Page 12 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

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‘That is one angry man,’ Jack observed as they walked up the path to the hotel foyer.

‘Angry enough to push Massi to his death?’

‘I don’t see why not. He was angry enough to come here and harangue the reception staff – risking any business the hotel might give him in the future. And it seems he had more than one reason to be furious.’

‘The money, you mean. That surprised me.’

They were walking up the marble staircase to their first-floor room and Jack put a finger to his lips. It was better to keep the discussion for the bedroom and she agreed.

As they walked into the apartment, Flora caught sight of her face in the crystal-framed Murano mirror. More freckles, she mourned, but at least her arms and legs had turned a satisfying colour and she felt extraordinarily alive.

‘You look quite beautiful, you know.’ Jack wrapped both arms around her and bounced her on to the sofa that faced the long windows leading to their balcony.

Laughing, she landed half on and half off the seat. ‘You’ve obviously enjoyed today!’

‘I have, and do we have to talk about Benetti right now?’ He said it with feeling.

‘We do – for a while.’

‘And then?’

She reached across to give him a gentle kiss. ‘Benetti,’ she said, her tone businesslike. ‘What was the money he referred to, do you think?’

‘All I could imagine was that Massi must have borrowed from him or Benetti gave the pair a gift of cash when they became engaged.’

‘And now he sees it as money wasted.’

‘Well it was. A painful waste, particularly after he’d suffered a collision that wrecked his taxi. He would have had to find a very large sum for that splendid new boat.’

‘I wonder how he did find the money? Perhaps he’s had to go into debt. If so, it’s no wonder he’s unhappy with Bianca. But whatever her shortcomings, it’s evident he’s very proud of her.’

Flora reached up to rearrange the ponytail she’d worn on and off since arriving in Venice – a way to stay cool, she’d discovered – smoothing back the otherwise recalcitrant waves to fasten them neatly with a tortoiseshell buckle clip.

‘Yes, he is proud,’ Jack agreed. ‘In a strange way. And angry for her as well as with her. Bianca shrugged it off when we spoke to her, but it was a rejection that she suffered and she’s bound to feel humiliated.’

‘And if she really loved him, desperately upset. No wonder Benetti took up the cudgels on her behalf. It was inevitable he’d tackle Franco face-to-face. When he came here to the Cipriani it was to have it out with the man, but they sent him packing before he could. So instead – why not waylay Franco on his way back from La Zucca that evening?’

‘It’s possible, but how we find out…’

The open windows were an invitation to a breeze that had begun to blow across the lagoon and, refreshed, Jack got to his feet and walked out onto the balcony. For a while, he stood looking out on the busy scene below, watching the stream of boats that plied to and from the city and the islands.

‘The mention of money was interesting,’ he said, walking back into the room, ‘but did you catch what he said about troubles? That stayed in my mind. Were they troubles Bianca encountered when she was in England? He had nothing good to say about her stay there.’

Flora swung her legs onto the sofa and stretched out against the pile of cushions. ‘The remark struck me as odd, too. I wondered if anything happened in Abbeymead or Brighton that we don’t know about. Sally never mentioned any problem. In fact, once Bianca left the village to work at the Old Ship, I don’t think she saw much of the girl – even though they appear to have kept in touch.’

‘If the troubles were connected to England, whatever they were, they couldn’t have had anything to do with her meeting Franco. Benetti was quite clear the two of them didn’t meet until she’d returned to Venice.’

‘So…another kind of trouble? I suppose if something serious did occur in England it could have added to the upset Benetti felt over the broken engagement. More fuel for the fire. One thing after another.’ She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘Jack?—’

‘Don’t ask!’

‘Alan Ridley might know something. Bianca must have lived and worked in Sussex for around two years.’

‘Even if we unearthed a problem in England, would it have any bearing on what’s happened since?’

‘You can never tell. How many times do we know when the past has come back to bite people when they least expected it?’

Jack walked back to the sofa and she shuffled along to make room for him. ‘OK.’ He sounded resigned. ‘I’ll ring Brighton police in the morning, after breakfast, and hope to find the inspector in. He won’t be too happy, though – he’s bound to think it trivial.’

‘He could check on them both,’ Flora said, impervious to the warning. ‘Franco as well as Bianca. He worked in London for several years and it would be good to have more information, particularly as no one here is likely to know anything about his life abroad.’

* * *

Each morning, breakfast seemed to take a little longer. The temptation to linger was strong: a flower-strewn terrace, a parasol-shaded table, and boats to watch. So many boats, a fascinating parade constantly in motion. And always an attentive waiter ready to serve them platters of fruit and pastries, jugs of coffee and, for Jack, smoked salmon or a dish of eggs Benedict.

This morning was no different and it was well after ten o’clock before they left the terrace and wandered into the lobby. They’d gone only a few steps before they were hailed by Signor Trentino who, today, was the sole member of staff at the reception desk.

‘You have a message, signore, signora .’ The receptionist held a slip of white paper, fluttering it in the air.

‘The signora did not wish to disturb you at breakfast,’ he said, as they approached, ‘but ask that I give you this.’

