Page 4 of The Venice Murders

The count nodded sadly. ‘I would not do this but Sybil, she insists.’

‘That sounds like my mother.’ Jack said it laughingly, but his tongue held a sharp edge.

‘You see…’

They waited.

‘I am in trouble,’ Massimo Falconi announced.

The count had lost weight, Flora noticed. His silver hair seemed thinner and his face a little more lined. He was still a handsome man, but a less substantial figure than the one she’d known in France.

‘I am in trouble,’ he repeated, and made a sudden grab at Jack’s arm as though to stop him escaping, but then half turned to Flora with the suggestion of a smile.

‘And Sybil, she thinks you can help. Both of you.’ The count cast a glance around the foyer. ‘Please, I need to talk. Is there somewhere…?’

‘The garden, maybe,’ Jack suggested. ‘It’s a quiet enough place.’

Except for the ducklings, Flora thought, as they walked from the hotel’s rear doors and into the Casanova gardens. A mother duck and her three babies had spluttered their way out of the pond and come quacking towards them but, after a few desultory pecks at their shoelaces, lost interest and waddled away.

Jack shepherded their visitor towards a bench that sat in the shade of one of the cypress trees and that, along with roses, chrysanthemums and thousands of aromatic plants, made the gardens such a delight. Flora had woken early that morning and already explored a little, knowing that beyond the immediate lawn lay a vineyard and a large fruit and vegetable garden which she’d assumed must provide most of the daily produce used by the hotel’s restaurants. She remembered reading in her favourite guidebook that years ago the Giudecca had been the market garden for Venice, so maybe the Cipriani’s three-acre oasis was what was left of those far-off days.

The count plumped himself squarely down on the bench, but it was a while before he spoke. ‘It is the priest,’ he began heavily.

Two pairs of eyes looked enquiringly at him, and he started again. ‘The priest at Santa Margherita. It is a church in the San Polo district of Venice. You know the area?’

‘I don’t know Venice very well,’ Jack confessed.

‘And I don’t know it all,’ Flora chipped in.

‘If you take thevaporetto, the number one line, up the Grand Canal, San Polo is just below the Santa Lucia railway station. It is the smallest and oldest of the sixsestieri.It has always been a working-class district, though now it is changing. But then all of Venice is changing.’

‘And the priest?’

‘Father Stephano Renzi. He was our local priest for many years until he made the move to the city. He is a good man, a very good man.’ It was said with emphasis.

Flora had assumed that being a good man would surely be a given for a priest but said nothing, hoping they might get to the bottom of this mystery very soon and allow her the time to take a leisurely shower and change for dinner.

‘He has lost a painting,’ Falconi continued, but then amended, ‘The church has lost a painting. It hung in a small side chapel and was attributed to Rastello, I believe, or at least his studio, though there has been some disagreement. But it was valuable, and valuable to Santa Margherita since people would pay a small fee to view. Many made a special journey to the church, art lovers, of course, but also believers, pilgrims, sometimes a journalist from a newspaper or the radio. Without the painting, the church will suffer a large drop in income and it is not a rich area.’

‘But…how can you lose a painting?’ Flora asked for them both. ‘Was it very small?’

‘No, no. A large painting. Stolen from its fixings on the wall.’

‘It sounds like a professional job,’ Jack said quietly. ‘It would have needed careful planning. But surely its disappearance is a matter for the Venice police? And isn’t there a squad in Rome who deal specifically with art theft?’

‘This is not all,’ the count said mournfully. ‘Father Renzi’s housekeeper is also missing.’

‘You think she took the painting?’ Flora’s eyebrows rose sharply.

Falconi gave a small laugh. ‘Not at all. Filomena Pretelli is a pious woman, a devoted woman, who has looked after the priest for many years. She is also very small,’ he added.

‘Are you saying the painting and the housekeeper disappeared together?’ Jack stretched his legs which, bunched against the bench, had begun to cramp.

The count nodded. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Then it’s even more a case for the police.’

‘Stephano Renzi has reported the matter, but the police have said that there is no investigation to be had. The housekeeper must have left of her own free will. There is no sign of a struggle, her overnight bag is missing with some of her clothes – the lady has very few – and they insist it must be that she has gone on a trip somewhere.’

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