Page 77 of Vengeance in Venice
Foscolo lived in a decent set of rooms. A kitchen to the right, a dining room and a bedchamber on the left, and, facing the front door, a pleasant sitting room with a rickety but tidy desk at which he presumably worked.
Leaving Solomon to search in the sitting room, Constance flitted back to the bedchamber and, listening out for any sounds of approaching footsteps, began a quick, methodical search.
But there was very little here that was personal. Foscolo appeared to be a tidy man, but he kept no letters in his room, no keepsakes among his shirts or underwear. She found nothing under his pillow except a nightshirt, and nothing beneath the mattress. He had few ornaments and no jewelry. Apart from the painting in the hall, she found no traces of a wife. A man who lived for his work? Or a man perpetually in hiding from the Austrian police, living down his past as a revolutionary?
She moved into the kitchen, which was equipped well enough but was obviously little used. Too clean, too tidy. She had just opened the first drawer when she heard voices below in the foyer, and heavy footsteps mounting the stairs.
“Solomon!” she hissed, closing the drawer and bolting back into the hall, where she sat on a stool that was obviously used for standing on to reach the wall sconces.
After a tense moment, Solomon emerged, leaving the sitting room door in precisely the same position as they had found it, and loped silently down the passage to stand by her side. The footsteps paused an instant, as though their owner were surprised by the sight of the empty chair beside the front door. Constance held her breath, her heart beating loudly in her ears as she dredged up the story they’d hoped never to need.
“Signor Foscolo! Forgive us, but I was taken ill and the door opened, and Solomon was so anxious to speak to you. I do hope you don’t mind…”
Thin. Damnably thin…
The footsteps moved on and continued along the passage and up the next flight of stairs.
Constance sagged.
Solomon touched her shoulder. “Anything?”
“Nothing. You?”
He shook his head. “A few family papers, a couple of bills. It’s as if the man has no life.”
“Or a life he is hiding from the Austrians.”
“Precisely.”
Then he’d taken even more of a risk killing the Austrian ally, Savelli. What had Savelli done that Foscolo should kill him at that moment? Was it part of a larger plan? Or were they right that it was all for Elena?
He stood no chance with her, Constance realized all over again, as Solomon returned to the sitting room and she wentback into the kitchen. Why would she turn from one secretive man to another? She needed openness, honesty. And certainly not her husband’s killer…
Constance searched the inside of the drawers and beneath them. She looked in all the cupboards, even inside the oven and in every empty pot and jar.
She had just stood on tiptoes to replace the last jar on the shelf when a shadow fell over her.
Not Solomon. She always knew his presence.
She turned her head slowly.
Foscolo stood in the doorway, watching her.
Her instinctive cry to Solomon died in her throat.
How the devil had he got in so silently? One thing was certain—her planned story if discovered had no chance at all now. He was not going to believe that she had collapsed against the door and it had opened… Wildly, she wondered how to warn Solomon without giving his presence away to Foscolo.
The man was alarmingly still. He had been a soldier. He had probably killed many men before Savelli, and had tried to kill Constance already.
“Signor Foscolo,” she said loudly, and pushed the jar the rest of the way on to its shelf before turning fully to face him. “I was looking for tea, but of course I have no right and can only apologize for invading your home.”
“Oh, I think you must do better than that,” he said. “Explain it.”
Very aware that he stood in the way of any possible escape to the front door, she said, “I wanted to talk to you. Did the caretaker not tell you I was here?”
“No. The chair in the passage warned me of that. I prefer to come and go without Signora Berini’s surveillance.”
Beyond Foscolo’s shoulder, another shadow fell.
