Page 59 of The Venice Murders

‘It was only a slight movement. It could have been a rat, I suppose, though I haven’t seen any yet, but it sounded like something sweeping the floor rather than tiny feet scurrying.’

‘Probably not a rat. The cellar’s not damp.’

‘So?’

‘Rats like water. Buildings in Venice are mostly built from Istria stone and the basements are waterproof. The wood piles that support the buildings are usually oak or larch and they’re water resistant, too.’

‘Jack!’

‘What? Oh, sorry!’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘This city, the way it was constructed, has always fascinated me.’

‘Could you rather get fascinated by how to get us out of here? Or find out who, if anybody, is in the next room.’

‘The last is the easier.’ He pointed to a grille at the top of the opposite wall to the gash of window. ‘That’s for ventilation, not light, but there should be enough space between slats to get a reasonable view.’

‘It’s really high up. I don’t think you’ll be able to see. You’re tall, I know, but not tall enough.’

‘I can stand on that apology for a chair and hope it doesn’t collapse beneath me.’

She shook her head. ‘You still won’t reach it.’

‘Hey, you’re supposed to be the optimist in this partnership.’

But once Jack had dragged the chair against the wall and climbed on top, holding his breath in case the wood should splinter, it was clear that Flora had been right in her estimation. He could knock on the grille with his hand, but was too far beneath to see through it.

He was about to climb down when there was a shuffling sound on the other side of the wall. It came clearly to them both.

‘That’s it,’ Flora whispered. ‘The noise.’

They stood in silence together, waiting.

‘Chi c’è?’ a quavering voice asked.

‘Who’s there?’ he mouthed to Flora.

‘Sono Jack Carrington. Mia mogle è con me. Siamo prigionieri. Parla inglese?’

‘I speak a little but not good. Your wife is there?’

‘Yes, we are prisoners,’ he repeated. ‘And you?’

‘Anche io,’ she said sadly.

Flora had dashed across the room to stand below the grille. ‘Filomena?’ she asked.

‘Sì, sì,’ the voice said, growing stronger. ‘Filomena Pretelli.’

‘Cos’è successo?’ Jack asked. ‘What happened?’

Filomena stumbled over words spoken in a foreign language but, within minutes, it was clear what had happened on the night the painting was stolen. She had been arranging flowers in the church, she said, but later that evening realised the ring she’d worn since a young girl was missing. It had fallen into one of the vases of flowers, she’d been sure, and so returned to the church in order to retrieve it.

‘Lui era lì. Luigi Tasca.Su una scala.’

‘Luigi Tasca was there on a ladder?’

‘Sì.He was stealing. I think he steal before.Mi ricordo…il pouf.’

‘You remembered the hassock?’

---