Page 41 of The Venice Murders

Jack glanced quickly down at his watch. ‘If I’m going to make lunch, I’d better leave now. But have you finished?’

‘Not quite,’ she said breezily. ‘I think I could manage another croissant and I’ve plenty of time. Go and enjoy your research and then come out to play. The sun should still be shining.’

Flora allowed another hour to elapse, taking her time over the rest of her breakfast, before collecting her handbag from the bedroom and wandering through the garden to the landing steps to await the return of the Cipriani boat. Despite Jack’s unspoken doubts, she was feeling confident about managing this trip. She knew now how to buy a ticket for thevaporetto, which line she should take, and in which direction.

At St Mark’s, the line onevaporettoshe needed appeared almost immediately and she found a seat on the open deck. She hoped she’d find the priest at home but, in any case, she could walk across to the church – he was bound to be in one place or the other. Would he speak to her, though? After last night’s incident, she had to admit there was a strong likelihood that he’d refuse.

But, as so often, Flora refused to be daunted. She would approach him carefully, that was the key. Maybe mention casually that she happened to be in the locality and was meeting Jack for lunch, but thought she’d take another look at his beautiful church. She could go on to say how much she’d enjoyed the concert last night, and had he, too? Though, of course, he must have been to the Pietà many times previously. Once they’d been talking for a while, it should only be a small step to broaching the subject of his odd conduct.

They had pulled in at the San Tomà stop and, when Flora stepped out onto dry land, she was feeling positive. She’d been this way before and knew exactly where she was going. Winding a path through the alleys she and Jack had traversed earlier, she was struck at how few people were around. But then there wouldn’t be crowds – this was very much a working district. Even so, she couldn’t quite lose the feeling that she might be walking into a lion’s den.

Was that because of Renzi? A fear that he wasn’t the man they’d first thought him, and here she was, alone, and meeting him in what was likely to be an empty house. But he was a priest, a gentleman, and a gentle man. Why on earth would she feel threatened by him? It was her wretched imagination again, working overtime.

Knocking at the door of the presbytery, she waited to hear footsteps approaching. But it was silence that greeted her. She knocked again. Was the priest at home but refusing to come to the door? If so, there was little she could do. A final knock and she decided to cut her losses and walk to the church instead. It was here that they’d found Father Renzi on their first visit, kneeling before the altar.

Passing from bright sunshine into the dark interior of the church, it took Flora a few seconds before her eyes focused. This time, though, there was no figure at prayer. In fact, no figure at all. She walked up the main aisle towards the half circle of the altar. Fresh flowers – tall vases of calla lilies and feathery green stood on either side – testifying, no doubt, to the devotion of Renzi’s female parishioners. Drops of water on the stone steps suggested the flower arrangers had called only recently.

And perhaps were still here – she had caught a slight sound coming from the sacristy.

‘Hello,’ she called out.

When there was no reply, she walked around the altar to the small room at the rear of the church. The door was ajar and, tentatively, she pushed it fully open. The sacristy was empty, but another sound had reached Flora’s ears, this time from the body of the church. It must be one of the flower ladies but how had she missed the woman? Walking quickly back to the main aisle, she was met by emptiness. Once more, there was no one. Were her ears playing tricks on her? Or was it simply that she was desperate to see someone? Anyone.

She was halfway along the aisle on her way back to the main entrance when it seemed to Flora that she saw a shadow move. Shadows in a church should sleep undisturbed, so was it her eyes playing tricks on her now? For a moment, she stood perfectly still. Then, walking quickly up the aisle, she rushed through the open doorway and out of the church.

Once more in the fresh air, Flora breathed deeply, but it was a momentary relaxation only. Footsteps! She was sure there were footsteps, somewhere behind her but close. She swung round, ready to face whoever, whatever, it was, but to no avail. The piazza was empty. Oddly empty and, beneath a grey covering of cloud that had emerged from nowhere, it felt threatening.

