Page 16 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

16

The following morning, a slight mist covered the lagoon leading Jack to suggest it was a day to visit a gallery. Apart from the Scuola Grande and the paintings hanging in Vivaldi’s church, they had seen little of Italy’s glorious art and he was keen that Flora managed a glimpse, at least, of the Accademia.

He was about to mention a trip across the lagoon to St Mark’s and a gentle walk from there to the gallery when, after cutting a peach into precise quarters, Flora said, ‘I think we should go to Asolo.’

Jack was temporarily confounded. ‘Not the priest again.’

‘The priest again,’ she affirmed.

Flora had kept her silence on yesterday’s adventure, but it had done nothing to set her mind at rest. On the contrary, it had made her surer than ever that a connection existed between what was happening to Father Renzi and the small town where he’d once been priest. Someone must have been watching his house in San Polo, watching Santa Margherita and, when she’d walked there yesterday, seen her knock on the priest’s door and followed her into the church. For some reason, she had posed a threat. Her pursuer – and there was no doubt they’d been the footsteps of a man – had clearly meant her harm or why not call out for her to stop, shout an explanation of why he was following? He’d not done so and his pursuit had been dogged. It was only when she’d outrun him and reached safe harbour that he’d given up.

‘Something has happened since we last spoke to Father Renzi,’ she said with conviction. ‘At the concert, he was a changed character. Not the courteous man we’d met before, the friendly man who was very, very keen that we help him find Signora Pretelli. Quite suddenly, he didn’t want to speak to us. And since that incident at the Pietà, he’s made no attempt to get in touch.’

The grey of Jack’s eyes had darkened. ‘It’s a strange development, I agree, but if we think something has changed, something new has happened to the man, we should be going to San Polo and speaking to Renzi himself, rather than travelling miles to a town neither of us know.’

‘We should,’ she admitted, ‘except I think it would be a wasted journey.’ She’d had time now to reflect on yesterday’s events. ‘I’m fairly sure Renzi will refuse to say what’s occurred to change his attitude. At best, we’ll be met with a blank face and told everything is fine. And it isn’t. I know it.’

Meditatively, Jack stirred his coffee. ‘I’d love to see Asolo,’ he admitted. ‘If only for itself. The town is reputed to be very beautiful. But in order to help Father Renzi? How will a trip there tell us anything?’

‘It’s the place it all started. It’s where Franco comes from, where Filomena and her nephew come from, and the horrible Tascas, and where Renzi was the priest for years.’

Jack continued stirring his coffee. ‘All true, and you may be right.’ He gave a sudden smile. ‘You very often are, though I’m not convinced that Asolo is the key to the mystery. Still…it is a very lovely town.’

‘You’re willing to be persuaded?’

He nodded. ‘I guess so. Even if we discover nothing, it will be a great day out,’ but then added, more in hope than expectation, ‘you wouldn’t rather take a trot around the Accademia?’

‘We’ll go to the gallery before we leave the city, I promise. Tomorrow. But today, let’s take a train to Asolo. I imagine you can take a train there.’

The hotel reception confirmed that you could indeed take the railway to Asolo, but it would mean a change of trains, a change of station, then a bus, and then a smaller bus. They would advise hiring a car, with or without a driver, which they could book in a matter of minutes.

In for a penny, Jack decided. ‘A car is certainly a better choice, and could you book a driver as well?’ He saw Flora’s look of surprise and no wonder. It was by far the most expensive option.

‘But, of course.’ The receptionist beamed. ‘I will book it immediately. Guido will take you to the Piazzale Roma and you will find the car waiting for you.’

Guido, they presumed was the Cipriani boatman.

‘Can we afford it?’ Flora asked, anxiously, as they climbed the stairs to their room to gather essentials for the day ahead.

‘We can’t afford not to. Do you want to spend most of the day on a broiling bus or an endless succession of trains? This way, we’ll have time to interrogate the whole town!’

Passing through the lobby on their way to the hotel boat, they were stopped before they reached the door. The receptionist had darted from behind her desk to wave at them.

‘You have a telephone call, Signora Carrington.’

‘Me?’ Flora looked confused.

‘But yes.’ The girl awarded her a professional smile. ‘It is a friend, I believe. You may take it in the kiosk. It is more private there.’

