Page 24 of The Venice Murders

‘What happened?’ Jack asked, fearing the worst, as he’d done all day. ‘You look tense. Are you?’

‘Only a little. The restaurant has a huge basement, Jack, and doors everywhere. I’m certain there’s something down there they want to hide. I was stopped by a young man – the owner’s son, maybe? – who made sure I went no further. His name was Matteo…’ She trailed off. ‘Wasn’t there a Matteo in the priest’s story? Matteo…Pretelli.’

‘There must be thousands of Matteos in Italy.’

‘So, another coincidence?’

Jack ignored the challenge. ‘You went looking and Matteo?—’

‘Suddenly, he was there. I hadn’t heard a sound and then a hand was on my shoulder. And not a gentle hand either. He more or less forced me to walk back up the stairs.’

‘You were trespassing. They don’t want customers wandering where they shouldn’t.’

‘Maybe, but itisan enormous basement. The cooks take up a fair space, I imagine, but apart from the kitchen, there are half a dozen rooms. I wanted to know what was behind those doors. I still do.’

Jack grimaced. ‘We’re not going to find out. At least, not tonight – if ever. I think we should pay and disappear. You’ve done enough exploring for one evening.’

He was right, Flora knew, and hoped that she hadn’t spoiled for him what had been a thoroughly enjoyable day. But for the episode in the basement – and for a moment she’d felt real fear – it had been a wonderful evening. Eating together, talking together. Really, this is what they should be doing, she told herself, as they began their walk back to St Mark’s and the Cipriani berth: days spent sightseeing or lazing by the pool, evenings eating by the lagoon or beside one of the small canals that made Venice the city it was.

But she couldn’t relax, not entirely. If it had only been a matter of a missing painting, she might have shrugged it off, left it to the squad from Rome to solve the mystery, but knowing that a woman, an elderly woman at that, was involved – a woman the priest feared had come to harm – made it impossible to forget. Impossible to do anything but try to discover what had happened to her. And Father Renzi, too. Flora had liked him a lot, had felt desperately sorry for his predicament and wanted very much to see him regain a life that was peaceful and untroubled.

Despite her qualms, there was no doubt in her mind that she had to continue to dig. There would be the chance of a second honeymoon, she comforted herself, sometime in the future, and hoped that Jack would see it that way, too.

‘I think it would be wise to give La Zucca a miss for a while,’ Jack said, as they wandered through the streets to St Mark’s piazza.

The evening had been difficult, he thought. That was the word. Difficult but not disastrous, certainly not as bad as he’d feared. Maybe Flora would be content now with what she’d discovered and they could forget any future visits. Disappointment, however, lay ahead.

‘I’m glad you said for a while.’ Flora tucked her arm in his. ‘We’ll have to search that cellar – or the police will. I mean, six doors to six rooms and all of them closed!’

‘And all of them stuffed to the ceiling with goods for the restaurant.’

‘You don’t know that, and how would that even be possible? But I agree – we won’t go back just yet.’

A breathing space, at least, he thought.

* * *

They had walked halfway back to the square and were sauntering through a narrow, ill-lit passageway, an archway of brightness ahead, when a figure came rushing past them, cannoning into Jack and sending him crashing against the stone wall of the building that towered above them.

A young woman who had been walking a few paces behind tutted loudly and, with Flora, helped Jack to his feet.

‘Ruffiano,’ she said. Then in English, ‘Ruffian. You OK?’

‘Yes, thank you.Grazie mille.’

She smiled at them both and walked on.

‘Hewasa ruffian,’ Flora began to say when she realised that Jack was clutching his arm in a worrying fashion. ‘You’re not OK, are you?’

She came close and through the gloom peered at his shirtsleeve. A bloom of red had spread across the white cotton.

‘You’ve been stabbed!’ she said. ‘Oh, dear Lord, you’ve been stabbed!’

‘I felt something,’ he admitted. ‘But it won’t be serious, not where it is, just messy. Have you a handkerchief? Better still, use mine.’

Flora fumbled in his pocket for the square of linen, her hand shaking slightly. Then, in the dim light, folding his sleeve back, she could just make out a slash mark, no more than two inches wide, but pouring blood.

Jack craned his neck to squint. ‘It’s a superficial cut, by the look of it. If you can bind it…’

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