. The nineteenth century is not my forte.’

  ‘True, but you could do it, Leo. Would you consider coming with me?’

  Her husband seemed to become aware that Nancy was no longer dozing. ‘We’ll talk about it later, shall we?’

  The conversation moved on to the recent conference, and what might be the next step now that Leo was ready to establish the rescue fund, once he was back in London.

  ‘We’ll need to form a suitable committee, and that might be difficult,’ he said. ‘There are so many calls on people’s time, particularly on those who can wield influence. But I’m armed now with the latest facts and figures and I’ll do my very best.’

  ‘You are a good chap.’ Dino clapped his arm. ‘Now what about a drink? Sitting around is thirsty work! Nancy would you care for another juice?’

  ‘A glass of water will be fine,’ she said. ‘But first I must find the bathroom.’