Page 28 of The Venice Murders

‘There is nothing wrong, I hope. You have met no problems?’

‘None at all.’ Jack’s denial was perhaps a little too hearty.

‘I remember saying to you that you must be careful. Youwillbe careful?’

‘We will,’ he assured the man, this time sounding a little more convincing.

‘I have been worried since you were last here,’ Father Renzi confessed. ‘I should never have gone to the count. And he should never have asked you for help. It is not fair on a young couple celebrating their marriage.’

Neither of them made a response but when they’d left the house and were walking towards the San Tomàvaporettostop, Jack said, ‘No, it isn’t fair. But we’re well and truly in the middle of it now.’

‘And we go on?’ she asked, tucking her hand into the crook of his good arm.

‘And we go on.’

11

She thought over Jack’s comment as she waited with him at St Mark’s for the Cipriani launch to appear at the quayside. He was right, of course, they were right in the middle of something, but what, exactly, remained a mystery. The story had begun with a man falling to his death in the canal – no, it had really begun with that quarrel they’d witnessed at La Zucca – then close on the heels of Franco’s death, they’d learned a valuable painting was missing from a local church and a priest’s housekeeper had vanished into thin air. Finally, Bianca had appeared on the scene, a girl Flora had barely known in Abbeymead, now in Venice and coping with a failed engagement and a father furious with what had happened. How did these disparate events, these different people, connect? It was fine to be in the middle of something but only if you had the faintest clue as to what. Were they looking at a robbery? A kidnap? A murder? Or could all these events be explained in other ways?

They had clambered aboard the hotel launch and were halfway across the Giudecca Canal when she felt a certainty as to what they should do. Touching Jack’s arm to gain his attention, she said, ‘We should take a boat ride with Piero Benetti.’

‘Because?’

‘He must have known Franco Massi fairly well – his daughter was engaged to the man and there must have been times when Benetti talked to him. Shared meals with him, perhaps. If Franco ever spoke of Asolo, Benetti might remember and be able to tell us more than his daughter is willing to say.’

‘According to the hotel reception, Franco, before he died, wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with the man once destined to be his father-in-law. So, is Benetti likely to say anything useful? And then there’s the restaurant and its lethal inhabitants. Don’t we have enough on our hands with them?’

They were sailing past the pink walls of the Cipriani to stop at its landing stage before Flora spoke again. ‘I think we should go back to the beginning.’ She sounded certain. ‘To Franco. He was the man who died. We should start with him and with the people who knew him, and hope the pieces will fall into place. And the boat trip wouldn’t be wasted – we could ask Benetti to take us to one of the islands. I’ve seen pictures of a place I’d love to visit. It has streets of beautifully coloured houses.’

‘That will be Burano.’

‘Then let’s go there. Make it part of our sightseeing. I can ask the Cipriani to ring Benetti and book the trip for us.’

‘They’ll warn you off again,’ he said, glumly. ‘And probably with good reason.’

But when they strolled into the hotel, it was the younger receptionist who was behind the desk, his senior colleague evidently off duty today.

‘Piero Benetti?’ His lips pursed a little. ‘Ah, yes, signora, you showed Signor Trentino his business card.’

Signor Trentino was evidently the head receptionist.

‘I know he wasn’t too happy with the idea but we’d like to go ahead,’ Flora said, adopting a confident air.

‘If you are sure, signora.’ He looked questioningly at Jack, standing to one side. Her husband gave a resigned nod. ‘Benetti has a reputation for being a man of short temper,’ the receptionist counselled. ‘He can be violent at times, I’ve seen it myself. And certainly he threatened Franco Massi.’

‘I hardly think he’ll turn violent on a trip to Burano, do you?’ Jack spoke in an amused voice. ‘A sightseeing trip,’ he explained, ‘Benetti’s bread and butter, I would have thought.’

‘Of course. Of course. I will telephone. For tomorrow?’

It had needed Jack’s acquiescence, Flora fumed, to get things moving. Would there ever be a time when a woman was considered sensible enough to make her own decisions?

Inwardly ruffled Flora may have been, but she was glad they were to meet the hot-tempered Benetti. The idea that Franco’s murder might have nothing to do with Asolo was one she couldn’t lose entirely. And talking to Benetti could be a step in that direction. If, by chance, Franco had confided any trouble he was facing –asked Benetti for advice, maybe –Asolo might have featured in their conversation, but equally it might not. Franco could have feared something else, feared someone else.

Jack appeared less confident of the trip’s success. ‘I shouldn’t put too much hope in discovering anything monumental,’ he cautioned, as they brushed their teeth side by side that night. ‘Separate basins, Jack,’ Flora had exclaimed when they’d walked into the bathroom for the first time, a space almost as large as her cottage sitting room.

‘Maybe and maybe not.’ She shook the toothbrush free of water. ‘But we’ll still have a splendid day out.’

Piero Benetti was at the Cipriani landing stage at ten the next morning. Flora could immediately see the resemblance to his daughter and wondered if she should mention they had met Bianca.

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