Page 26 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

26

Despite his earlier reluctance to spring into life, Jack managed to consume a substantial breakfast, and it was a good hour later that they joined a small queue that had formed for the Cipriani launch. The boat would ferry them across the Giudecca Canal to St Mark’s Square where they could catch a vaporetto direct to the Lido, the island invisible from the quayside this morning.

The vaporetto , when it arrived, was already crowded and the absence of seats had them standing at the rail watching the small craft plough its way from stop to stop: San Zaccaria, Arsenale, Giardini, and finally across the long stretch of water to their destination.

Flora was enjoying the journey. A stiff breeze had begun to blow, teasing her hair and making her cheeks tingle, as the small vessel barrelled a path through what had become churning water. Gradually, the sun began to emerge from its earlier haze, the familiar warmth bathing arms and legs that had stayed bare.

Jack had to raise his voice to be heard over the sounds of water and wind. ‘The Lido looks a fair distance.’ It was a pinprick on the horizon, Flora saw. ‘But in reality, it’s not that far.’

‘I don’t mind how far. The views are amazing.’

Interest lay in whichever direction Flora looked. Silent islands were scattered all about them, the shallows littered with shambling palisades; she could just make out small figures hard at work on the nearest sandbank, knee-deep in sludge and prodding in the mud for shellfish.

‘I hope you like the Lido as much as the journey,’ Jack said in her ear.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘You might find it a trifle dull – there’s not a lot happening on the island. The film festival doesn’t arrive for several months. There’s a casinò , though. That’s sure to be going great guns.’

‘Are we planning a visit?’

He laughed. ‘Not unless you fancy losing what lire we have left! I thought we’d make our way directly to the restaurant. We’re a bit early but I’m sure Hotel La Perla will cope. I booked a table the day we got back from Asolo, so they’re expecting us. And you’ll love the place, I know – it’s a walk in the past, a relic from when the Lido had its heyday. A bit stuffy perhaps, but the architecture is beautiful.’

Ten minutes later, Flora had her first sighting of Hotel La Perla, standing proud of a wide beach, its parasols and sunbeds arranged in military fashion. Holding on tightly, she leaned over the boat’s rail to get a better view.

‘It is beautiful, I agree. And…you know it’s very much like a picture I once saw. As a young child? A book I found in the mobile library. It was filled with images of paintings… Bathing in the Lido , that’s what it was called. I remember the name because I loved that picture. All the women were in Edwardian bustles and holding frilled sunshades. It looked amazingly glamorous.’

‘The glamour might be a little worn now. The Lido isn’t quite as buzzing these days.’

‘Maybe not, but it’s still very lovely. And very peaceful.’

Once the vaporetto had manoeuvred alongside the landing stage, it emptied quickly, its passengers eager to stream ashore. Walking from the floating platform onto dry land, the smell of the sea hit Flora anew, her ears filling with the sound of cicadas.

Jack touched her arm. ‘See what we’ve left behind.’ He turned to face the distant city. ‘Just look at that view.’

She turned along with him and, together, they gazed across the lagoon at a hazy Venice, its skyline crowded with domes and campaniles and the familiar red rooftops. Here and there a flag fluttered in the breeze.

‘It’s wonderful!’ How many times had she said those words in the last few days? ‘And so is the hotel, just as you promised.’

An immense white square of a building lay ahead and, set against the blues of sea and sky, it offered an idyllic picture. Hand in hand, they walked the short distance along the promenade towards the hotel’s entrance where a uniformed man stood majestically to attention. Hotel La Perla was very different from the Cipriani, Flora decided quickly. That hotel, despite its luxury, still felt intimate – the modest lobby, the garden, the duck pond even, had made her feel immediately at home. Here, the splendour was more intimidating.

‘Rather grand, isn’t it?’ Jack said quietly, as they climbed the steps and passed between marble pillars into a foyer of art deco magnificence.

The dining room lay straight ahead, the ma?tre d’ waiting at the door to escort them to a table nestled between a gigantic potted plant and a pillar of pink marble.

‘It’s fabulous,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but so grand that it’s making me nervous.’

Jack pulled a face. ‘Flora Steele, nervous? Never! Hopefully, our waiter won’t be as daunting.’ He gestured to the terrace that ran the length of the dining room and, beyond that, to the sand and the sea. ‘I wish we’d brought our bathing costumes. The beach looks inviting.’

After her hair-raising experience of the night before, Flora was quite happy to have left bathing costumes behind. She would be happy enough if they were left behind forever. But the mention of water had caused her stomach to knot. Was it water, though, that was making her feel slightly sick? A memory of the danger, of the terror, they’d encountered? Or was it something else, the shadow of unfinished business? Something she couldn’t quite grasp but that lay there like a beast in wait. Ridiculous! The danger had passed, the terror was no more, and she could relax. It was over, wasn’t it? Over, her inner voice repeated.