Jack took the note from him. ‘It’s from Sally,’ he said briefly, turning to Flora. ‘I guess we were expecting it.’

‘And?’

‘She’d love to meet for a chat, but only if we’d like to. How can we say no?’

‘We can’t. We’ll have to say hello.’

‘Say hello and perhaps get her to explain why, of all places, she decided to come to Venice.’ He hadn’t meant to sound flinty, but felt a nagging irritation that not even here, a thousand miles away, could they be free of village life. ‘She’s suggesting this evening – a drink at the Minerva bar. What do you think?’

‘Why not? It’s inevitable we would meet at some point. And the Minerva…’

‘We’ll be meeting Sally, not sleuthing,’ he warned, then caught Signor Trentino’s eye and said hastily, ‘Could you ring this number please and say we’ll be at the hotel at seven this evening?’

‘Of course, signore ,’ the man said smoothly. ‘Is there anything else I can help with?’

‘Actually, there is, thank you. I need to make a telephone call – to England – and I’m not sure how best to do it.’

‘The hotel switchboard will be happy to help. If you would be so kind as to give me the number you require, I will ask the telefonista to make contact and pass the call through to the telephone alcove. You will find it on the right, as you step into the garden.’

‘Excellent. We’ll wait there?’

‘It will take a little time, and if it is not possible to connect, I will send a man to tell you.’

But it was possible and quicker than Jack expected. They’d waited only a few minutes beside the alcove when the phone rang and Alan Ridley’s voice sounded down the line.

‘Jack Carrington! Aren’t you on your honeymoon, old chap?’

‘We are, Alan, but?—’

‘There’s always a “but” with you two. Don’t tell me that young woman you’ve married?—’

‘Flora,’ he interrupted brusquely, feeling the familiar annoyance that Ridley seemed unable or unwilling to use Flora’s name.

—‘Flora,’ the inspector continued stiffly. ‘Don’t tell me she’s got you investigating. Not on your honeymoon. Not in Venice!’

‘It’s a small thing only.’

‘It always is.’ Ridley was sounding unusually cheerful, Jack realised. Success in solving a difficult case, perhaps?

‘I wouldn’t bother you, only something’s come up.’ Don’t say it always does, he muttered inwardly. ‘A link between Venice and Sussex – in particular, a link with Abbeymead and Brighton. One of Sally Jenner’s friends – you’ll remember Sally, I’m sure, she runs the Priory hotel – one of her friends has returned home to Venice but worked for some time in Sussex. We wondered if perhaps the girl was mentioned in any police file.’

‘Why—’ the inspector began to ask.

‘Her name is Bianca Benetti,’ Jack said quickly, unable to explain why they were interested in Bianca’s stay in England. It was too complicated.

‘Benetti,’ Alan Ridley mused. ‘The name is ringing some kind of bell, though I’ve no idea why.’

‘If you could spare the time, can you check for me? It’s a minor thing, as I said, but it would help the holiday go smoothly.’

There was a pause, the inspector evidently thinking hard. ‘If I were you, Jack,’ he said at last, ‘I wouldn’t fret. Honeymoons rarely go smoothly, it’s a well-known fact.’

‘Really? Not that—’ Jack began, but instantly gave up any attempt to disabuse Ridley that the holiday was a disaster. Time was just too short. ‘There is another name you could look out for at the same time,’ he said hopefully.

‘You don’t want much, do you?’

‘The chap is called Franco Massi.’

‘How do you spell that?’

As he spelt out the name, he could hear the inspector scribbling.

‘OK, I’ll have a quick gander, but I’m not spending too much time on it. I’m off on a break myself in a couple of weeks. Broadstairs – d’you know it?’

Jack denied any knowledge of the town.

‘Nice little place. Great beaches – miles of sand, not the pebble we’ve got here – and the best bed and breakfast in the country. Can’t wait to get away!’

Deciding to forgo the Cipriani ferry to St Mark’s on a new sightseeing trip, they walked to the nearest vaporetto stop, passing the Redentore on the way. Jack was keen to take a wander through the huge Palladian church, a sixteenth-century thanksgiving for Venice’s deliverance from the plague.

Flora, though, had no great interest. ‘I don’t think I want to,’ she said. ‘It’s big and cold and very white.’

‘And that’s a problem?’ Jack was laughing.

Looking up at the vast cupola, she was conscious of a movement at the edge of her vision. A figure, there and then not there. It had disappeared through a side entrance to the church. Why the side entrance? Why not up the front flight of steps and through the magnificent Doric pillars? She gave a swift glance around. They were alone, no passers-by, no tourists – they would flock here next month for the festa which, with fireworks, celebrated the end of a terrible plague. Maybe the figure had come to pray quietly – that was always possible. It had been the flash of bright blue that triggered memory. That, and a certain shambling stride. A lot of men wear blue shirts, she scolded herself, a lot might walk in that creeping fashion, not just Luigi Tasca. But the fear remained.

‘Well?’ he asked her, still smiling.

