Page 29 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

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It was a police vessel, anchored off the Lido jetty, that took them back to the Cipriani. No waiting around for the next vaporetto , Flora thought gratefully, and feeling as wrung out as she did, that could only be good news. What the hotel would assume when they arrived yet again in a police launch, she refused to think. It was as well they were leaving early the next morning before they could tarnish their names any further. She was sad, though, very sad, to be leaving the city.

A long bath, she was thinking, as she climbed the steps from the hotel landing stage. A warm soak with a glass of something cold maybe, then a swift packing of the suitcases and a delightful dinner together in the floating restaurant with its magnificent view of an illuminated St Mark’s and beyond.

Voices from the foyer brought her up sharply. Voices she half recognised. Slowly, the magical ending to what had been by any standards an unusual honeymoon faded into the mist.

‘We have come to say thank you. To thank you so very much!’ A joyful Father Renzi, jumping to his feet, greeted them as they walked into the lobby.

‘Yes, indeed! It is a thank you that comes from our hearts!’ It was Massimo Falconi, heaving himself from a deep-cushioned sofa and holding out his hands in welcome.

‘You did well.’ Sybil, apparently, was here, too, her response typically ungenerous.

But even she had got to her feet and was smiling. The navy blue silk she wore, a strapless, tightly fitted cocktail dress, certainly looked celebratory and Flora could only mourn, wishing she could say the same for herself. The favourite polka dot frock, torn at the neck and with ugly dust stains on the skirt, would take considerable effort to repair, if at all. By her side, Jack had fared little better, looking as though he’d gone several rounds in a boxing ring, his shirt crumpled and sweaty, and a small lump making its appearance on one side of his head, barely hidden by the thick flop of hair.

The count gave a delicate cough. He had walked right up to them now and it was clear that in the dim light of the foyer their ragged appearance had only just struck him.

‘We came only to say thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘For the wonderful help you have given Father Renzi and, of course, given me. But we will not keep you. You will want to…’ He tailed off, unsure how to phrase the sentiment politely.

‘They’ll want to wash,’ Sybil said crisply. ‘And change. Most definitely change, into something less…less raffish. But we can wait.’

Every pair of eyes were turned on her, expectant and plainly unsure what they were to wait for.

‘To have dinner,’ she said, impatience soon making an appearance. ‘The restaurant is expecting us. I have made a reservation, but we three can have drinks in the garden – while you make yourselves a little more respectable. Let’s go, shall we?’

With an imperious hand, she gestured to her husband and the priest to follow her out of the lobby and onto the front lawn where lights were being lit amid the scatter of tables.

That was the end of the quiet meal she’d envisaged. Flora sighed inwardly, while a sideways glance at Jack told her that he, too, had resigned himself to a very different evening from the one they’d been planning.

‘My mother is hard to ignore,’ he muttered, half under his breath. ‘But it shouldn’t take us long to pack.’

‘Let’s hope not!’ Flora tucked her hand in his and, together, they made for the marble staircase.

Within the hour and looking a great deal more presentable, they had returned to the garden and were sharing a table with their visitors. The packing had been hasty, a matter of emptying the wardrobe and two of the chests en masse, then bundling clothes as best they could into the two new suitcases bought for the occasion.

It was evident, as they took their seats, that the count meant to celebrate this evening. A waiter was standing by, an ice bucket containing two large bottles of champagne perched on his trolley. When the man departed, having poured each of them a full flute, Falconi raised his glass in a toast.

‘I cannot tell you how heavy the weight I have carried. Now it has been lifted from my shoulders,’ he said. ‘Something very bad was happening in Asolo. I knew it but could do nothing. But today, because of you, it is not. Stephano, here, is once more a happy man. He has his dear, sweet housekeeper safely home and a future at Santa Margherita that he can look forward to. We should drink to that.’

Obediently, they raised their glasses and drank.

‘The police have told us very little,’ Jack said, pouncing on an olive from the selection the waiter had brought. ‘Have you learned any more of what’s happened to the crew at La Zucca?’

‘The painting is still with the team from Rome,’ the priest said, the fate of the Rastello evidently at the forefront of his mind. ‘It will be with them for some time, I think – an expert must examine it for damage. But, if all is well, it should be restored to Santa Margherita within weeks.’

