Page 25 of The Venice Murders

Flora wrapped the handkerchief around the wound, tugging the ends into as tight a knot as she could manage, then holding him by the other arm, walked them as quickly as possible to the waterside. To the Cipriani phone and safety.

By the time they stepped off the launch at the hotel’s landing stage, the bleeding had stopped and Jack was adamant that he had no need of a doctor. Unsure of her powers as a nurse, Flora was worried, but had to trust to his judgement. He’d been a soldier for six years, after all; he must know more about wounds than she ever would.

Once in their room, she undid his shirt buttons and very gingerly peeled off the bloodied cotton, dropping it into the bath along with the bloodstained handkerchief. Time enough to launder them later. For now, it was important to wash, dry and protect what was an unpleasant gash.

It was fortunate that, despite Jack’s mockery, she’d brought a veritable medicine chest with them and now it came into its own. Soap and water and a dusting of boracic powder should keep the wound healthy, but when she tried to unroll a bandage she’d packed, he held up his hand in protest.

‘It will be fine as it is. But thank you.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Right now, I think a brandy might be just the thing, don’t you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I read somewhere that alcohol can inflame a wound.’

‘And I read somewhere,’ Jack countered, picking up the phone to call reception, ‘that alcohol could be just the thing to dull the pain!’

A few minutes later, two balloons of golden liquid arrived at their door. ‘We should take them onto the balcony,’ he suggested. ‘It’s still warm enough.’

She followed him outside and, for a while, they sat in silence looking over the lagoon and the illuminated mass of San Giorgio Maggiore. A spectacle to enjoy.

Flora had hardly spoken since they returned and he could see she was troubled. ‘A penny for them?’

‘It might cost more than a penny.’

Her expression in the half-light was difficult to read and he saved his response until she pointed to his arm, now encased in a fresh shirt. ‘Did that happen because of me?’

He frowned. ‘Because of you? How?’

‘I was poking around, as Alice always says. And I was caught. I don’t think Matteo believed I was looking for the bathroom.’

Jack struggled to make the connection. ‘You think…you think my attacker was from the restaurant? But why? He was some random no-good, probably high on alcohol or worse.’

‘But was he? Was he simply a thug? He didn’t hold us up at knifepoint and demand money, which is what I’d expect. He ran at you quite deliberately, slashed, and then ran away.’

‘That’s what I mean. A random drunk.’ Jack raised his glass. ‘Try the brandy and you’ll feel better.’

But, after taking a sip, it seemed that Flora didn’t. Her forehead was furrowed deeply and her gaze had fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance. ‘The man who rushed past us in that alleyway,’ she said slowly, ‘the man who stabbed you…I think he was the person I saw at La Zucca. The one who called down to Matteo.’

‘You couldn’t have recognised him,’ Jack protested. ‘It was nearly dark in that alley.’

She took another small sip and said even more slowly, ‘He was short and stocky. A quite different figure from his friend.’

‘Short and stocky could apply to a great many Italian men.’

‘I’m sure it was him,’ she said doggedly.

‘Another hunch?’

‘More than that, Jack. It was his clothes, too. They seemed familiar. The shirt he wore was the same blue – I saw it even though the light was dim – and it smelt the same.’

‘Let’s accept for one moment that itwasthe man you saw at the restaurant. What possible purpose could there be in following their customers and injuring them?’

‘A warning?’

‘In that case, why slash at me? All I did was sit at a table and eat my dinner. You were the one doing the poking around.’

‘I’m a woman – maybe he baulked at stabbing me.’

‘So, he hurts me instead.’ Jack swirled the brandy around his glass. ‘How does that work?’

‘If he hurts you, he hurts me, too,’ she said simply. ‘That restaurant has something to hide, I’m certain, and the knife was a warning for us to keep away. I want to know who that man is. And who Matteo is. If those men have any connection to Asolo, the priest will know them. He might even have photographs of his time there, photographs of his congregation.’

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