Still clutching Jack’s hand, Flora crossed the foyer with him to the alcove that contained the public telephone. She held the receiver so that he could be sure to hear before pressing the button that would transfer the call. It was Sally’s voice that came down the line.

‘Sorry to encroach on your holiday again, Flora, but I had to phone. I need to go home – to sort out the Priory. There’s trouble there, though I can’t imagine what’s been going on. Anyway, I’m leaving this evening on the eight o’clock train from Santa Lucia and I won’t have time to say goodbye in person. I felt I had to spend my last day in Venice with Bianca. She’s so very upset.’

‘Something has happened to her?’ Flora half turned to her husband, pulling a small face.

‘Not Bianca, her father. He’s not at all well. He’s had trouble with his heart before and now he’s feeling quite ill again. It’s the debt, I think.’

‘The debt?’

‘For the new boat. He had to borrow to pay for it, apparently, and there’s some problem about repaying the money. I’m not sure exactly what and I don’t like to ask.’

‘Perhaps you’ll find out today,’ Flora suggested.

‘Perhaps. I just want to buy her lunch and hopefully boost her spirits a little. But I’ll see you both when you’re back in Abbeymead. When do you leave?’

In answer to Flora’s raised eyebrows, Jack held up three fingers.

‘We’ve three more days here,’ Flora said. ‘Not long. But have a safe journey, Sally, and we’ll see you very soon. Oh, and give our love to Alice.’

‘Well, what do you make of that?’ she asked, replacing the receiver.

‘Not much, except that Sally is playing the good Samaritan before going home to knock a few heads together. Meanwhile, my lovely wife, we have a beautiful town to explore!’

Piazzale Roma was busy. As the entrance to the city and the only place in central Venice accessible to motor vehicles – the square acted as the main bus station – it teemed with cars, coaches, motorbikes. And lorries carrying every kind of goods.

Maggiore, the hire car business, had its offices next to a ramshackle garage and as soon as Jack stepped off the Cipriani boat, he could smell the diesel permeating the air. Taking Flora’s hand, he made for the office door. There were papers to sign and a driver to meet, a grey-haired stalwart, a Signor Gallo he noticed from the badge, who pointed them to an open-top Alfa Romeo, at least ten years old but classically elegant in deep blue with a red leather interior.

‘Asolo?’ Jack said, unsure if their destination had appeared anywhere in the reams of paperwork he’d signed.

‘ Sì, Sì ,’ the man said, solemnly opening the wide single door and gesturing them to take the rear seat. In a minute, he’d pressed the starter, the engine had burst into life and they were on their way.

‘We take road to Treviso,’ their driver said over his shoulder.

‘Treviso?’ Flora queried in a low voice.

‘Asolo is north of Treviso,’ Jack reassured her, ‘but I imagine we’ll bypass the town. This is Liberty Bridge, by the way. It’s the only road access into Venice from the mainland.’

‘Liberty Bridge? The war again?’

He nodded. ‘Built by Mussolini in the thirties, but after the war renamed for the end of the Fascist regime. It runs into the Via Della Libertà.’

‘Of course it does!’

Expertly, Signor Gallo swung the car into the line of traffic making its way out of the city and onto a causeway that ran parallel to the railway bridge. In a short while, they were out on the road and the city had been left behind.

Through the window, clouds of filthy air began to drift towards them.

‘Porto Marghera?’ she asked and Jack nodded.

‘If Mestre is anything like it, no wonder Franco decided he couldn’t live there. Not after the Cipriani!’

Turning off the road that bypassed both Mestre and Marghera, Flora settled down to watch the passing landscape. The road, snaking its way towards Treviso, travelled between wooded hills, their lower slopes terraced for vines, and through numerous small villages, each with their square-topped church and war memorial. In the far distance, the sight of the snow-capped Dolomites caught her eye. The mountains were rarely visible from Venice, beleaguered as it was by waves of humidity rising from the lagoon.

As Jack had prophesied, they changed route on the outskirts of Treviso and after paying at a toll booth, Signor Gallo pulled into a rest area.

‘You want drink?’ he enquired from the front seat.

‘Good idea.’ Jack was enthusiastic. ‘We can stretch our legs at the same time.’ He helped his wife from the car. ‘I reckon we’ll be driving for another hour, at least.’

Flora didn’t mind – another hour, another two hours, or longer. Getting to Asolo was what mattered. The town, she was hopeful, would unlock the puzzle they’d been set.