‘And Signora Pretelli?’ For Flora, the person rather than the painting was the most important.

‘Poor Filomena.’ The priest tugged at his beard, seeming to feel his housekeeper’s pain. ‘She is feeling very bad. For her, this is a tragedy. It is not only that she was made a prisoner, that she was scared and feared she might be harmed by those wicked men, but that her nephew – a boy she loves very much – was part of this dreadful plot.’

‘It always felt particularly ugly that Matteo would treat his aunt so shamefully.’ Flora took an exploratory sip of the champagne.

It wasn’t a drink she was used to, though she’d sampled it once or twice before. The first time, she reminisced, had been at Jack’s birthday dinner, the evening they had first kissed. That had been special. She’d thought then that it tasted out of the ordinary – its zesty tang, the bubbles that prickled her nose – and, after a few more sips tonight, decided again that she rather liked champagne.

‘I have been to the police cells and spoken to Matteo,’ the priest said sadly. ‘It seems that he is part of this business against his will. Luigi is his best friend and when he asked Matteo for help, Matteo must give it. The help is to carry the painting to the boat and then to the van they bring from Asolo. It is much too heavy for one man to move. Luigi tells him it is un rapimento .’

‘A kidnap?’ Jack said.

‘ Sì . The painting is lost for a short time, but nothing more. So, how worried should Matteo be? What he did not know was that Luigi was stealing the Rastello and that his aunt would be in the church to see this. And did not expect that Luigi would make them take Filomena with them.’

‘Common decency should have made him braver. He should have stopped the poor woman’s imprisonment,’ Sybil snapped.

‘I think he tried,’ Renzi said pacifically. ‘But events moved too fast and suddenly he was in deep, deep trouble. When I visit, we talk a long while. He tells me that Luigi made a threat he would get rid of Filomena unless they take her with them – I do not wish to think what he meant – and Matteo was not sure if the threat was serious. I feel that perhaps by then he hardly knew his friend. So, after storing the painting, he helped Luigi carry his aunt to the boat, then walked into her apartment and packed a bag for her – I was not at home, but at the bedside of a dying man – and together they travelled to La Zucca where Silvio Fabbri was waiting. It was the best Matteo could do, he tells me, to make sure Luigi did not harm her.’

‘But he did harm her,’ Flora burst out. ‘Even if it was at a distance. He harmed her, not Tasca or Silvio Fabbri. He sent the blackmail note to you, Father. If that’s not harm, I don’t know what is.’

The priest looked grave. ‘It was a wicked thing to do but by then, you must understand, Matteo was desperate. He has become part of a plot to steal a valuable painting; he has kidnapped an elderly lady as well. What might have seemed a silly prank is now very dangerous. He warned Luigi that the police will bring the art team from Rome. Tried to persuade him to return the painting and let Filomena go – he promised that his aunt would not report what she had seen, they would say it was a joke that had gone wrong. But Luigi refused. He would not return the Rastello; instead he would sell it and use the money to live after he has escaped from Italy. He told Matteo that he was determined to stay free – he could not go to prison again.’

‘So, Matteo just left the painting and his aunt to moulder in Fabbri’s cellar?’ Jack was scathing.

The priest nodded. ‘I do not think he knew what to do. He was, what you say, out of his depth? He wanted to run away, but he is not like Luigi who has been stealing for months. He has no money. And he knows for certain that the team from Rome will soon be here, especially when they hear someone is trying to sell the painting. So…he writes to me in the hope that I will give him money to escape, in exchange for Filomena’s safe return.’

‘He was lying. There was no way he could guarantee her safety. And then he went back to Asolo and pretended that everything was normal?’ Flora sounded incredulous.

‘I do not know how he could pretend.’ There was a small shake of the priest’s head. ‘But this he did, even when the police visit his father to ask if Signor Pretelli knows of his sister’s whereabouts.’

Flora took a reviving sip of her champagne. ‘I’m sure Signor Pretelli didn’t know,’ she said, ‘but I did wonder about Luigi’s father.’