‘I was thinking we could have paddled,’ Jack was reassuring her.

‘You don’t need a costume to paddle,’ she contended, but before he could argue otherwise, the waiter was at their side and, rather than intimidating, eager to conduct a lengthy consultation over what they should order as an antipasto , what as the primo , as the secondo , and which wine should accompany each course.

‘We’ll never get through this meal,’ Flora prophesied, ‘let alone find Bianca’s house before it’s time to catch the vaporetto back. But’ – she broke off – ‘this looks delicious.’

The first course had arrived, beef carpaccio and horseradish, and Flora stopped talking to take up her knife and fork.

‘There’s a lot of food, but the service seems pretty nippy. We should be OK for time. I looked at the map before we left and, from what I can see, Bianca’s street is only a few roads distant from the hotel. It won’t take us long to walk there. And you’re right, this is delicious.’ Jack stopped talking, too.

Within minutes of their finishing the antipasto , the waiter had removed their empty dishes with a practised swoop and was ready to serve the crab linguine.

‘This is a real treat,’ Flora said, once they were alone. ‘Such beautiful food in beautiful surroundings.’ She smiled at her husband across the table. ‘Our last day in Venice – it’s going to be fabulous! Despite the Bianca visit.’ She shook herself free of any lingering doubt. ‘And that paddle? Maybe we’ll have time after we’ve eaten.’

‘We’ll make time.’ He smiled back. ‘We’ll walk down to the beach and you can take off those smart sandals and wriggle your toes in the sand.’

An hour or so later, Flora was doing just that, luxuriating in the silky warmth of sand beneath her feet. She bent to gather up her shoes for a stroll along the hotel beach but Jack was before her, scooping them into one hand and holding her tight with the other. The visit to Bianca, with its inevitable sadness, was temporarily forgotten – right now, the world around them was one of pleasure. A flotilla of little boats puttered by, close to the shore; a rower passed them, taking his daily exercise; and in the distance, Flora could see a horse and rider galloping free across the broad sands.

They had been tracing a path beside the water’s edge as they walked and Flora was tempted. ‘The breeze has dropped now and the lagoon is quite calm. I think I could paddle.’

‘Go ahead,’ he urged.

‘And you, as well. You have to join me.’

He laughed ‘I’d better not. We can’t both get soaked – one drowned guest will be more than enough for La Perla.’

She let go of his hand and hitched up her skirt. ‘OK, but you’ll have to watch me having fun!’ And trailing her feet through the wet sand, she skipped and jumped over the small waves that broke on the beach.

When she had thoroughly saturated the skirt of her best sundress, Flora walked back to him and took his hand. ‘You were right about getting drowned. I’ll have to dry off before the hotel allows me through its doors again.’

‘We won’t go back. Thinking about it, we don’t need to. From here, we can walk up to the promenade and you should be dry by the time we find Bianca’s house.’

Jack came to a sudden halt, his gaze intent. ‘You know…’ he began, ‘… you do know you look amazing?’ He bent to kiss her and, in return, received a very wet embrace.

‘Flora…’ His voice was not quite even. ‘I’m so thankful you’re here with me. Last night…I was scared…so very scared for you…’ He broke off, as the sound of bells drifted towards them across the lagoon.

She was shocked, realising for the first time how frightened he had been. ‘I’m safe, Jack,’ she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek, ‘and I’ll be with you – always.’

For a while they walked in silence, the swish of the sea in Flora’s ears, the sun on her skin, the smell of oleander in the air and, at this moment, she wished they could stay here for ever.

‘We should go?’ he asked softly.

From his pocket, he pulled a folded square of paper that somehow he’d managed to purloin from the Cipriani’s reception desk.

‘Just checking,’ he said, peering down at the map. ‘And it seems about time to make a move – sadly, your paddle is over, my love. Still, at least we’ve had a morning to ourselves and there’s still an evening ahead.’

Reluctantly, Flora took the sandals he was holding out to her and followed him off the beach and onto the promenade. Here, she was forced to spend several minutes brushing sand from her feet before she could begin to walk comfortably.

‘From what this map is telling me, the Benetti house is several streets inland,’ Jack murmured, as he steered them into a road that ran directly north from the hotel. The map, it turned out, had told him correctly and Bianca’s home was easily found.

From the pavement, they looked up at what was superficially an impressive building. It was only slowly, Flora thought, that you realised the pink brickwork was crumbling, in parts quite badly, the windowsills flaking paint and the roof missing some of its terracotta tiles. A flight of steps led to a thick wooden front door. A door that, worryingly, was standing ajar. Had Bianca forgotten to close it? Left it open for ventilation? Or was she close by and intending to return very shortly?

‘Stay here, Flora.’ Instinct, she knew, was telling Jack that trouble might lie on the other side.

‘But—’ she began to protest.

Jack, though, was already climbing the stairs.