Page 25 of Vengeance in Venice
There was a lot of shuffling and head shaking. The younger of the upper servants said, “After the lady left before midnight,everyone came back inside, including Signor Savelli, and I locked the back door. When Stefano, the boatman, went out, he found the door unlocked.”
“Why would Signor Savelli have gone out at that time, in the dark?” Constance asked. “Had he done such things before?”
“Not without his coat,” Stefano the boatman said, and the valet nodded.
“Had his bed been slept in?” Solomon asked the valet suddenly.
The man shrugged and Elena translated his torrent of speech. “He might have lain on it. The bedding was disturbed, but he did not appear to have changed into his nightclothes or slept between the sheets.”
Elena turned away. Impossible to tell if it was because she was bored or upset or hiding something she knew to be important.
*
“Well?” Elena askedas she led them out of the maze of kitchens toward the big entrance hall. “Did you learn anything of use?”
Solomon was wondering the same thing. “I believe we learned much.” Though its use to their inquiry was another matter. “Thank you for your help. It can’t have been easy for you.”
“Easier than sitting alone and waiting for the police to return my husband’s body.”
A surge of sympathy took him by surprise. Did she really have no friends, no family she could turn to in her hour of need? Perhaps she was too proud to ask, but a true friend, a sister, a cousin, would surely come anyway. Savelli’s death could not be a secret in the city or beyond. Had she burned her boats so badly by marrying Savelli? Without making new friends? If so, herlife must have been lonely enough before her husband’s horrific death.
Was that enough of a reason to do away with him?
“Did we ask the same questions as the police?” Constance said.
“Some.” Elena shrugged. “Foscolo is no fool. He will do his duty, whatever the cost.”
“You know Foscolo?” Solomon said in surprise.
“Of course. He comes from an old family, if not a particularly distinguished branch of it. He was a nationalist, in the revolution. Like me, he has made his peace with reality.”
“Do you know Lampl as well?” Constance asked.
“Yes, ever since he came to Venice three years ago. Angelo knew him before. He liked him. He is not…” She paused, clearly looking for the words. “He is not a policeman. He is an administrator. An official of government with responsibilities that cover police inquiries of a particular kind.”
“The kind that involves important people?” Solomon suggested. “When he came to interview us, we gathered his presence irritated Foscolo.”
“Foscolo is an irritable man.” She turned, giving her hand to Constance. “You will feel free to call again? I will help all I can.”
“Thank you,” Solomon said, bowing over her proffered hand in turn. “It is much appreciated.”
Alvise was in shouted conversation with another boatman close by, though he quickly broke off to help Constance into the gondola. It struck Solomon suddenly that they had not made full use of the man’s knowledge.
“Do you know the Savelli gondolier, Stefano?” he asked him.
“Of course. We are both members of the guild.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“He is older than me. Not a friend. I respect him.”
“Would he have approved, do you think, of his master employing his so-called bodyguards who attacked Signor Giusti and abducted my wife?”
“No.”
A man of few words, Alvise.
“Why would Savelli have hired such men?” Constance pressed. “Is it normal?”
