Page 3 of The Venice Murders

‘Good,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Now for lunch. We could eat here or walk on to the Giardini. There’s a lovely café in the gardens, I remember, but it’s a bit of a hike.’

‘No matter. It means I’ll see even more of Venice on the way. And isn’t it wonderful being able to eat outdoors all the time? I could really get used to it, though we’ll be home before we know it. How are we going to fit everything in? We’ve less than two weeks and there’s so much to see.’

‘There is, and we’ll have to choose wisely – it’s much too hot to rush around. We can decide on a plan over lunch.’

‘Will visiting your mother be part of the plan?’

‘My mother?’ He sounded startled and Flora could understand why.

The last time Jack had seen Sybil Carrington, now Sybil Falconi, had been in the south of France almost two years ago. Since then, communication between mother and son had dribbled to a close, and a familiar silence descended.

‘She’s living nearby, isn’t she?’ Flora suggested gently. ‘I thought you might want to call on her, or at least telephone.’

She had been unsure whether to mention Sybil. At home, she’d studiously avoided including his mother in any conversation about Venice, but now they were actually in the city it felt uncomfortable not to at least try to make contact.

‘I don’t particularly want to,’ he said. ‘And I doubt she’s eager to hear from me.’

After a fraught childhood, Jack had managed a kind of accommodation with his mother when he’d acted the dutiful son and rode to her rescue, exposing a very nasty plot against her. But it couldn’t be said they were ever likely to have what Flora considered a normal mother and son relationship.

‘She wouldn’t expect me to call,’ he went on, ‘and, in any case, the count’s estate will be miles away – the Veneto is a large area. And, after what happened in France, I’ve seen enough of wineries to last me a lifetime. This isourtime, Flora.’

She couldn’t feel completely happy over the situation, but kept her thoughts to herself, wanting nothing to spoil the holiday that had filled her dreams for months.

‘Tomorrow, we could take a boat to San Giorgio Maggiore,’ Jack was saying, as they walked out of St Mark’s and onto the Riva degli Schiavoni, a walkway that bordered the lagoon. ‘That’s the one you can see from our hotel balcony. Or, if we’re up for a “church” day, the Redentore is actually on the Giudecca. And I saw a Vivaldi concert advertised – it was being held in the church where he played. The one we’ve just passed.’ He came to a halt. ‘Shall we eat here?’

Despite their decision to head for the Giardini, he’d stopped at abacaro, a tiny neighbourhood bar tucked into an alcove off the Riva. ‘What do you think?’ He pointed to the display of finger food he’d spied.

Flora looked. ‘Too tempting to leave,’ she confirmed and, in a very short time, they’d found seats at a table in what was no more than a passageway.

‘You’re going to love these,’ he promised as the waiter brought an array of small plates to the table. ‘Almost as much as you loved last night’s risotto!’

And she did: a plate of fried meatballs, a variety ofcicchetti, a dish of breaded shrimp and one of baked zucchini, all washed down with several glasses of cold rosé.

Wiping her fingers on a paper napkin, Flora’s sigh breathed content. ‘I love eating this way, but it makes you greedy. Because the cicchetti are small, you order far too many.’

‘Never too many,’ Jack said solemnly, pouring another glass of wine.

2

It was quite late in the afternoon before they strolled back along the Riva to St Mark’s Square and found the small telephone cubicle at the corner of the piazza from which they could call for the Cipriani boat. Ten minutes later, the now familiar launch arrived at its berth and soon was skimming them across the Giudecca Canal, heading for the pale pink walls of the hotel. A breeze blowing off the lagoon brought welcome relief from the heat, but sent Flora into a flurry, trying unsuccessfully to prevent a mass of long waves falling into the kind of tangle that would take for ever to brush smooth.

At the steps to the hotel’s front garden, a uniformed porter was waiting to greet them, offering his hand and helping her climb gracefully from the boat. So civilised! Such a perfect arrival! Except, for the picture to be complete, she should be wearing silk rather than cotton – even a cotton patterned with the brilliant red poppies she loved. And dark sunglasses, she thought. And a wide-brimmed floppy hat, of course. She mustn’t forget the hat.

Once Jack had joined her on dry land, they walked together along the crazy-paved path that ran through the garden to the hotel entrance and into a foyer where whirring ceiling fans and marble tiles underfoot washed them cool.

‘I’ll get the key,’ Jack murmured, making for the reception desk. A solitary clerk was on duty, Flora noticed, the fate of the girl’s colleague once more intruding into her thoughts.

Jack had walked only a few yards before he was brought to a halt by a voice he knew. A voice Flora knew, too.

‘Jack?’ The accent was foreign, the tone agitated. ‘And Mrs Carrington, as I must call you now.’ Flora had walked quickly to her husband’s side.

‘Count Falconi, how nice,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But…’

The count, a wealthy Italian with estates in both Italy and France, had married Jack’s mother the previous year after a somewhat tempestuous courtship.

‘I am sorry, signora, that I interrupt your holiday.’

‘Our honeymoon,’ Jack corrected.

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