Page 27 of The Venice Murders

Father Renzi glanced abstractedly around, seeming dazed and hardly knowing the place. Turning to them, he apologised. ‘I am sorry,’ he said sadly. ‘Things are not running well. Without Filomena, I am a little lost.’

Flora waited until they had swallowed half a cup of the weak coffee before she posed the question they’d come to ask.

‘We’ve been talking over your story, Father,’ she began. ‘The burglary in Asolo and the prison sentence Luigi Tasca was given, and we were wondering if you might have photographs of him when he was younger. Photographs of Luigiandhis friend. I imagine both boys would have come to any social events the church ran, and someone might have taken a picture or two.’

The priest thought for a moment. ‘I have no photograph albums. It is not something a priest would keep. But there is an old parish scrapbook somewhere – I’m sure I brought it with me, or Filomena did. And you are right, Signora Carrington, the church in Asolo hosted some wonderful events: a summer fair each year, a Christmas meal, an outing in the New Year for the older people. If you have a few minutes, I can look for it.’

They would have more than a few minutes, Flora thought, if the scrapbook could take them closer to what might be going on at La Zucca.

On the mantelpiece, the wood-framed clock loudly ticked the time away, and it was a good quarter of an hour later that the priest returned. His cheeks were flushed and his beard sported tangled strands of what looked like cotton wool.

Flora had to restrain herself from picking them off, one by one.

‘I have it,’ he said, buoyantly. ‘It was in the attic! Sometimes Filomena is too tidy.’

The same could certainly not be said of Father Renzi, and his housekeeper, Flora imagined, must have a full-time job keeping at least the semblance of order in this ramshackle house.

He opened the scrapbook and immediately a shower of paper poured forth, covering the faded rug: photographs, concert programmes, leaflets with details of church services, the summer fair, the cake competition.

‘I meant to finish the scrapbook when we moved here. Glue all of it into place and in the right order, but there never seems to have been the time.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Flora took up a handful of paper.

And it didn’t. On the rug was spread an entire record of the priest’s time in Asolo. Unerringly, she picked out a small, square photograph from the pile on her lap, the faces very slightly familiar.

‘Who are these two? Would you know them?’

The priest leaned forward and nodded, pointing at the curly-headed boy on the left of the picture.

‘That is Matteo Pretelli. He always helped me put up stalls for the fair.’

Flora felt a tremor of excitement. She’d been right. The man who had frogmarched her out of the basement had indeed been Pretelli. And his companion? she wondered.

‘The other boy?’ she asked, hopefully. It was a face she knew but not quite.

‘That is Franco. Franco Massi. Poor lad.’ It was a while before the priest spoke again. ‘The boys must have been more or less the same age there, around eleven years old. Franco always helped, too.’

So that was why the face had again seemed slightly familiar. Flora felt a little disappointed but also very sad. Looking at the young boy, his whole life yet to be lived, and unknowing how soon it would end.

‘And this is Matteo Pretelli with his aunt.’ Father Renzi passed another small photograph to her.

Filomena looked exactly as Flora had imagined. A little dowdy, wearing a dull grey frock almost to her ankles and carrying a faded leather handbag. But the face above the dress’s simple Peter Pan collar was one that shone. Beautiful skin, she thought, and shining brown curls. Was that where Matteo got his?

‘And Luigi Tasca? Is there a photograph of him?’ Jack had been silently studying the pictures she’d passed to him.

‘I don’t think so,’ the priest said. ‘I remember…the boy didn’t much like photographs. Let me see.’

For some time, Renzi burrowed through the mound of loose paper and Flora was about to suggest that they forget the search and leave the priest in peace, when he pounced on a badly creased sheet of newsprint.

‘Here.’ He waved his trophy at them. ‘It’s from a local paper. I thought I’d cut the item out. It was when Luigi went to trial. I read all the accounts and wanted to keep some kind of record.’

He handed the article to Flora while Jack jumped up to look over her shoulder. A blurred image of a young man took pride of place, climbing out of a police van with the entrance to the law court clearly visible in the background. Even blurred, she knew immediately that the man was the same as the scowling individual she’d met the previous evening. It was Luigi Tasca who had been at La Zucca last night and Luigi Tasca, Flora would swear, who had followed them down that alleyway with a knife in his hand.

The priest gathered together the heap of paper and tucked it back into the scrapbook where Flora was sure it would stay for the next fifty years and maybe the fifty after that.

‘Was there a reason you wished to know about these boys?’ he asked.

‘We’re just asking questions at the moment,’ Flora said vaguely.

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