Page 27 of Vengeance in Venice
“I read his invoice,” Constance said with relish. “I have his address.”
A maid came into the room with a letter, which she presented to Solomon with a curtsey. It was a large, official-looking envelope emblazoned with a familiar coat of arms.
“It’s from the consulate,” Solomon said in surprise.
“Telling us to keep out of Venetian business?” Constance asked, intrigued enough to leave her desk and come to lean over his shoulder. He could not resist leaning his head back so that their cheeks touched. She moved hers, caressing him like a cat, which made him smile.
“It’s an invitation to a reception tomorrow afternoon,” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder whom we will meet there?”
Although the invitation was printed, a note had been inscribed by hand on the back by a secretary, apologizing for the short notice, which was only because the consul had not realized until today that such a distinguished British visitor was in Venice.
“He must mean you,” Solomon said.
“He can’tknowabout me,” Constance said wryly, thinking of her past. “We are both invited.”
“Which is as it should be. Perhaps they heard of our involvement in the Savelli murder. Either way, it will certainly be interesting to learn what the British here think of Savelli. Official government sympathy is generally with the nationalist cause.”
He rose and put the card on the large marble mantelpiece. “But that is for tomorrow. Perhaps you would like your portrait painted while you are in Venice?”
She smiled. “I would like yours. If he’s good. What a pity Signora Savelli didn’t show us hers. That must have been what was on the covered easel in the corner of her drawing room.”
After a cup of coffee—they had more or less given up on finding decent tea in Italy—they duly summoned Alvise and set off in search of the painter, Domenic Rossi. It had clouded over and there was a fine mizzle of rain. Unlike rain at home, this did not detract from Venice’s charm, merely changed it subtly to one of brooding moodiness. No wonder artists were drawn here. Or born here.
In fact, Domenico Rossi lived pretty close by. According to Alvise, there was a tradition of painters living in this quarter of the city, including the great Canaletto. They could easily have walked the short distance, but the novelty of traveling everywhere by boat had not yet worn off. After tying up the craft, Alvise pointed them down a narrow passageway and they set off to find the painter’s house.
Thoughtfully, he had nailed a sign to his door, consisting of a small, square view of the Cannaregio Canal with his name inscribed below it. Solomon raised the knocker, which was loose, and rapped on the door. After several moments, he rapped again. A male voice shouted within, easily heard through the open window on the floor above. Footsteps clomped nearer and the door opened to reveal a young, ill-dressed woman with a tangled mass of black hair, a curvy figure, and a face of exquisite beauty.
“Signor Rossi,per favore?” Solomon said politely.
“He’s not in,” the girl replied with blatant untruth.
Solomon raised one eyebrow. “Then that was not his voice I heard?”
“No.”
“Then we shall wait.”
The girl moved forward to block him when he would have brushed past her. “There is no point. Come back tomorrow. Early. The earlier the better.”
She would have shut the door, only Solomon, suspicions aroused, placed his hand on it and pushed back. The girl stared at him with more hopelessness than aggression.
“Are you his wife?” Constance asked gently in her careful Italian.
“God, no,” the girl said fervently. She raised her voice. “I have not yet sunk so low!”
Whatever the man above said, it sounded like a curse. He clattered downstairs and the girl made one last effort to close the door.
“Useless girl,” the man roared behind her. “Don’t send my bread and butter away!”
The girl threw up her hands, releasing the door. “Please yourself. Come in if you want,” she added to the visitors. “It won’t do you any good, because he’s drunk as an English lord.”
“Ha!” said the man, striding somewhat unevenly into view. “Even drunk, I paint better than anyone else in the city. Come in, and welcome!” He bowed elaborately, only just keeping his balance. He smelled like old socks and new wine.
Straightening, he regarded them from beneath thick, bushy brows. There was something leonine about him with his wild mane of reddish-brown hair and oddly noble features—apart from bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
It went against the grain to take Constance into such inebriated company. But it was she who sailed first through the door, taking the matter out of Solomon’s hands.
“Buon Giorno,” she said briskly. “Do you speak English, Signor Rossi?”
