Page 22 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

22

Jack was worried. If his watch was correct, Flora had been gone nearly fifteen minutes. How long would it take to try each door, even with six handles to be rattled? A few seconds only if the rooms were locked. But if she’d managed to open a door? Had she found something? The painting? Filomena? It was highly unlikely, but nothing was impossible.

And if the old lady had indeed been locked in La Zucca’s cellar all this time, Flora would stay with her. She’d need to calm the poor woman, reassure her, give her the confidence to walk up the stairs and out to freedom. He would wait a while.

But as the minutes ticked by, he knew in his heart there was trouble. What best to do? Go in search of Flora or ring the police for help? What on earth could he say to them? I think my wife is in trouble – she went to the washroom of this restaurant near the Grand Canal and hasn’t come back? It would sound ridiculous.

A waiter had glided up to the table, a smile inching its way into his face. ‘Signor Carrington?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ His heart felt a hard squeeze. The man seemed uneasy, his smile pasted on.

‘It is your wife, signor. She needs you. Please to come with me.’

Had Flora fallen ill, felt unwell perhaps after the negroni? Or maybe fainted from the heat? He could understand if she had – come the evening, the atmosphere below stairs would be stifling. He would go to her, take her back to the hotel as quickly as possible. Once outside, fresh air should do the trick.

The waiter stood politely to one side as Jack got to his feet and made for the restaurant entrance. ‘She is downstairs?’ he checked.

‘ Sì , signor. Please to go quickly.’

The staircase was badly lit and, racing down, he almost missed the bottom step, only to be brought up sharply by two figures jumping from the shadows, their arms reaching out for him. Jack had half turned, meaning to rush back up the stairs and call for help, when an empty sack was thrown over his head, rendering him sightless.

Polenta, he thought, as the sack descended. Even in his confusion, it was the nutty smell that registered. He’d been made blind, but it wouldn’t stop him fighting. It couldn’t stop him. Flora was down here, somewhere close, he was sure, and depending on him, unless…no, he wouldn’t think the very worst. His arms thrashed from right to left, trying to connect with a body, and he sensed that the men were dancing around him in an effort to avoid his blows. As he started to tire, one of them was able to grab his arms while the other was quick to begin tying his wrists together with what felt like twine.

This time he had to use his legs, kicking backwards at his antagonist. The man yelled out with pain – he had scored a hit, it seemed but, in response, the twine was forgotten and a punch to Jack’s head landed painfully. It was taking all his resolution now to continue the brawl, but once more he kicked out as furiously as he could. The man must have side-stepped, having learnt his lesson, and Jack was pushed viciously in the back and made to stumble along what, from the brief glance he’d managed, was a narrow passageway. The loud creak of a door opening ahead reached his ears before he was shoved roughly into a room, then heard the door slam shut behind him.

His hands had remained untied, his captors having given up trying – a possibly stupid oversight, he decided. It meant, at least, that he could free himself of this stifling sack. Tearing the hessian covering from his head, his first sight was of Flora, wide-eyed and lodged in the corner of the room, as though the walls on either side could protect her.

He gave a wry smile and walked towards her, holding out his arms. ‘Not much of a rescuer, I’m afraid,’ he said.

For a startled instant, Flora had continued to huddle in her corner but then realisation dawned and she rushed across the room, kicking the hessian sack aside and throwing her arms around him.

Jack kissed her fiercely. ‘You’re OK?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured into his chest.

‘Thank the Lord for that!’

‘And you?’

‘A painful head, a sore back and an itchy nose. Not exactly tragic, but what a mess we’ve made of things.’

‘I suppose.’ She stood back. ‘One thing we have done is prove our suspicions of La Zucca were right all along.’

‘ Your suspicions, Flora. I couldn’t believe anyone owning a restaurant like this would get mixed up in such dirty work. Perhaps Fabbri isn’t involved, but there’s someone here who doesn’t want us exploring too deeply. I didn’t see who attacked me. That wretched sack was over my head before I had a chance.’

‘Not a good look,’ Flora said, finding a smile from somewhere. ‘I did see someone. Tasca – Luigi Tasca. And Fabbri has to be involved. How can he not be? He must know his premises are being used for a criminal purpose. And now we do, too.’

‘What good will that do, though? The restaurant is a hotbed of crime, but we can’t prove it. We’re prisoners. And how the hell do we get out of here?’

He walked to the window and bent down to peer through the bars. ‘Not through there, at least.’

‘It’s the only possible exit, except for the door.’

Jack came away from the window and began pacing the small space. ‘Why are we prisoners? Have you thought of that? We haven’t discovered what they’re up to, just vaguely that they’re up to something. They could have escorted you back upstairs again, so why lock you up? We’ve discovered nothing – no painting, no elderly lady.’

