Page 17 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

17

Jack had been pessimistic, Flora decided, when some forty minutes later, the driver pulled into a parking area outside Asolo and consulted his watch.

‘You come back?’ he asked, tapping the dial of his timepiece.

‘Six o’clock,’ Jack suggested. Then to Flora, ‘That should give us time for lunch, as well as finding people willing to talk to us.’

‘Always food,’ she sighed.

‘We’re in Italy! Of course it’s always food.’

Looking around her as they walked the short distance into the town, Flora could see why such lavish praise had been heaped on this small settlement, nestled so neatly into the wooded hillside. Ahead of them lay a jumble of terracotta rooftops amid a cluster of cypress, with here and there the turrets of what looked to be old villas peeping between the trees. It was a town of cobbled lanes and small squares, of rose-filled gardens and frescoed walls and, towering over all, the Renaissance fortress – basking today in the golden light of a full sun.

Passing through an archway, they began a walk along one of the many arcaded streets, this one leading to the Piazza Garibaldi, the main square which, when they reached it, appeared remarkably quiet.

‘It’s so peaceful here and so beautiful. The pace of life must be very slow,’ she observed, as they took a seat at the square’s café.

‘Lemonade?’ he asked, as the waiter hovered at his shoulder.

‘Please.’

‘The town is certainly beautiful, but it was never going to be enough for Franco Massi, was it?’ Jack leant back in his chair, enjoying the view.

‘I can see why he might want a different life,’ Flora agreed. ‘Bright, ambitious, good with people – he was hardly a man to till the land.’

‘So, now we’re here, what do we do?’ He picked up the glass of cold lemonade the waiter had brought. ‘Have you made a plan? Of course, if you’ve changed your mind, we could simply picnic beneath the castle and drive back to Venice.’

‘We won’t be doing that and you know it! I do have a plan of sorts. I thought we’d find Franco’s parents first.’

‘And?’

‘And talk to them.’

‘They have just lost their son,’ he reminded her.

‘I know that, Jack, and if they don’t want to talk, that will be it. But it’s possible they might actually want to. They could be eager to speak of him.’

‘I have my doubts, but it’s worth an attempt, I suppose.’

When they asked their waiter for directions to the Massi house, they were told it was not, in fact, a house they needed but a smallholding on the outskirts of town. There was no taxi to take them, the man said apologetically, but it was a twenty-minute walk at most.

‘We can walk,’ Jack assured him. ‘Does Signor Massi have a large business?’

The waiter cocked his head. ‘He grows vegetables. Many fields – for the market. Fruit, too. And eggs. Chickens,’ he explained, in case they hadn’t made the connection.

By midday, they were standing at the end of a long, winding drive and despite the refreshing breeze, feeling exceptionally hot. The sound of a horn slicing through the silence made them jump. A tractor was pulling into the side of the lane behind them.

In his best Italian – which was poor, Jack had to admit – he managed to indicate they were bound for the house they could glimpse at the end of the drive, whereupon the driver gestured to them to squash into the buddy seat beside him. The ten minutes that followed were uncomfortable but vastly preferable to a trudge in the scorching sun.

It was Signora Massi who opened the door, a kindly-looking woman with hair scraped into a collapsing bun and wearing a much-washed apron. Behind her, a slight figure hovered in the hallway beyond.

When Jack again tried his Italian, hoping to tell her how they’d met Franco at the Cipriani and to express their sadness over her son’s death, the shadow behind the signora suddenly became a person. A young boy, awkwardly dragging one leg, but with eyes the colour of chestnuts, spoke directly to them.

‘Can I help?’ he asked in English, with a smile that lit his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jack apologised. ‘Sorry that my Italian is so poor.’

‘You try,’ the boy said. ‘And that is good. My name is Daniele. I learn English from my brother. We speak English now and I translate for Mama.’

‘My name is Jack Carrington and this is my wife, Flora,’ he said gratefully. ‘We’re on holiday in Venice and met your brother’ – it seemed a reasonable guess – ‘at the Cipriani.’

‘You stay at the hotel?’

‘We’re on our honeymoon. It’s a very special holiday.’

How special it would turn out to be Jack didn’t like to think.

Daniele gave them another blinding smile. ‘Franco loved the hotel. He loved very much his work there.’

‘That was obvious when he checked us in on our first evening.’

‘Venire! ’ the signora suddenly commanded, breaking into a conversation it was doubtful she could follow, and hustling them into the flagged hallway and along a narrow passage to the rear of the house. Through an open door, Flora glimpsed a small room as they passed, set up as a workshop. A businesslike sewing machine sat atop a large table, and the shelves that filled one entire wall were packed with bales of material: cottons, crepes, and a small number of silks. Signora Massi was a seamstress.

