Page 78 of The Venice Murders

‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough. As well as the garden, the house looks a lot worse now than it ever did when you lived there. If the man has money, why doesn’t he rent somewhere nicer? Buy a house even? And why come to Abbeymead in the first place? He knows no one in the village, doesn’t speak to anyone much, and never seems to have any visitors. He’s like you were, Jack, when you first came.’

‘And I was suspicious?’

‘Well, we all thought so,’ Alice said with certainty. There were hoots of laughter around the table.

‘But how’s that lass Sally was lookin’ after?’ Alice seemed keen to change the subject.

‘Bianca? She’s…’ He looked towards Flora for help.

‘She’s coping,’ Flora said.

Neither of them fancied explaining more, neither of them willing to reveal exactly how they’d spent their last days in Venice. It was better that way. What they would say to Sally when they saw her, they hadn’t decided. If she didn’t already know – and, as Bianca’s former employer, it was possible the Venice police had already contacted her – they would have to break the news that the girl she’d befriended had been arrested. Sally would be utterly shocked. Saddened, as well. Bianca’s was such an unnecessary crime: a violent push in extreme anger, and then a refusal to be truthful. The girl was almost certainly destined for prison, charged with involuntary manslaughter, or its Italian equivalent. Her father’s brand new boat would have to be sold, Flora imagined, to pay the debt the Benettis owed those horrible men; and when Bianca came out of prison, she would have nothing.

‘I’m glad the lass is OK,’ Alice said, happily oblivious. ‘And glad the pair of you made it home safe and sound. I had my doubts, but there, I was wrong and I don’t mind admittin’ it.’

Flora exchanged a guilty look with her co-conspirator. If anything, Alice had understated the danger when she’d prophesied likely disaster from a city built on canals. They had certainly met with disaster, though it was Franco Massi who had paid the ultimate price. But the theft of a valuable painting, a kidnapped housekeeper and their own watery imprisonment would remain a silent story, shared only between them. It was never a good idea to give Alice ammunition for her warnings of doom.

‘Any more tea?’ Tony had filled the kettle and returned with a newly refreshed pot. Four cups were pushed forward yet again.

‘So, when are you due back at the college, Jack?’ he asked.

‘Not just yet. I’ve another two months before term starts, a welcome chunk of writing time, and I certainly need it. I’ve a whole new novel to plan. But I’ll drive over to Cleve at the end of August, before the students return, and check what I’m doing in my final term.’

‘I was sorry to hear that you’re leaving the college,’ Kate said. ‘You seemed to be happy there.’

‘Flora isn’t sorry,’ he said drily. ‘She’ll be popping corks the day we lock the college flat for the last time.’

‘We’ll all be popping corks,’ Alice said. ‘Abbeymead is where you belong, both of you. I think we should have a toast – to the return of the Carringtons! – but it’ll have to be with teacups.’

‘Teacups it is.’ Jack raised his to clink with Flora’s, the others following suit.

‘Oh-oh. I hear trouble!’ Tony quickly put his cup down, ready to jump to his feet. A small snuffling noise from the rear of the café had gradually been growing louder and now broke into a full-throated yell.

‘You sit down. I’ll go.’ Alice pushed back her chair. ‘That child has got a pair of lungs on her, that’s for sure!’

* * *

Strolling home along Greenway Lane, Flora reached for Jack’s hand. ‘Are you happy to be back in the village?’

He smiled down at her. ‘Very happy. More than I thought. It’s good to go travelling but even better to come home to the friends you love.’

‘And a cottage you love?’ She sounded wistful.

He’d wondered when the sale of the schoolhouse would surface, but hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon. When, in the week, he’d met Ambrose Finch in the village bakery and learned the man was seriously thinking of selling up, he’d been interested. Very interested. Percy Milburn’s old house was a beauty: large, airy and with every modern convenience Percy could have thought of. It was a house in which a couple could weave a history for themselves, in which over the years a new family could grow. He’d said nothing to Flora at the time and, aware of how very sensitive she could be where children and families were concerned, had tried not to think too much of it. And itwasonly an idea, after all.

‘The schoolhouse was only an idea,’ he said aloud.

‘But one you’ve been considering.’

‘Not seriously. As Tony reminded us, it would be an expensive purchase.’

Still holding his hand, she walked on in silence and Jack felt unable to break it.

‘With my inheritance, we could afford it,’ she said suddenly.

‘Possibly. I’m not sure.’ He was deliberately casual. ‘I’ve no real idea of the price – Ambrose Finch might be hoping to make a very large profit. But, in any case, the money is yours and should stay yours.’ He stroked her hand as confirmation. ‘And there’s no reason to move,’ he went on. ‘We have a perfectly comfortable cottage, one that you and your aunt have lived in for years. And one that you love.’

‘Butyoudon’t. No!’ She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. ‘Don’t pretend you do, Jack. I know you feel cramped. I know that you’re uncomfortable with how little space we have. You’ve said so. And lately you’ve been saying it more often.’

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