‘They’re not taking any chances,’ Flora replied placidly. ‘They’ve seen me down here before, remember.’

‘And other women, too, I reckon. The washroom is close by and not well signposted.’

‘I heard a noise in one of the rooms and was listening at the door. That’s when they grabbed me and pushed me in here. I think there may be someone in the next room.’

Jack frowned. ‘Are you sure it was a person?’

‘It was only a slight movement. It could have been a rat, I suppose, though I haven’t seen any yet, but it sounded like something sweeping the floor rather than tiny feet scurrying.’

‘Probably not a rat. The cellar’s not damp.’

‘So?’

‘Rats like water. Buildings in Venice are mostly built from Istria stone and the basements are waterproof. The wood piles that support the buildings are usually oak or larch and they’re water resistant, too.’

‘Jack!’

‘What? Oh, sorry!’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘This city, the way it was constructed, has always fascinated me.’

‘Could you rather get fascinated by how to get us out of here? Or find out who, if anybody, is in the next room.’

‘The last is the easier.’ He pointed to a grille at the top of the opposite wall to the gash of window. ‘That’s for ventilation, not light, but there should be enough space between slats to get a reasonable view.’

‘It’s really high up. I don’t think you’ll be able to see. You’re tall, I know, but not tall enough.’

‘I can stand on that apology for a chair and hope it doesn’t collapse beneath me.’

She shook her head. ‘You still won’t reach it.’

‘Hey, you’re supposed to be the optimist in this partnership.’

But once Jack had dragged the chair against the wall and climbed on top, holding his breath in case the wood should splinter, it was clear that Flora had been right in her estimation. He could knock on the grille with his hand, but was too far beneath to see through it.

He was about to climb down when there was a shuffling sound on the other side of the wall. It came clearly to them both.

‘That’s it,’ Flora whispered. ‘The noise.’

They stood in silence together, waiting.

‘ Chi c’è? ’ a quavering voice asked.

‘Who’s there?’ he mouthed to Flora.

‘ Sono Jack Carrington. Mia mogle è con me. Siamo prigionieri. Parla inglese? ’

‘I speak a little but not good. Your wife is there?’

‘Yes, we are prisoners,’ he repeated. ‘And you?’

‘ Anche io ,’ she said sadly.

Flora had dashed across the room to stand below the grille. ‘Filomena?’ she asked.

‘ Sì, sì ,’ the voice said, growing stronger. ‘Filomena Pretelli.’

‘ Cos’è successo? ’ Jack asked. ‘What happened?’

Filomena stumbled over words spoken in a foreign language but, within minutes, it was clear what had happened on the night the painting was stolen. She had been arranging flowers in the church, she said, but later that evening realised the ring she’d worn since a young girl was missing. It had fallen into one of the vases of flowers, she’d been sure, and so returned to the church in order to retrieve it.

‘ Lui era lì . Luigi Tasca. Su una scala .’

‘Luigi Tasca was there on a ladder?’

‘ Sì. He was stealing. I think he steal before. Mi ricordo…il pouf .’

‘You remembered the hassock?’

‘ E la rosario .’

‘And the rosary.’

‘ Sì, sì. Now, our beautiful Rastello. I go, tell Don Stephano. Call police. But the boy too fast. Very strong. He come down… saltare dalla scala . He has corda .’

‘Rope. He tied you up – to a pew?’

‘ Sì. Un banco . I have fazzoletto , handkerchief, in the mouth.’

‘And your nephew, Matteo?’ It was Flora who asked.

‘ Mi ha protetto .’

‘He protected you?’ Jack sounded sceptical and saw Flora’s eyes widen in disbelief.

‘Luigi Tasca is thief,’ Filomena said severely, ‘but Matteo good boy. He sad for me.’

‘Did Matteo help him steal the painting?’ Someone must have, Jack thought. It was far too heavy to lift from the wall alone and then carry to a waiting boat.

‘Luigi make him help.’

‘How? Come? ’

‘They are friends. After he work, he drive from Asolo to Santa Margherita. Then Luigi ask him, help me, and Matteo folle .’

‘Foolish,’ Jack translated.

‘Matteo say sì. But he scioccato when he see me. Let Zia Filomena go, he say.’

‘And what did Luigi Tasca say?’ Flora sounded breathless. It had become a frightening tale.

‘He say OK. You help and your aunt go. I do not steal, he say. I take painting. Sequestro il dipinto .’

‘He was kidnapping the painting!’

‘ Sì, sì. To punish Don Stephano. He want Don Stephano to lose church.’

