Page 26 of The Venice Murders

‘You’re going to ask me to go back to San Polo, aren’t you?’

She beamed. ‘I am, but only when your arm has stopped hurting.’

10

When, the next morning, Jack took himself to the pool for an early swim, Flora was relieved. The injury couldn’t be as serious as she’d feared and, as long as they took the day quietly, all should be well. Did talking to Father Renzi qualify as a quiet day? she wondered. If so, she might persuade Jack to return to Santa Margherita before they continued their sightseeing.

‘The arm’s still working,’ he said cheerfully, clumping through the bedroom door. ‘A little stiff, and I had to swim sidestroke. But fifteen lengths! And why are you still in bed? That’s definitely not allowed!’

He strode across the room, pulling back the top sheet and tugging at her legs, causing Flora to yell a protest. ‘Stop it! And you’re dripping on me again.’ Tangled in the sheet, she landed with a bump on the floor.

‘You’re being exhausting, Jack. Go away! Or rather go and stand under the shower and then I can bag the bathroom for myself.’

By the time Flora emerged, washed and dressed, it was touch and go whether they would make breakfast; somehow, though, they arrived on the terrace in time to grab a seat by the lagoon. Her mood was brighter and made a good deal sunnier by the primrose yellow sundress she’d decided to wear. It had been a last-minute purchase, one of several for sale in the Steyning dress shop she sometimes visited. Against the faint tan she’d acquired, it looked better in Venice than it ever had in Sussex.

‘Love the dress.’ Jack’s grey eyes were gleaming silver this morning, she noticed. No doubt puffed by his success at pulling her from the bed – for which she hadn’t yet forgiven him.

‘If that’s by way of an apology…’

He shook his head. ‘The real apology will be our visit to San Polo, to the manse – is a priest’s house called a manse? Those peaches look good, don’t they? After that swim, I could eat a bowlful.’

‘We’re going to see Father Renzi?’

‘It’s what you suggested, isn’t it? And maybe it’s not a bad idea,’ he conceded, helping himself to two of the largest peaches.

Whatever the priest’s house was called, they arrived outside it before the Santa Margherita clock had struck eleven.

‘Before we knock at his door, I’d like to take a wander around the church,’ Flora said. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Fine, though there was nothing much about it in my guidebook. I had a read last night, once you started snoring.’

She gave him a poke in the ribs which had him cling to his left side. ‘My arm, my arm,’ he moaned theatrically.

‘You’re clutching the wrong one,’ she said over her shoulder, making for the church entrance.

The interior of Santa Margherita was surprisingly light, belying its dour outer appearance. White marble pillars, a white and ochre marble floor, and a row of plain glass windows down one entire side of the church, lifted any gloom that the grey-washed ceiling might have engendered. A huge illuminated cross hung from the ceiling and at a prie-dieu beneath it, Father Renzi was kneeling.

Jack looked at her, his eyebrows raised. What to do? They could hardly interrupt the man’s prayers but how long did a priest pray? They could be waiting for the rest of the morning.

They were lucky, however. As they stood silently in the aisle, unsure what best to do, Renzi rose to his feet, his knees cracking loudly in the still atmosphere. Smoothing out his cassock, he genuflected before the altar, then backed away and almost collided with them.

A broad smile filled his face when he saw who his visitors were. ‘You have come to my church?’

A little embarrassed that the church had been an afterthought, Flora was quick to say, ‘To Santa Margherita and you, Father Renzi.’

‘Then you must havemerendawith me. Come, my house is a few steps away.’

‘Merenda?’ she whispered.

‘A mid-morning snack,’ Jack whispered back.

The priest’s abode was a stone’s throw from the church he served and, guiding them through the back door of what looked to be a sprawling building, he took them directly into the kitchen, unabashed, it seemed, by the disorder: a sink full of crockery, a cooking pan apparently mislaid on the window sill, a large basket of groceries left unpacked and the cloth that covered the table crumpled and stained.

‘Coffee,’ the priest muttered. ‘We must have coffee. Andpane zucchero.’

It took time for him to remember where the coffee was stored, then to find the percolator and finally to heat the water. As the minutes ticked by, Flora was itching to help but felt it too awkward to offer. The coffee, when it finally appeared on a battered tray, proved incredibly weak. And there was no sign of thepane zucchero.

‘We will go to the sitting room,’ he announced, gesturing to them to follow him into what proved an equally disordered room. Newspapers and magazines – parish magazines, Flora guessed – were piled high on a spindly-legged table, cushions had found spaces on the floor rather than the chairs, and the curtains at the room’s one window had only been half pulled, as though midway through the operation someone had thought of something else to do.

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