Page 18 of The Venice Murders

Ten minutes later, trailing her feet through deliciously cool water, she had to agree with Jack. This was the way to spend an afternoon in Venice. Not in walking the scorching lanes, or immured in art galleries, wonderful though they were, but sitting on the edge of this fabulous pool while Jack sliced his way up and down the long stretch of water.

After several lengths, he came to a halt and swam to the pool’s edge. Looking up at her, his flop of hair plastered to his forehead, he gave her a gentle scold.

‘You really should learn to swim, Flora. I could teach you.’

‘I’m happy enough here,’ she said.

‘But it’s fun. An important life skill, too.’

‘I’m happy,’ she repeated.

She was genuinely scared of deep water. A few years ago, she had come close to drowning and paddling her feet was now the nearest she intended to get. Jack was right, of course. Learning to swim was something she should have done as a child – as an adult it was too steep a challenge – but Abbeymead was some miles from the sea which meant that journeys to the coast were infrequent and dependent on public transport and, though there was a swimming pool in the nearby town, for much of her childhood it had been closed on and off from the threat of polio.

She scrambled up and, hopping from one foot to another across paving that sizzled, made it to one of the sunloungers Jack had bagged earlier. Lazily, she lay back, contemplating a sky the colour of ultramarine, her gaze travelling downwards to the pink walls and terracotta roofs beyond the hotel’s perimeter, to a glistening white dome, and in the near distance, to the red brick of a bell tower. What a setting for a swimming pool!

‘Shall we get a drink?’ she asked, as Jack arrived at her side, reaching across to throw him a towel. ‘Here! You’re dripping on me.’

‘I need you wet! But a good idea. Alimonata, maybe? The waiter’s on his way over.’ He nodded towards the approaching figure.

When Flora followed his gaze, however, it wasn’t one of the pool staff she saw but the younger of the receptionists she’d spoken to less than an hour ago.

‘Signor, signora, you have a telephone call,’ he called, before he’d even reached them.

When they were slow to respond, he said more urgently, ‘From England. It costs much.’

‘Something’s happened at home!’ Flora jumped up, grabbing her sundress. ‘Something bad. The All’s Well? The cottage?’

‘Who is it?’ Jack asked the man calmly.

‘It is a lady. A Signora Yenner?’

‘Jenner. Alice! Oh, dear Lord, she’s ill!’ Frantically, Flora cast around for her sandals.

‘If Alice were ill, she’d hardly be telephoning.’ But Jack’s reasoning went unheard.

‘I should have phoned, I knew I should, but somehow the time never seemed right.’

‘Well, it is now, so stop panicking and go and speak to her.’

‘You’ll come, too?’

‘But why?’

‘Because I need you with me, Jack.’

Obediently, he pulled on a pair of shorts and casual shirt. ‘My clothes will be utterly soaked, you realise that.’

‘They’ll dry,’ she said shortly.

‘Flora, love, is that you?’

‘Yes.’ Flora gripped the receiver until her knuckles shone white. ‘What’s the matter, Alice? What’s happened?’

‘You didn’t telephone.’

‘I meant to, I really did. I’m so sorry,’ she said lamely, and waited for the blow to fall. Alice must have terrible news. But her friend stayed silent.

A short pause. ‘Is everything OK in the village?’ she ventured, praying it would be.

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