Page 40 of The Venice Murders

There was no answering wave. No smile. No effort to respond at all, his expression empty and unknowing. She gave another wave, smaller this time and less confident, but that too went unacknowledged. As she watched, the priest turned back towards the entrance and shuffled forward with the rest of the audience.

‘That was Father Renzi,’ she said, urgently pulling at Jack’s sleeve. ‘Did you see him? It’s plain he saw us, but then turned away.’

Jackhadseen the priest. ‘He may be in a hurry,’ he excused, ‘and doesn’t have the time to talk.’

‘Jack,’ she protested, ‘this is the man who’s begged us to help him find his housekeeper, if not his painting, and he doesn’t have time to say good evening! Doesn’t have time even to wave hello? Why did he walk away like that? Why ignore us so blatantly?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Jack gathered up his jacket. ‘But I don’t think it’s something that should worry us.’

Flora was conflicted but said nothing until they were outside the church and once more walking back along the Riva to where the Cipriani launch waited for them.

‘I don’t agree,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘I think we should be concerned. Something’s happened to Father Renzi since we last saw him. It must have, to make him act so oddly. But what?’

Jack came to a halt. ‘I really think you should forget the incident, Flora. If something has gone even more amiss, we’ll learn about it soon enough.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘We’ve had a wonderful evening and it’s not over yet. There are still a few more hours – let’s enjoy them.’

Itwasan evening to enjoy, she had to accept: music still played in her ears, moonlight spread its silver across the lagoon, and the warm sweet air hugged them close. These were hours to remember for the rest of her life.

But still, that moment in the church – the priest’s refusal to acknowledge them – that had been deeply uncomfortable and she couldn’t forget.

15

At breakfast the next morning, Flora was unusually quiet, nodding her thanks to the waitress who brought them coffee and munching her way silently through successive pastries. Last night’s events were still vivid in her mind. Despite Jack’s conviction that whatever new trouble the priest might be in would soon become clear, she felt agitated. Too agitated to wait. But, sensibly, what could she do…?

Jack interrupted her thoughts. ‘Did you make that hairdresser’s appointment?’ he asked, as he finished a last cup of coffee. It had been something she’d mentioned casually when they’d been dressing for the concert last night.

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘I thought you might like to go this morning.’ He fidgeted with a spoon. ‘While I’m at the university? I’d really like to visit their library – just an hour or so,’ he added quickly.

That was a surprise. ‘Are you going for research?’

‘That’s it,’ he said, seeming grateful she hadn’t dismissed the trip out of hand. ‘Arthur’s idea. He’s been keen for some time on a mystery with Italian politics as a setting – the last time we spoke, he suggested it could be the next novel. What he’d like, I think, is a book that plays with connections, if there are any, between the establishment in Rome and the Sicilian mafia, though I’ve always been nervous of tackling the subject.’

‘Because you could be sued?’

‘Something like that, or worse,’ he joked. ‘But Arthur thinks it would make a great thriller, fictionalised hugely, of course, and I have to agree.’

‘Have you said yes?’

‘Not yet. I thought I’d take the chance while I’m here to read some of the papers that Ca’ Foscari holds in its library – memories of post-Second World War Italy and possible links between the mafia and Roman politics. Stuff on the role the mafia played in the war, perhaps. Would you mind my disappearing for an hour or so?’

‘Leaving me alone?’ She shook her head. ‘It will be a chance to have my hair done. A special treat – I can’t remember the last time I had someone fuss over me.’

‘Any idea where you’ll go?’

‘Not at the moment. Maybe I’ll take the boat across to St Mark’s and just walk. I’m bound to find a salon I like.’

Flora returned to her pastry, thinking hard. An appointment with the hairdresser was a nice idea but, in the circumstances, it could wait. Uppermost in her mind was the priest’s unexplained behaviour. If Jack wasn’t interested in finding out the cause – he’d made no mention of Father Renzi this morning – she would go exploring by herself. To the priest’s house. To his church, if he wasn’t at home.

She tried to picture the map she’d seen of the variousvaporettolines and had a hazy memory that the San Tomà landing was not that far distant from the university. Maybe two or three stops further on from where Jack planned to alight. After speaking to the priest, she could retrace her journey and catch avaporettodown the Grand Canal to meet Jack at Ca’ Foscari.

‘I could meet you,’ she offered.

He looked surprised but agreed with only a small show of reluctance – he was the one asking a favour, after all – but it was clear that he had doubts Flora would ever find her way to the university.

‘Shall we say one o’clock? In time for lunch.’

She grinned. ‘Naturally, reading is bound to give you an appetite!’

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