‘You were right to wonder,’ Massimo said heavily, pushing away the dish of olives. ‘Enrico Tasca is another who is now behind bars. The police came for him this morning. I do not think he had any idea that his son has been stealing since he came from prison, but he agreed to Luigi taking the painting from Santa Margherita as a clever way to punish Stephano again. It was his van and his boat – the one he rents for his deliveries in Venice – that Luigi used for the theft.’

There was a long sigh from their priestly companion. ‘He has never forgiven me for being the one who sent his son to jail.’

‘And the restaurant owner?’ Jack asked.

‘Silvio Fabbri is in jail, too,’ Sybil chimed in. ‘And a good job. They should all be in jail, every single one of them.’

Father Renzi cleared his throat. ‘Such a muddle. Enrico Tasca asks Silvio for a favour – please store this painting in your cellar for a short while. Of course, he believed the Rastello would be “missing” for only a little time – it is what his son tells him.’

‘Long enough for Stephano to fall into grave trouble with the church.’ The count’s anger suddenly flamed, his voice harsh.

‘After that,’ the priest continued, ‘they will return the artwork to the church. So…this is the muddle. Signor Tasca has no idea that his son is planning to sell the Rastello and Signor Fabbri thinks only that he is helping to store goods for his friend. But then a valuable painting arrives at La Zucca and an older lady with it, and he is expected to lock them both up. Imagine the shock!’

‘But he did it still. He is a weak man,’ Flora said decisively.

‘Sometimes, loyalty to a long friendship triumphs over common sense. Triumphs over self-interest,’ Sybil put in unexpectedly.

‘Exactly.’ The priest was grateful. ‘This is the case I believe with Silvio. He had a successful business, a good comfortable life, he had no wish to be involved in such bad things. Particularly when Franco arrived to accuse him of stealing the painting and of kidnapping my housekeeper.’

‘That was the quarrel we witnessed,’ Jack said. ‘It was the quarrel that took us back to the restaurant the evening Luigi Tasca came after us and tried to warn us off.’ There were surprised expressions around the table. ‘Flora was on one of her expeditions,’ he explained. ‘She was busy exploring La Zucca’s cellar when she was nabbed.’

‘But that was most dangerous, Signora Carrington,’ the priest said. ‘You know that, after that evening, Luigi began to follow you? He was suspicious and waiting, so Matteo tells me, for the chance to hurt you both.’

‘I didn’t realise how dangerous it would be.’ Flora was remembering the man in the blue shirt. ‘Not at the time, though I was convinced that Franco’s death wasn’t accidental. In the end, it turned out that I shouldn’t have been looking for art thieves to blame for his death, but a jilted lover.’

‘That girl, Bianca,’ Sybil said, allowing the waiter to fill her glass for the third time. ‘What a stupid thing to do. Chasing after a man like that. And for what? There wasn’t even a baby involved!’

‘The baby is a mystery,’ Flora conceded. ‘I didn’t feel I could ask, after those men had scared her so badly. I suppose she might have been mistaken in thinking she was pregnant.’

Sybil gave a snort. ‘Mistaken! She seems to me to be a highly dubious character, allowing herself to get so angry that she attacked the man. And then making it worse by pretending it never happened. She’ll be charged with murder, I expect, and deserves to be.’

‘I’m not sure how deserving or otherwise she is.’ Jack turned to his mother. ‘But the charge won’t be murder. Franco’s death was unintended.’

‘If you push someone hard and he’s standing by the edge of a canal, I can’t see how the consequence is unintended.’ Sybil gave a disdainful sniff.

‘Time to eat, I think.’ The count smiled at the waiter who had arrived to tell them their restaurant table was ready. ‘I have ordered a primo for us – bigoli in salsa . You will like it, I am sure.’

Getting to their feet, the small party made their way back into the foyer and through to the floating restaurant. On the way, Count Falconi took Flora’s arm.

‘I think it has not been the honeymoon you expected, Flora – and I can see that you have both come through difficult times. But I hope that one day you will return to Venice, return to the Veneto, and enjoy a more comfortable stay.’

‘I’d love to come back,’ she said and meant it, glancing at her husband, walking close by.

‘We should,’ Jack agreed, ‘only next time make sure that murder isn’t part of the agenda!’