Page 44 of Vengeance in Venice
Foscolo said, “He did, but he went to prison just the same.”
“Is he still there?” Constance asked.
Foscolo’s lips twitched. “Yes, signora, he is.”
Constance met Solomon’s gaze, with a resigned lift of one shoulder. A hopeful suspect eliminated.
“Do you have a moment, signor?” Foscolo said to Lampl.
Lampl moved, grasping his underling by the elbow.
Solomon stepped aside to give them privacy, murmuring, “Excuse me.”
He did not move far, however. No doubt his ears, like hers, were straining to catch what was said. Constance, however, could not make heads nor tails of the rapid, almost whispered sounds, and from his frustrated frown, neither could Solomon.
“Excuse me,” he said again, retrieving Constance’s glass from the table beside the policemen, and returning it to her before offering his arm. “I still heard nothing,” he murmured.
Constance grimaced, looking about her. “So, we are back to the suspects we like.”
“Apparently so.” He nodded across the room. “Premarin?” he suggested.
“Why not?” She took his arm as they walked between groups of people who chattered in similarly cultured tones, but in many different languages and sometimes in a mixture. “What else have you learned?”
“That I don’t like the British abroad. How does Kellar know your mother?”
“I have absolutely no idea. I’m still staggered that he admitted to it without threat of violence. There he is.”
Premarin appeared delighted to see them and introduced them to his companions.
“How was the funeral service?” Constance asked sympathetically.
“Moving,” said Premarin with a sigh. “And so sad. We returned to the Palazzo Savelli to pay our respects to the signora, but I don’t think she was in a fit state, so we did not stay. Poor Elena.”
“Is Signora Premarin very upset too?”
Premarin blinked. “Of course. Oh, you mean that she does not accompany me to this reception? Between ourselves, she does not care for such events, and she feels hampered by speaking no English.”
It was just a little too much explanation. Covering, perhaps, for the fact that he had not asked her. Or thought of her, probably.
With an air of mischievous conspiracy, Premarin swiped an open bottle from the tray of a hurrying waiter and topped up Constance’s glass, then Solomon’s and his own. “The wine at these affairs is always excellent,” he confided, his eyes twinkling. “Of course, I supply it…”
Constance noticed Foscolo leaving again. She wondered if he had come only to pass something on to his superior. Or if he had been invited and Lampl had jealously sent him away.
“I saw you talking to Mr. Kellar,” Premarin said jovially. Adriana slipped past him, collecting more plates and glasses. “One meets him all over Italy. Do you know him well?”
“No, this was our first meeting,” Solomon said. “He is a diplomat, I believe.”
“At the very least. He has a finger in many pies. A little like yourself, Mr. Grey.”
“I have never been a diplomat.”
Premarin smiled. “There is still time. I wonder why Foscolo did not stay? Perhaps Lampl sent him off to follow Giusti.”
“I suppose Giusti has to be their prime suspect,” Solomon murmured.
Premarin made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “It is not in his nature. Not like that. My money is on Savelli’s own servants. Which would really be the best outcome for everyone.”
Except Savelli. Constance sipped her wine and shivered. She felt suddenly chilled, as though an ominous cloud was growing closer. It made her feel slightly dizzy.
