Page 7 of The Venice Murders

Walking across to the long windows, he took a last look at the lights of San Giorgio Maggiore before swishing the curtains closed. As soon as the receptionist had mentioned the name of the town, he’d known it would send Flora buzzing, her imagination in overdrive with all kinds of speculation. It was the last thing he wanted, but if he knew Flora – and he should by now – she wouldn’t be content to walk away.

He turned and she was standing facing him, bright and determined, the hazel in her eyes almost black with excitement.

‘Before he drowned,’ she said, ‘Franco had a very bad quarrel with the owner of the restaurant we ate at last night. La Zucca. What’s the betting the owner comes from Asolo, too?’

‘I’m not betting and neither are you.’ He took hold of her shoulders and gave her a small shake. ‘We agreed, remember. An impossible task, we said. No involvement.’

‘That was before I knew Signor Massi came from Asolo. It can’t be the coincidence you say it is.’

‘Why can’t it? Massi’s death was an accident and they do happen.’ He was being stubborn, he knew, but it mattered greatly that nothing marred their honeymoon.

‘An “accident”? Like the one that saw Polly Dakers die, or Percy Milburn, or Alex Vicary a few months ago. Like Kate’s father, even, right at the beginning of our detective work.’

‘Thatwasan accident.’

Flora gave a smallhmphand turned so that he could unzip the very special cocktail dress. For the moment, she said no more and, after hanging the frock reverently in the wardrobe, made for the bathroom.

At the door, however, she paused. ‘I’m not happy, Jack,’ she said, the brightness gone from her face.

That was obvious, he thought.

‘I need to settle things in my mind. To feel that there really isn’t anything we can do. Franco was a decent man, friendly, helpful. If it wasn’t an accident…’

‘How are you ever likely to discover that? We’re foreigners with no idea even how to begin. And this city is built on water. He won’t be the first to drown in a Venetian canal.’

‘I could talk to some of the staff,’ she said doggedly. ‘A conversation or two. Find out if there was anything in Franco’s life that didn’t seem right.’ She walked back to him and clasped his hands. ‘I have to do it, Jack. Please understand.’

Inwardly, he uttered a long, quiet sigh. But Jack knew when he was beaten.

Breakfast on the terrace the next morning, beneath blue and white umbrellas, was a leisurely affair, a large buffet of juices, cereals, fruits and cold meats greeting them as they were shown through a sea of crisp white cloths to a table close to the lagoon. Beyond an ornamental ironwork barrier, the water was just yards away, a moving backdrop, boat after boat plying past as they ate. And they could have eaten for most of the morning, a flurry of attentive waiters ensuring their table was never bare.

Flora had finished her last piece of melon – a modest breakfast was all she could ever manage – as Jack was about to tackle his scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

‘I forgot to bring a handkerchief,’ she said, patting the handbag that hung at one side of her chair. ‘While you finish, I’ll pop back to the bedroom. I’ll only be a minute.’

She knew Jack was unlikely to be deceived, but she also knew that he had smoked salmon to eat and wouldn’t want his eggs to go cold. As she’d anticipated, he pulled a wry face, but picked up his knife and fork without a comment.

Reaching the bedroom, Flora was delighted to find a chambermaid busily changing the linen. She needn’t go looking for someone to talk to after all; she had a captive audience.

Hearing Flora’s footsteps, the girl looked up from her work, a little startled. ‘Mi scusi, signora,’ she murmured, beginning to make for the door, ‘tornerò.’

‘Come back?’ Flora hazarded and, when the girl nodded, she put out a detaining hand. ‘Please don’t go. I’m only here to collect a handkerchief.Un fazzoletto,’ she remembered, feeling pleased with herself. For the last few months, she had been trying hard to memorise at least a little Italian vocabulary and, for some reason or another,fazzolettohad stuck in her mind.

Smiling cheerfully at the maid, she walked across the room to the antique walnut chest and began opening one after another of its drawers, making a play of searching through her underwear, before asking, ‘Do you speak English?’

‘A little.’ The girl made a gesture with thumb and finger to show the small extent of her knowledge.

It will have to do, Flora thought, and mime is always useful. ‘When we arrived at the hotel,’ she said, ‘there was a very nice man at reception. His name’ – she patted the side of her blouse trying to indicate where a badge might sit – ‘was Franco Massi.’

The girl’s face clouded.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Franco not here.’

‘Oh!’ She hoped her surprise appeared genuine. ‘What a shame – he was so helpful. I would have liked to speak to him again. Has he left the Cipriani?’

‘Sì.’ Her voice was so quiet that Flora had to strain to hear.

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