Page 12 of The Venice Murders

‘I’m not sure, though I did see a poster yesterday advertising a classical concert here. If this is like otherscuole, there’ll be two halls, a lower and an upper, either of which would make a superb venue for music.’

A modest fee allowed them entrance to thesala terrena, or the lower hall, its four walls filled with paintings paying homage to the Virgin Mary in a depiction of her life. Unusually, Flora found herself agreeing with Sybil – religious art, it seemed, left her indifferent, too. Not so Jack. He spent so long gazing atTheAnnunciationthat she had finally to grab him by the arm and drag him up the staircase to thesala superiore.

The upper hall was magnificent, from its brilliantly glossy floor to a ceiling filled with scenes from the Old Testament and walls that displayed a string of episodes from the New. A tour de force that together told the biblical story from the Fall to the Redemption.

‘Quite a place,’ Jack remarked, his neck cricked at a painful angle in an attempt to absorb the ceiling’s full majesty.

It wasn’t the paintings, however, that lit Flora’s interest, but the carvings fringing the panelled walls, an array of figures brought to life in wood. In brilliant detail they celebrated all manner of skills and trades: carpenters, artists, musicians, writers, teachers, decorators.

There was one, she reckoned, that looked like the painter himself, holding a brush and palette, and she tugged at her husband’s shirtsleeve to gain his attention. ‘Look, Jack. I think this might be Tintoretto.’

‘It is, signora.’ A priest, who had been circling the perimeter of the hall a few steps behind them, smiled at her as she turned. ‘You like the figures?’

‘They are wonderful.’

‘I agree. I come often to walk this upper hall, not for the paintings – I have art in my own church – but for the carvings.’

‘Your church is nearby?’ she asked.

The priest should know Santa Margherita. Jack might have his map but any help in finding their way through the maze of small alleys would be welcome.

‘It is behind the Scuola, just streets away,’ the man replied. ‘Santa Margherita.’

Flora felt her mouth drop and closed it immediately. ‘You aren’t Father Renzi, by any chance?’

‘But yes.’ The priest looked baffled and slightly uneasy.

‘My…um…stepfather has mentioned you.’ Jack had joined them. Saying aloud the word ‘stepfather’ had cost him, Flora thought. ‘Count Falconi,’ he added.

The priest’s face cleared. ‘The count is a good friend. A very good friend. From my old district.’

‘We were on our way to see you, in fact. Count Falconi asked us to visit.’

‘He did? Why was that?’ A pair of deep brown eyes registered puzzlement.

‘We’ – Jack half turned to her, seeming unsure how to continue – ‘we look into things. Dig around. Ask questions.’ It was difficult trying to explain exactly what they did do. ‘We help sometimes, when the police have dismissed a problem.’

This last explanation appeared to work and the priest’s expression was suddenly intent. ‘Massimo thinks you can help me?’

‘He does, although we aren’t very sure ourselves. But if we could talk…’

‘We talk outside,’ the priest said decisively. Their conversation in the great hall had been carried on in little more than whispers. ‘There is a café opposite the San Rocco church. I will show you.’

San Rocco was only steps away from the Scuola and they soon found a table in what little shade was left. Having ordered a round ofaranciatas, Father Renzi returned once more to his friend.

‘Massimo has told you of my problems?’

Flora leaned forward to say quietly, ‘We understand that a valuable painting has gone missing from Santa Margherita and that your housekeeper has disappeared.’

‘Both very bad things. The painting is part of my church’s history, but Filomena – that is the most distressing. It is urgent I find her.’ In some agitation, he pulled at the beard mushrooming from his chin.

‘Can you tell us what you know? Anything that might help.’ Jack didn’t sound hopeful.

‘There are things I should say, but I will have to go back in time.’

‘As far as you need,’ Jack said, as thearanciatasarrived at the table.

Flora sipped slowly, enjoying the trickle of cold liquid down her throat. She was eager to hear the priest’s story.

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