‘To keep paying him back for Father Renzi telling the truth,’ Jack said grimly.

‘Monsignor will be angry. So much trouble. He tell Don Stephano he must leave.’

‘What was Matteo’s response? What did your nephew say?’

‘He tell Luigi you go to prison. Ancora . But Luigi say no one know that he take painting. No one know where painting is. His father has place for it.’

‘Enrico Tasca knew what his son was doing?’ Jack asked, quietly appalled. He could imagine Filomena nodding her head at this.

‘Here, here is the place,’ she said.

‘In this cellar?’

‘ Sì , I think so.’

‘Then Silvio Fabbri must also know.’

‘Signor Fabbri not happy. I hear him. But he is friend of Enrico Tasca and Tasca promise the painting go soon.’

‘Luigi promised that you could go soon, but didn’t keep his promise,’ Jack pointed out.

‘We must take her, Luigi say. She will tell. But Signor Fabbri not happy when I come. He scared I am here.’

‘So he should be,’ Flora declared. ‘How despicable! All of them. Despicable men!’

‘ Anche lui è un amico . He is friend also.’ Filomena was philosophical. ‘He help Enrico. But Luigi is very bad man.’

‘And that’s putting it mildly,’ Jack said quietly. ‘Filomena, we have to escape and get help for you, but there is only one small window in this room and it has bars.’

‘You have room by canal?’

‘Well, yes, but?—’

‘Maybe a door for boats.’

‘You mean to deliver goods?’

‘ Sì . Always. Maybe they no use it now.’

Jack cast his eyes around the room. At first sight, it didn’t appear true of this building. But when a beam of light filtered through the window – the sun was on its slow journey to sunset – a shadow fell on the wall beside the window. A shadow that, if he looked closely, showed a faint outline. A rectangular shape. The outline of a door? Could this have been an entrance to the canal?

‘I think there was a door here,’ he said slowly. ‘But it’s been plastered over.’

‘ Non forte? ’

‘Not strong? It’s possible the plaster is weak if Fabbri thought he might need it in the future.’

‘You try,’ Filomena suggested.

Jumping down from the chair, he took it with him and walked over to what, on closer inspection, was a definite outline. An experimental thwack of the chair splintered the plaster. Several more blows had further chunks falling to the floor.

‘I think it’s working,’ Flora said, looking up at the grille and hoping Filomena could hear and understand.

Over and over, Jack pounded the chair against the wall, after each blow listening for any sounds above. Flora worked alongside, tearing down whatever loose plaster she could find, her hands soon scarred and bleeding. It wasn’t long, however, before first the legs and then the back of the chair came adrift, leaving Jack to wrap his jacket around the seat, all that was now left, in an attempt to muffle the sound. They had been hammering at the wall for at least ten minutes, and it was now a race to find an escape route before anyone above stairs realised what was happening. It was possible that Tasca and his confederates were in another part of the building – probable, he thought, otherwise they would surely have appeared by now.

A last piece of plaster was torn down and a handle in the shape of an iron ring sat glistening in a beam of light.

‘Filomena was right,’ Flora said. ‘The door to the canal is still there.’

But when Jack attempted to turn the ring, there was no movement. He tried again, putting his remaining strength behind it, but the iron ring remained obdurate. Dare they make more noise by pounding the door’s wooden planks with the now sorry-looking chair seat? They stood for a moment, waiting in silence. Still no sound from above but…

‘I’ll try a shoulder,’ Jack said. ‘It will be quieter.’

And it was, though what damage it was doing to his body, he didn’t like to think. On the third heave, there was a creaking, a movement, a slight gap appearing at the top of the door. He grabbed the iron handle once more and thrust with as much force as he could and, slowly and painfully, the door ground open.

‘We’ve found the door,’ Flora turned to say to the grille, hoping again that Filomena could hear. A muffled ‘ Sì ’ came back.

Directly ahead were three stone steps, ridged with green slime, and beyond them the waters of the canal. The door was low, making it necessary to stoop to reach the steps.

‘What now?’ Flora asked. In the frantic activity of smashing their way through the plaster and finding the door, it was clear she hadn’t thought this far ahead.

‘Now we swim.’

It seemed so obvious, but so impossible. ‘I can’t swim, you know that. I’ll have to stay, but you must go. You can get help.’

‘I’m not leaving you here.’ Jack was adamant. ‘Anything could happen in the time it will take me to persuade the police to come. If, indeed, I can. We’ll manage – I’ll do the swimming and tow you alongside.’

‘No, Jack, I can’t do it!’ She shrank back, staring at the dark expanse ahead, and there was terror in her eyes. ‘There’s no way I can get into that water.’