Page 66 of Vengeance in Venice
“We presume so, too.”
“For what it is worth,” Kellar said slowly, “I have heard that he is a worried man. There is no obvious sign of business difficulties and he did survive revolution and war. But I do wonder if everything is as safe for him as most people assume.”
“He lost a valuable government contract to Savelli,” Constance said.
Kellar, probably more used to absorbing gossip than spreading it, merely gave a thoughtful nod.
“Worried men make bad decisions,” Solomon remarked, “and can act quite out of character.”
Kellar gazed out over the canal. “He has many friends in Venice. And all over Italy.”
A shiver passed over Constance. She stared at Kellar’s half-averted face. Was that a warning?
*
After a lightluncheon, Solomon went out to try again to see Premarin. In the light of Kellar’s warning—if that was what it was—Constance felt uneasy about his going alone. On the other hand, while she was happy to take short walks and long rests in the little garden at the side of the house, she doubted she was up to visiting.
It annoyed her, because this was, presumably, what the poisoner had wanted. To slow them down and halt their inquiries. If only she knew what it was that had frightened the murderer into such a risky attack, something she or Solomon had said or done that the police had not…
Solomon left her with the notes when he escorted her into the little courtyard garden. She did not spread them about this time—for one thing, the wind was likely to carry them off, and for another, she just wanted to read them straight through, with all their thoughts and speculations.
She paused quite close to the beginning. The weapon that had killed Angelo Savelli was a long-bladed dagger, according to the police. Constance had never seen it. She wondered if the police had returned it to Elena, along with her husband’s body…
“Signora!”
The call startled her out of her thoughts, and she peered toward the noise. Domenico Rossi stood on the other side of the tall wrought-iron gate that covered the opening between the Palazzo Zulian and the building next to it.
She laid down the papers on the bench beside her and rose without thinking to unlock the gate and let him in. As he strode past her into the garden, she caught a whiff of wine on his breath. But then, small amounts of wine were drunk all the time here by most people. She was just more sensitive to it because she was barely drinking it at all right now.
He spun around and spread his arms with pleasure. “I came to see how you are, but how wonderful to see you looking so well! When I last saw your husband, he scared me witless. Youarebetter?”
“Much better, though still annoyingly weak. It has rather interfered with our portrait, I’m afraid. I don’t think I want to be painted looking exhausted and ill!”
“Who would? But in my picture, you will shine as you still do.”
“Hmm.” As she sat back down, he bent and picked up the papers from the bench, presumably so he could sit beside her. She could not help the speed with which she grasped them. “Let me take these out of your way…”
Over the notes, their eyes met for an instant and she saw that he knew what they were. He must have glimpsed something ofwhat was written there. She couldn’t recall what was on the top sheet, apart from that one brief mention of the weapon. She just hoped it was not littered with suspicions of Rossi and Adriana.
After a frozen instant, his grip loosened, and he sat down as though he did not care. She placed the pile of notes on her lap, face down, and folded her hands over them.
“We did not expect you today,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid Solomon has gone out.”
“Making inquiries like a policeman?” Rossi said, a sudden spark in his eyes. “Or a spy.”
“Or a concerned husband,” she said evenly.
His eyes narrowed and she became aware that the smell of drink was really quite strong and sour. “But it’s about more than your eating something that disagreed with you, isn’t it? It’s about me. Why? Did someone tell you I drink too much and forget things?”
She met his gaze because she never backed down. “Such as whom you last fought with?”
*
Nicolo Premarin wasat home, alone in his comfortable, blessedly masculine study, gazing bleakly into space and wondering what the devil he was going to do. He did not even hear the door open until the servant spoke.
“It is the Englishman again.”
Relief at this distraction hit him in waves. Besides, his ambition to rope Solomon Grey into some—any—kind of partnership had not abated one iota. He bounced to his feet, hurrying into the hall to capture his prize before Bianca discovered him.