The woman led them into a large airy room that ran across the entire rear of the house, a ceiling fan lazily stirring the warm air but offering some small relief from a heat that was becoming more intense.

‘ Sedersi! ’ she commanded again, and they did, finding the basketweave chairs cool and comfortable.

Their hostess hurried from the room, but in a few minutes had returned with glasses of cold juice, a mixture of cherry and lemon. Delicious, Flora thought, trying not to drink too greedily.

‘Your son’s?’ Jack enquired, pointing to several framed certificates on the mantelpiece.

‘Franco,’ their hostess confirmed with pride.

‘He was the clever one,’ Daniele said, without a trace of resentment. ‘Franco passed every examination, but there was nothing for him here.’ The smile had faded and the note of sadness was evident. ‘He wanted always to live in the city, in a beautiful apartment. In London, in Venezia. And he made big success. He was very good in his job. Very good with important people, people who had money.’

‘He’d have to be,’ Jack remarked drily. ‘The Cipriani isn’t exactly cheap. But you, you never wanted to follow him?’

The boy gestured to his leg. ‘This does not work so well. I am tired many times and it is better I stay here. I can help my father.’

Again, it was said without resentment.

Signora Massi had sat silent as they talked. ‘ Tornava spesso ,’ she offered.

‘Even though my brother loved cities, he came back to Asolo,’ Daniele translated, ‘often.’

‘Because your parents needed him?’

The boy looked uncertain. ‘Maybe he needed Asolo,’ he said diffidently.

Franco’s story had been that his parents were ageing and it was his duty to help them and his disabled brother. But one look at her hostess had convinced Flora – and she was sure Jack, too – that it was simply a story. Signora Massi was sprightly and energetic, still working as a dressmaker if the sewing machine didn’t lie, while Franco’s father worked in his fields daily. As for Daniele, the brother who in future would need greater care, he moved slowly, it was true, perhaps painfully, but he was a cheerful lad and, it seemed, quite capable. Hadn’t he just said that he helped his father in the fields? Bianca had been right to reject Franco’s excuse – it was patently false.

If Franco had ever suffered worries for his family, they had to have been minimal, yet apparently the man had returned to his home town often and Flora wondered why. Was it that he wasn’t particularly happy with his lot? That Venice hadn’t turned out to be the nirvana he’d expected? That some feeling deep inside remained unsatisfied and, as his brother said, he’d begun to need his family more than they needed him?

Jack had been silent for some time, and she wondered if he had been contemplating the same conundrum. When he spoke, though, he surprised her.

‘We met a Father Renzi in Venice. I believe he was once the priest in Asolo.’

Well done, Jack, she thought. Neat and direct. Now, we might get closer to what we’ve come for.

The signora nodded. ‘A good man. Avrebbe dovuto restare .’

‘He should have stayed,’ Danielle translated. ‘We think he should never have gone to Venice. Bad things have happened there. When my mother telephoned Franco, he was not happy. He told her that the priest had troubles. Again.’

‘Troubles,’ their hostess agreed.

‘Did he say what they were?’ Flora asked.

‘There were things that had been taken – stolen, Franco thought – from Santa Margherita. That is the priest’s church,’ the boy explained.

Things, Flora’s inner voice queried. No mention of the painting, so what things were these? No mention of the missing woman either, and she wondered whether, in fact, the news had percolated this far. It seemed not.

But hadn’t Father Renzi said clearly that he knew nothing of any other thefts? That earlier there had been no trouble? Yet, apparently, Franco had known for some time of problems at Father Renzi’s church. Had he also known of the missing painting and the missing housekeeper – before he met his death? Is that why he’d gone to La Zucca that evening, suspecting the owner of being involved? Gone to intercede with Silvio Fabbri or to threaten him?

‘We heard there had been trouble here in Asolo, too,’ Jack said, while Flora held her breath, waiting to see whether or not their hosts would refuse to talk of it.

There was a long silence before Daniele said solemnly, ‘The priest is a man of God. He must speak honestly, but in Asolo you do not always tell the truth.’

Flora shifted in her chair. ‘You’re thinking of what happened to the priest after Luigi Tasca went to prison?’ she said quietly.

‘You know of the matter?’ Daniele looked startled.

‘Father Renzi spoke of it to us,’ Jack said. ‘He was very frank. You see, he knows my…my stepfather.’ It was said with difficulty, his distaste for the word clear. ‘Father Renzi was keen to share his problems with the count.’

