Page 9 of The Venice Murders

The man shook his head. ‘Franco is dead, signora.’

‘But how dreadful!’ Again, she adopted a shocked expression. ‘I wonder…this card…’ she said slowly, making a pretence of feeling in her skirt pocket for the non-existent message, ‘could I leave it somewhere? In Franco’s room, maybe. His family will come for his belongings, I imagine, and they might want to write to his friend.’

The excuse was sounding thinner with every word she spoke, but the workman seemed not to think badly of it. ‘The room is there.’ He pointed through the door at the lower corridor. ‘On the left, signora. Room number three.’

Thanking him, she walked into the building and along the corridor he’d indicated to the third room. Thankfully, the door had been left unlocked and very quickly she slipped inside. Flora’s first impression was how small the room was and how tidy: a single bed, a small chest of drawers and a wardrobe appeared to be its only furniture.

On top of the chest, a row of toiletries stood in a line – hair oil, talcum powder, a sharp-smelling cologne, when she put her nose to it – and behind the wardrobe doors, another row, this time of very smart suits. An extremely well-groomed young man, she thought, and, casting her mind back, it was an image of quiet polish that she recalled. A book by the bedside, a biography of Giuseppe Garibaldi, hinted at Franco’s interest in his country’s history, but other than the clothes and the book, there was little to suggest anything of the man who had lived here so recently.

Until she walked over to a tiny desk, pushed into one corner. Its wooden surface was completely bare, clear of any papers or ornaments, and was why she hadn’t immediately noticed it. Now, she saw there was a photograph frame sitting to one side. Just one photograph. The fiancée, she decided.

Picking up the frame to get a better look, Flora almost dropped it in surprise. The face – it was familiar! She knew this girl. She would swear it. Starting to pace up and down the small room, she tried to remember. Then she had it. The Priory, that was how she knew her. A year or so ago when Dominic Lister was still Sally’s business partner.

She sank onto the bed, still holding the photograph. That’s right…she was remembering more now. This was the very girl Sally had mentioned a few months past, asking Flora to get in touch if she had the time when she and Jack were in Venice. She had completely forgotten Sally’s request, she realised, the excitement of the trip her only excuse. Sally had been furious, she recalled, when Dominic had hired the girl as a chambermaid. The girl had come with no experience but she had come with a pretty face. That was pure Dominic. But then Sally had relented, hadn’t she, and made friends with the girl. Flora had quite often seen them together in Abbeymead, drinking a cup of tea at the Nook, the village café, or shopping for food in the high street. When the village had proved too quiet, the girl had left to work in Brighton, but she had obviously kept in touch with Sally even after her return to Italy.

But what was her name? Flora struggled to remember. Barbara? Belinda? Not Italian enough. Bianca! That was it!

Bianca had been Franco Massi’s fiancée! Another coincidence perhaps? Flora doubted it very much.

4

By the time she returned to the breakfast terrace, Jack was finishing his second cup of coffee.

‘Did the handkerchief go on holiday, too?’ he teased.

Refusing to rise to the bait, Flora sat down opposite. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she said quietly.

‘I thought you might have.’

‘Franco Massi had a room in the hotel, in a staff annexe, and I’ve been there.’

‘More breaking and entering?’

‘The door was open.’

‘Just trespass then. I wonder what the local cells are like?’

‘Stop it, Jack. This is important. Franco was engaged to be married and there’s a photograph of his fiancée on his desk. Guess who it is?’

‘I won’t – you know you’re longing to tell me.’

‘Bianca Benetti.’

When Jack looked blank, Flora gave the table an impatient tap. ‘You must remember her.’

‘Must I?’ He continued to look blank.

‘She worked at the Priory for about six months. As a chambermaid. Dominic Lister employed her and it made Sally angry.’

‘Oh, that girl. She’s here in Venice?’

‘This is her home city. Sally asked me to look her up if I had the time. She was a friend of Sally’s –Inever really spoke to her much – but then I forgot about contacting her and left the phone number back at the cottage. But, just think! Bianca was Franco’s fiancée!’

‘I am thinking. Why does it matter?’ Jack remained unmoved. ‘He was engaged to a local girl who turns out to be Bianca. Not an impossibility. He could have met her in England, London probably, at some social club or another. There are plenty of Italian clubs in the capital. But poor girl?—’

‘Ithink it matters.’

‘I can’t see how,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you’ve left her number behind, you’ve no way of getting in touch with her and can’t pass on Sally’s good wishes. Except now it would be condolences. Just be glad you’ve been spared an uncomfortable conversation. Now…’ Scrunching up his napkin and discarding it on the table, he got to his feet. ‘We should go. We’ve a morning at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco – how’s that for a name? It has some wonderful Tintorettos and, I promise, you’re going to love them.’

---