Page 29 of The Venice Murders

‘You have a beautiful boat,’ Jack said, helping her to a seat at the stern. ‘A beautiful name, too, theMirabelle. Is it new?’

Flora was no judge of boats but, even to her untutored eye, the vessel was special: its polished mahogany deep and rich, its brass fittings gleaming, and a new and unblemished flag flying at the prow. The outside seats they chose were comfortably upholstered, their figured cotton perfect, she decided, for a fancy pair of curtains.

‘Old taxi finished,’ Benetti said, his voice colourless. ‘Big crash.’

That wasn’t good to hear. Flora had managed to conquer her fear of water sufficiently to travel on boats – ever since coming to Venice she’d been forced to jump on and off them – but a dangerous collision was something else.

‘Stupid tourist,’ Piero announced.

Despite stupid tourists, business must be very good, she assumed, to afford to replace an old water taxi with a boat such as this.

‘Was Bianca with you when the accident happened?’ she asked, hoping to begin the conversation she was after.

‘Bianca, no. She work all day. You know my daughter?’

‘We met her a few days ago.’ Perhaps best not to mention Sussex just now. ‘She was the one who gave us your card. We thought of you as soon as we decided to take a trip to Burano.’

‘She is good girl. Sometimes.’

‘Only sometimes? Does she give you trouble?’

He gave a long sigh. ‘Bambini!’ Then abruptly turned his back on them to rev the boat’s engine and send theMirabelleracing into the wide-open expanse of the lagoon.

End of conversation, she thought wryly, closing her eyes and lying back in her seat for the sun to smother her in its warmth.

‘Sleepy?’ Jack leaned across and stroked her cheek with a finger.

‘A bit,’ she admitted. Their time in Venice was proving just a little too exciting and, for the last two nights, she hadn’t slept well. ‘But I’ll try to keep awake!’

‘There’ll be time enough for you to doze. We won’t be at the island for at least another half an hour.’

She snuggled into his body, reassuringly solid, feeling the breeze on her face and in her hair, and hearing the swish of the waters as they cut a passage towards Burano. No sleep, but gradually a dreamlike state, in which, joyously, her mind was emptied of every concern that had intruded into their holiday.

It was Jack putting his hand on her knee that brought her out of the dream. ‘We’ve arrived,’ he said in her ear.

Flora opened her eyes, surprised that somehow the lagoon had disappeared and in its place was a narrow canal where they were berthed alongside a line of small boats.

‘Let’s take a look.’

He pulled her to her feet and together they walked to the boat’s rail, gazing across at the houses clustered around the harbour. Flora’s 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 it what you expected?’

‘I’ve seen a picture of the island, but the reality is absolutely stunning.’ She continued to stare at the scene in front of her. ‘It’s a Fauvist painting brought to life! Is there a reason for the colours, do you know?’

‘My guidebook mentions a legend that the fishermen of Burano 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. I’ve no idea how true that is. It could be one of those tales. But time to explore the painting?’

Leaving Flora to collect her sunhat and handbag, Jack arranged with Piero the time they would return. While she had dozed, he’d watched a silent Benetti at work. A good sailor, he reckoned, but one with a short fuse. If the wheel failed to respond quickly enough to his touch, he jerked at it. If an instrument didn’t register what he expected, it was banged with a closed knuckle. And when another one of the many boats on the lagoon came too close, there were subdued curses. Not a man to cross, Jack decided.

Reaching for Flora’s hand, he started down the gangway and together they began a stroll up the main street, both of them taking delight in the brightly hued houses. Soon they were competing with each other to find as many different colours as they could. The balconies, they noticed, were almost as brilliant as the buildings themselves, filled with flowers and attached to nearly every house they passed.

‘I can see why artists might come here,’ Flora said. ‘The island must be an inspiration – it’s a fantasy of colour.’

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

‘The island is quite isolated,’ she said thoughtfully. 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. This place and the other islands, and Venice itself, could be under threat and not that far into the future.’

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