‘Your father?’ Signora Massi had caught the word.

‘ Step father,’ he said deliberately. ‘Count Falconi.’

‘The count? Oh! Un bell’uomo! ’ she said, sighing a little.

‘My mother is half in love with the count,’ Daniele joked. ‘And today you have come to Asolo to see him?’

‘No.’ Jack sounded flustered. ‘Not today. We came to see your beautiful town and to say how sorry we were to learn of Franco’s death.’

As soon as Daniele had translated for his mother, Flora tried a new approach. ‘We met Bianca Benetti in Venice as well,’ she said conversationally. ‘She is a beautiful girl.’

The signora nodded. ‘Bianca a good girl. And Franco good.’

Flora exchanged a look with her husband, neither of them sure what this somewhat cryptic comment implied. Perhaps it wasn’t cryptic after all.

‘You liked Bianca?’ Flora asked the signora.

‘A good girl,’ she repeated.

It was fair to assume then that Franco’s mother and, no doubt his father, had been happy with their son’s engagement. Bianca’s arrival had caused no conflict in the family.

Finishing her lemonade, Flora found her handbag and got to her feet, Jack taking his cue and following suit. ‘Thank you so much for the drink,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to have met you, but you must be very busy and we’ve taken up too much of your time already.’

‘You will explore Asolo?’ Daniele suggested.

What Flora wanted most was to visit the Tascas’ farm, to meet Luigi again and possibly his father, but there was no obvious excuse she could offer.

‘We’ll look around the town,’ she said a little vaguely. ‘Have lunch and then meet up with our driver.’

‘I will walk to the gates with you,’ Daniele said.

‘No, really,’ she began, fearful it would be a trial for him, but then stopped. He had a fixed look on his face which told her there was more he wanted to say, but not here in the house.

They had said their goodbyes and walked for some minutes, almost to the farm gates, when the boy came to a halt. ‘Bianca was having a baby,’ he said abruptly.

Flora locked eyes with Jack, both of them stunned.

‘Not now,’ Daniele said hastily. ‘But it is why Franco asked her to marry.’

‘What happened to the baby?’

The boy gave a small shrug of the shoulders. ‘There was no baby. I don’t know why.’

A miscarriage, she thought, but Bianca had said nothing of the tragedy and neither had Sally. Had Sally known what had befallen her friend? Was it possible – Flora paused at the thought – that there hadn’t been a pregnancy?

‘Did your mother know there was to be a baby?’ she asked.

‘Yes, she knew. Bianca told her. But they said nothing to my father.’

That went some way to explaining Signora Massi’s strange remark that Bianca was good and Franco was good. In her eyes, they had done the honourable thing in deciding to marry.

‘How did Franco feel,’ she asked quietly, ‘after Bianca lost the baby?’

It seemed that Daniele was reluctant to answer and they had walked another few yards before he said, ‘Sad, I suppose.’ Then burst out, ‘But angry, too.’

‘He was disappointed?’

Daniele shook his head. ‘He thought it was a trick. That he had been tricked into the marriage.’

‘And he wanted to forget the engagement?’

‘He told me that he could not sign the lease of the Mestre flat. It was not what he wanted. So, he told Bianca that they should wait a while, that there was no need now for them to marry so quickly.’

‘Did he mean to marry her eventually?’

‘I don’t know. He never said. I thought that maybe he would wait for a year or two.’

That wouldn’t have pleased Bianca, Flora thought. She would suspect that Franco didn’t want to marry at all.

‘And Bianca?’ she asked. ‘How did she feel?’

‘She was not happy. She came here to see my parents – maybe she hoped they would make Franco keep his word. They were shocked that he had broken his promise and sad for her. They expected the wedding. Her father, too, I think. Bianca is a good girl, they said, she deserves better. She will be our daughter and look after us.’

Bianca would have seen for herself that neither Franco’s parents nor Daniele were in immediate need of help. He had lied to her and her visit here would have rammed home the truth. She would have felt the family’s kindness towards her, their willingness to treat her as a daughter. Would have seen their shock at Franco’s behaviour. What effect had all this had on Bianca? Had she returned to Venice and confronted him directly with his lies?

‘My mother told Franco that he should honour his promise,’ Daniele went on, ‘and Bianca said this, too. She insisted that they marry.’

‘Is that when Franco walked away?’

‘It was. I leave you here,’ he said, opening the gates for them to pass through. ‘This road will take you to the town. I hope that you enjoy your day – and your lunch at the café. You must try the truffle omelette!’