Desperate to find her way back to thevaporettostop and to what felt like safety, she dashed without thinking down the alleyway she was certain would lead her to the Grand Canal. As the twinge of panic faded, however, a horrible realisation dawned. She had chosen the wrongcalle– they all looked so much alike – and was passing shops, a square, another church, that she had never seen before. Were the footsteps she’d heard still there? Flora couldn’t be sure. And could no longer be sure of the way. Nervously, she peeled off into a passageway that had opened up to her right, thinking it looked more familiar.

But fifty yards down this newcalle,she was met by a dead end. A palazzo’s locked wooden gates barred her way. Now frantic, Flora wheeled around and, seeing another turning to her left, began to rush down it at full speed. This time she found a small canal at its end, and no bridge to take her over. It brought her to an abrupt halt and, for a moment, forced her to stand still and take stock. She had allowed panic to make her foolish.

Had she really been pursued? Was she still being pursued? She couldn’t be certain. Trying to orientate herself, she forced her mind to be calm. Thevaporettostop was lost to her but, if she walked due south from here, as long as she could judge correctly, she should reach the university. Reach Jack and a pair of safe arms. She had been naive in thinking she could manage this trip alone, and without a map. Even from her scant experience of Venice, she’d realised that alleyways were unpredictable, and could sometimes end suddenly in dark, deep canals, or plunge into hidden arcades, or even emerge, without warning, into a breathtaking view.

Retracing her steps a short way, she noticed acalleshe hadn’t seen when rushing at full tilt. It was narrower and darker than the others, but it seemed to be going in the right direction – south towards Ca’ Foscari – and as far as she could make out, stretched into the distance, houses on either side, without a dead end or a canal in sight.

Feeling more cheerful, she picked up her pace, putting to one side the fear that had taken hold. It had been her too-vivid imagination – again. The noise in the church, followed by footsteps? A workman, possibly, who’d then happened to be going her way. Shadows that moved? A trick of the light. There had been a small dread that she’d carried with her ever since the knife attack on Jack that they were being watched and conspired against – the figure at the Redentore, the blue shirt, a shambling man who, to her mind, had looked very much like Luigi Tasca – but for the moment the fear was dismissed.

Halfway along thecalle, she had to stop. A tiny stone from the lane – its surface had been roughly finished – had become wedged in her shoe, and she had to bend to shake it free. As she did so, she heard those footsteps again, and this time they stopped abruptly. Stopped when she’d stopped.

Flora remained motionless, listening. The rattle of a shutter further down the alleyway sounded loudly in the silence. Venice was a closeted city and the houses on either side were shuttered tight. She looked behind her, but thecallewas empty. Ahead, an archway spanned the lane. In a sudden burst of light, the sun broke through the lowering cloud, and the shadow cast by the arch’s corbelling looked for all the world like three figures lying in wait. She could feel her heart once more racing, but told herself not to be stupid. Walking on, though, her ears were sharp and attuned.

A few seconds later, the echo of a heavy tread on the rough ground came clearly. Flora quickened her pace, but the echo quickened, too. She was desperate to get to the end of this interminablecalle, looking either side of her for possible escape: a door ajar, a window open, someone, anyone, she could ask for help. But the street remained shuttered and silent.

By now, she was almost running and whoever was behind her was running, too. She would turn and confront her pursuer, she thought. Then realised how ridiculous that would be. Luigi Tasca, if thiswerehim, had thought nothing of wounding Jack; worse, he could well be a killer. Flora’s breath was coming fast and she had no idea how long she could sustain this pace. Her legs were beginning to tremble and, frenziedly, she broke into a full run, her breath now coming in sobs. She had to find her husband, had to get to Jack.

‘Signorina?’

She had run smack into the solid figure of a man. Instinctively, she raised her fists, ready to fight.

‘Signorina, you are OK?’ the voice asked gently.

Flora’s fists lowered. What was she doing? This was not her pursuer.

‘The university,’ she managed to gulp out.

‘Ma sì. E qui.’ He waved a hand to his left, to yet another small passage. ‘Due minuti,’ he promised.

Should she take thecalle? There was little choice and, thankfully, within the promised two minutes what looked very much like a university building came into sight. Stumbling through the open gates, Flora was half crying, half laughing. The porter on duty studied her uncertainly, and no wonder.

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