Page 75 of The Venice Murders

Voices from the foyer brought her up sharply. Voices she half recognised. Slowly, the magical ending to what had been by any standards an unusual honeymoon faded into the mist.

‘We have come to say thank you. To thank you so very much!’ A joyful Father Renzi, jumping to his feet, greeted them as they walked into the lobby.

‘Yes, indeed! It is a thank you that comes from our hearts!’ It was Massimo Falconi, heaving himself from a deep-cushioned sofa and holding out his hands in welcome.

‘You did well.’ Sybil, apparently, was here, too, her response typically ungenerous.

But even she had got to her feet and was smiling. The navy blue silk she wore, a strapless, tightly fitted cocktail dress, certainly looked celebratory and Flora could only mourn, wishing she could say the same for herself. The favourite polka dot frock, torn at the neck and with ugly dust stains on the skirt, would take considerable effort to repair, if at all. By her side, Jack had fared little better, looking as though he’d gone several rounds in a boxing ring, his shirt crumpled and sweaty, and a small lump making its appearance on one side of his head, barely hidden by the thick flop of hair.

The count gave a delicate cough. He had walked right up to them now and it was clear that in the dim light of the foyer their ragged appearance had only just struck him.

‘We came only to say thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘For the wonderful help you have given Father Renzi and, of course, given me. But we will not keep you. You will want to…’ He tailed off, unsure how to phrase the sentiment politely.

‘They’ll want to wash,’ Sybil said crisply. ‘And change. Most definitely change, into something less…less raffish. But we can wait.’

Every pair of eyes were turned on her, expectant and plainly unsure what they were to wait for.

‘To have dinner,’ she said, impatience soon making an appearance. ‘The restaurant is expecting us. I have made a reservation, but we three can have drinks in the garden – whileyoumake yourselves a little more respectable. Let’s go, shall we?’

With an imperious hand, she gestured to her husband and the priest to follow her out of the lobby and onto the front lawn where lights were being lit amid the scatter of tables.

That was the end of the quiet meal she’d envisaged. Flora sighed inwardly, while a sideways glance at Jack told her that he, too, had resigned himself to a very different evening from the one they’d been planning.

‘My mother is hard to ignore,’ he muttered, half under his breath. ‘But it shouldn’t take us long to pack.’

‘Let’s hope not!’ Flora tucked her hand in his and, together, they made for the marble staircase.

Within the hour and looking a great deal more presentable, they had returned to the garden and were sharing a table with their visitors. The packing had been hasty, a matter of emptying the wardrobe and two of the chests en masse, then bundling clothes as best they could into the two new suitcases bought for the occasion.

It was evident, as they took their seats, that the count meant to celebrate this evening. A waiter was standing by, an ice bucket containing two large bottles of champagne perched on his trolley. When the man departed, having poured each of them a full flute, Falconi raised his glass in a toast.

‘I cannot tell you how heavy the weight I have carried. Now it has been lifted from my shoulders,’ he said. ‘Something very bad was happening in Asolo. I knew it but could do nothing. But today, because of you, it is not. Stephano, here, is once more a happy man. He has his dear, sweet housekeeper safely home and a future at Santa Margherita that he can look forward to. We should drink to that.’

Obediently, they raised their glasses and drank.

‘The police have told us very little,’ Jack said, pouncing on an olive from the selection the waiter had brought. ‘Have you learned any more of what’s happened to the crew at La Zucca?’

‘The painting is still with the team from Rome,’ the priest said, the fate of the Rastello evidently at the forefront of his mind. ‘It will be with them for some time, I think – an expert must examine it for damage. But, if all is well, it should be restored to Santa Margherita within weeks.’

‘And Signora Pretelli?’ For Flora, the person rather than the painting was the most important.

‘Poor Filomena.’ The priest tugged at his beard, seeming to feel his housekeeper’s pain. ‘She is feeling very bad. For her, this is a tragedy. It is not only that she was made a prisoner, that she was scared and feared she might be harmed by those wicked men, but that her nephew – a boy she loves very much – was part of this dreadful plot.’

‘It always felt particularly ugly that Matteo would treat his aunt so shamefully.’ Flora took an exploratory sip of the champagne.

It wasn’t a drink she was used to, though she’d sampled it once or twice before. The first time, she reminisced, had been at Jack’s birthday dinner, the evening they had first kissed. That had been special. She’d thought then that it tasted out of the ordinary – its zesty tang, the bubbles that prickled her nose – and, after a few more sips tonight, decided again that she rather liked champagne.

‘I have been to the police cells and spoken to Matteo,’ the priest said sadly. ‘It seems that he is part of this business against his will. Luigi is his best friend and when he asked Matteo for help, Matteo must give it. The help is to carry the painting to the boat and then to the van they bring from Asolo. It is much too heavy for one man to move. Luigi tells him it isun rapimento.’

‘A kidnap?’ Jack said.

‘Sì. The painting is lost for a short time, but nothing more. So, how worried should Matteo be? What he did not know was that Luigi was stealing the Rastello and that his aunt would be in the church to see this. And did not expect that Luigi would make them take Filomena with them.’

‘Common decency should have made him braver. He should have stopped the poor woman’s imprisonment,’ Sybil snapped.

‘I think he tried,’ Renzi said pacifically. ‘But events moved too fast and suddenly he was in deep, deep trouble. When I visit, we talk a long while. He tells me that Luigi made a threat he would get rid of Filomena unless they take her with them – I do not wish to think what he meant – and Matteo was not sure if the threat was serious. I feel that perhaps by then he hardly knew his friend. So, after storing the painting, he helped Luigi carry his aunt to the boat, then walked into her apartment and packed a bag for her – I was not at home, but at the bedside of a dying man – and together they travelled to La Zucca where Silvio Fabbri was waiting. It was the best Matteo could do, he tells me, to make sure Luigi did not harm her.’

‘But he did harm her,’ Flora burst out. ‘Even if it was at a distance.Heharmed her, not Tasca or Silvio Fabbri. He sent the blackmail note to you, Father. If that’s not harm, I don’t know what is.’

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