Flora made a decision. She was being foolish. She would say nothing. ‘The church feels unfriendly,’ she tried to explain. ‘It’s giving me goose pimples just looking at it.’ Was that the church’s doing or that flash of blue shirt?

‘Can churches be unfriendly?’ he asked, while they waited for the next vaporetto . ‘That seems a contradiction.’

‘I think they can. But perhaps it’s just that I’ve seen too many. There are over two hundred in Venice alone – which is a terrifying figure.’

‘We’re going to the Vivaldi concert tomorrow,’ Jack reminded her, ‘and it’s to be performed in a church.’

‘That’s different,’ she insisted. ‘Vivaldi’s church is much smaller and it’s where he worked for most of his life. And it will be filled with wonderful music. Oh, the boat’s here already.’

She nodded towards the little ship wallowing towards them, spray surging around its deck as it plunged through the lagoon on what was an unusually windy morning.

The journey across the Giudecca Canal took no more than ten minutes and, arriving at the Zattere, a wide and wonderful promenade stretched ahead of them. Built as a landing dock hundreds of years previously, the quay was as exposed as it was wide and, despite the wind that still blew strongly, it wasn’t long before they began to feel uncomfortably sticky, the sun beating down from a near cloudless sky. A fifteen-minute saunter from the vaporetto brought them to a corner café that fronted a narrow canal, its blinds offering a welcome stretch of shade. Stopping to cool down, they gazed across the water and realised they were looking at something very special.

Jack consulted the guidebook he’d decided to bring with him today. ‘According to this,’ he said, ‘we’re standing opposite the oldest shipyard in Venice.’

The scene could have been one from two hundred years ago: gondolas being repaired, gondolas being constructed.

‘A hundred different pieces and seven types of wood for each gondola,’ Jack read. ‘It’s a craft handed down from one generation to another.’

‘And such skill,’ Flora murmured, watching as a craftsman slowly sanded one of the many sections of wood that, once shaped, would eventually make a finished boat.

‘For how much longer, though? Will future generations be willing to learn?’ Then, in a change of mood, he gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Could you eat an ice cream?’

‘When can’t I?’

Slowly demolishing their ice creams, strawberry for Flora and malaga , a kind of rum and raisin, for Jack, they strolled back to the Zattere and along towards the harbour of San Basilio where they found a bench in the shade.

‘You might want to know you’ve a dribble of strawberry on your chin,’ Jack said.

‘And you’ve rum and raisin on your nose. More usefully, do you have a handkerchief handy? I can’t get to mine.’

With some difficulty, he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a large square of linen. ‘You first.’ Grinning, he handed her the handkerchief. ‘Looking like this, we wouldn’t be too welcome on any of those.’ He pointed to the line of expensive yachts berthed in the harbour. ‘Ragamuffins, they’d say. Not a lira to their name!’

‘No money maybe, but far better taste.’

‘What do you mean, no money? We’ll order the yacht tomorrow! In the meantime, lunch calls.’

‘After ice cream?’

‘A miserable gelato isn’t going to feed a man and breakfast disappeared an age ago. There are dozens of bars and restaurants along the quayside and I have my eye on one in particular.’

Their walk back from the Zattere, through Dorsoduro and over the Accademia bridge to St Mark’s, was a fair distance and made beneath the broiling sun of early afternoon. An uncomfortable walk, especially when you were feeling very full, Flora admitted to herself: she’d soon forgotten the ice cream amid a welter of bruschetta and grilled mullet. A splendid lunch.

It was a hot and weary twosome, though, who telephoned the Cipriani for a ride back to the hotel.

‘I don’t know if I can bear to walk to the Minerva this evening.’ Flora yawned, her head slumped on his shoulder. ‘Or even open my mouth to talk.’

‘Sally will be disappointed if you don’t go.’ He fell silent, thinking how best to say what he wanted. ‘Flora,’ he began, when they were midway across the lagoon, ‘I think maybe you should meet Sally alone.’

Flora straightened in her seat, suddenly energised. ‘You want me to go on my own? But why?’

‘I think it would be easier, less awkward if I wasn’t there. She wouldn’t feel so bad about interrupting our honeymoon.’

‘Maybe she should feel bad.’

‘You know you don’t mean that. And if you intend to talk to her about Bianca, I reckon you’ll get far more from her if there’s just the two of you and a glass of wine.’

‘There will be plenty to talk about,’ Flora said hesitantly. ‘And Sally is bound to know more than we do.’

But on the verge of agreeing, she was hit by a sudden frisson of fear. Above the surface of the waves an image glimmered – the figure at the Redentore. The Minerva hotel wasn’t far from the church, she imagined, and what if the blue-shirted man was lurking close? She needed her husband beside her.

‘On the other hand,’ she countered, ‘Sally could find it odd if you weren’t with me. It could make her feel even worse about the “gatecrashing”. I think you need to come, Jack. And she could have useful information. It was Bianca who asked her to visit and, by now, the girl must have spilt whatever beans there were to spill. Why Franco really pulled out of the engagement, for instance.’

Jack could hazard a fairly accurate guess. Cold feet. He’d had plenty of them himself, but he kept a diplomatic silence.