Page 55 of The Venice Murders

‘You think it could be Luigi Tasca?’

Renzi held up his hands in a despairing gesture. ‘I have no real idea, Signor Carrington. All I know is that I must rescue this poor woman in whatever way I can.’

‘And this is where you come in,’ Sybil said, smiling brightly. She looked over her shoulder as a black-suited manservant stood in the doorway. ‘But first, we eat.’

‘What arewesupposed to do about it?’ Jack muttered, walking beside Flora through a spacious hall to the dining room. ‘Kidnap Tasca and force the truth out of him? If itishim.’

Flora made no response, but stopped to look through one of the floor-length windows at the scene beyond. Through the haze of warmth, a range of gentle hills appeared on the horizon, protective and benign, seeming to hold the winery in their embrace, with acres and acres of vines stretching up the hillside and into the distance. Casa Elena must produce thousands of bottles every year, she thought, a lucrative endeavour if this beautiful house was anything to judge by. Wine, she knew, was growing ever more popular at home, a future challenge to traditional beer. Perhaps she should be selling wine rather than books!

For a moment, Flora was back in the All’s Well, walking its aisles, breathing its air, deep in its bookish atmosphere. In an instant, a wave of homesickness had swept her from head to toe, temporarily stunning her. It was the first longing for home that she’d felt on this trip. They had only two days more in Venice, one after this visit, and, though she was sad to leave an entrancing city, suddenly it was books that were calling to her. It was Abbeymead that was waiting.

The dining room she was ushered into proved another masterpiece, aglow with pale peach, and as resplendent as the previous salon, while the stately lunch that followed matched its surroundings: anantipastoof caprese salad, aprimo piattoof ricotta gnocchi with walnut and thyme butter sauce, followed by a main course of braised beef and parmesan polenta, and just in case the count’s guests weren’t quite full enough, a selection of ice creams and sorbets along with lemon almond cake. Limoncello andamaroreplaced the several bottles of wine that had been consumed during the main meal.

Conversation had remained muted until the braised beef was under attack, but it was then that Jack, who had been mostly silent, glanced across at the priest. Catching the man’s eyes, he fixed him in a steady look.

‘When you were the priest in Asolo, you had items stolen from your church, you told us.’

Father Renzi looked guarded. ‘That is so,’ he agreed cautiously.

‘When we asked you before, you seemed unsure, but have you had items stolen from Santa Margherita as well?’

At their first meeting, the priest had mentioned a candelabra that had temporarily gone missing, but nothing else. Yet, according to Daniele, his brother had spoken on the telephone of items stolen from Santa Margherita. Clearly, Franco hadn’t been referring to the theft of the painting – his call had been made before the artwork went missing – so to what had he been referring? What exactly had been stolen?

Renzi took a deep breath. ‘Small things,’ he confessed. ‘An embroidered hassock, a jewelled rosary, a gold baptism cup. Filomena told me things had gone missing. Each week, she reported a new disappearance. It worried her greatly.’

‘But not you?’

He looked down at his hands. They had become agitated, alternately plucking at and smoothing out his cassock.

‘I did not want to accept that the trouble was starting again,’ he said finally. ‘I had lost my home in Asolo, lost my church, my congregation, all for speaking the truth. I moved to a city I did not know and, at a time I was near to retirement, I had to start again. It has been difficult, very difficult, but I have managed. Filomena, too. And now, this threat had appeared – for us both – that the trouble was beginning all over again.’

‘Essentially, you ignored her concerns,’ Flora remarked.

The count looked annoyed, holding up his hand as if to ward off further criticism. ‘That is unfair,’ he said. ‘Stephano has made great sacrifices. He deserved a calm life. A gentle life.’

‘No, no,’ the priest disputed. ‘It is perfectly fair. I should have taken notice. I should have reported the thefts to the church authorities, but I covered them up for my own peace of mind. And look where it has led.’

No one chose to answer his question and the remainder of lunch was eaten largely in silence. When the array of desserts arrived on the table, Sybil said rousingly, ‘Well, now you both know the score,canyou help?’

‘All we can do is try,’ Flora said, earning a deep frown from the husband beside her.

Jack would have his say later, she knew.

21

‘Why did you make that promise to my mother?’ he demanded, when they were once more alone and driving back to Venice.

‘I didn’t promise,’ Flora pointed out. ‘I only said that we’d try to help. And what else could we have said?’

‘That there was nothing we could do. That Renzi would be well advised to contact the police and tell them he’s being blackmailed. It’s a hopeless situation, Flora. We haven’t the remotest chance of finding out who sent that note. And itisthe role of the Venice police, not ours.’

‘But the priest won’t go to them, and I can see why. They won’t even investigate Filomena’s disappearance. The woman is kidnapped, or worse, and all they’ll say is that she’s trotted off for a holiday.’

‘Which could be true. What kidnapper packs a bag for his victim?’

‘That alone should have given them pause,’ she argued. ‘Where would she have gone? She doesn’t have the money to travel far and she has no relatives where she might stay. But the police have made absolutely no enquiries.’

Jack was silent. He knew she was right, Flora thought, but wouldn’t admit it. ‘In any case,’ she continued to argue, ‘I don’t think the situationishopeless – not entirely. When we were at the farm in Asolo and spoke to Matteo Pretelli, and to Enrico Tasca, asking them if they had any idea where Matteo’s aunt might be?—’

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