Page 3 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

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‘Asolo, Jack!’ Cheeks flushed, she bounced into the bedroom and turned to face him as he followed her through the door.

‘I heard,’ Jack said placidly.

‘First the priest and now Franco Massi.’

‘They come from a small town close to Venice and both ended up in the same city. That’s not unlikely. A coincidence.’

‘A coincidence they both had bad things happen to them? The priest was chased out of Asolo and Franco is dead.’

‘The priest fell foul of what sounds a deeply unpleasant family and the receptionist met with an unfortunate accident.’ He tried to speak calmly. ‘Nothing too mysterious.’

Walking across to the long windows, he took a last look at the lights of San Giorgio Maggiore before swishing the curtains closed. As soon as the receptionist had mentioned the name of the town, he’d known it would send Flora buzzing, her imagination in overdrive with all kinds of speculation. It was the last thing he wanted, but if he knew Flora – and he should by now – she wouldn’t be content to walk away.

He turned and she was standing facing him, bright and determined, the hazel in her eyes almost black with excitement.

‘Before he drowned,’ she said, ‘Franco had a very bad quarrel with the owner of the restaurant we ate at last night. La Zucca. What’s the betting the owner comes from Asolo, too?’

‘I’m not betting and neither are you.’ He took hold of her shoulders and gave her a small shake. ‘We agreed, remember. An impossible task, we said. No involvement.’

‘That was before I knew Signor Massi came from Asolo. It can’t be the coincidence you say it is.’

‘Why can’t it? Massi’s death was an accident and they do happen.’ He was being stubborn, he knew, but it mattered greatly that nothing marred their honeymoon.

‘An “accident”? Like the one that saw Polly Dakers die, or Percy Milburn, or Alex Vicary a few months ago. Like Kate’s father, even, right at the beginning of our detective work.’

‘That was an accident.’

Flora gave a small hmph and turned so that he could unzip the very special cocktail dress. For the moment, she said no more and, after hanging the frock reverently in the wardrobe, made for the bathroom.

At the door, however, she paused. ‘I’m not happy, Jack,’ she said, the brightness gone from her face.

That was obvious, he thought.

‘I need to settle things in my mind. To feel that there really isn’t anything we can do. Franco was a decent man, friendly, helpful. If it wasn’t an accident…’

‘How are you ever likely to discover that? We’re foreigners with no idea even how to begin. And this city is built on water. He won’t be the first to drown in a Venetian canal.’

‘I could talk to some of the staff,’ she said doggedly. ‘A conversation or two. Find out if there was anything in Franco’s life that didn’t seem right.’ She walked back to him and clasped his hands. ‘I have to do it, Jack. Please understand.’

Inwardly, he uttered a long, quiet sigh. But Jack knew when he was beaten.

Breakfast on the terrace the next morning, beneath blue and white umbrellas, was a leisurely affair, a large buffet of juices, cereals, fruits and cold meats greeting them as they were shown through a sea of crisp white cloths to a table close to the lagoon. Beyond an ornamental ironwork barrier, the water was just yards away, a moving backdrop, boat after boat plying past as they ate. And they could have eaten for most of the morning, a flurry of attentive waiters ensuring their table was never bare.

Flora had finished her last piece of melon – a modest breakfast was all she could ever manage – as Jack was about to tackle his scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

‘I forgot to bring a handkerchief,’ she said, patting the handbag that hung at one side of her chair. ‘While you finish, I’ll pop back to the bedroom. I’ll only be a minute.’

She knew Jack was unlikely to be deceived, but she also knew that he had smoked salmon to eat and wouldn’t want his eggs to go cold. As she’d anticipated, he pulled a wry face, but picked up his knife and fork without a comment.

Reaching the bedroom, Flora was delighted to find a chambermaid busily changing the linen. She needn’t go looking for someone to talk to after all; she had a captive audience.

Hearing Flora’s footsteps, the girl looked up from her work, a little startled. ‘ Mi scusi, signora ,’ she murmured, beginning to make for the door, ‘ tornerò. ’

‘Come back?’ Flora hazarded and, when the girl nodded, she put out a detaining hand. ‘Please don’t go. I’m only here to collect a handkerchief. Un fazzoletto ,’ she remembered, feeling pleased with herself. For the last few months, she had been trying hard to memorise at least a little Italian vocabulary and, for some reason or another, fazzoletto had stuck in her mind.

Smiling cheerfully at the maid, she walked across the room to the antique walnut chest and began opening one after another of its drawers, making a play of searching through her underwear, before asking, ‘Do you speak English?’

‘A little.’ The girl made a gesture with thumb and finger to show the small extent of her knowledge.

It will have to do, Flora thought, and mime is always useful. ‘When we arrived at the hotel,’ she said, ‘there was a very nice man at reception. His name’ – she patted the side of her blouse trying to indicate where a badge might sit – ‘was Franco Massi.’

The girl’s face clouded.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Franco not here.’

‘Oh!’ She hoped her surprise appeared genuine. ‘What a shame – he was so helpful. I would have liked to speak to him again. Has he left the Cipriani?’

‘ Sì. ’ Her voice was so quiet that Flora had to strain to hear.

‘But he worked here a long time?’

The maid held up one hand.

‘Five years?’

‘Yes, five.’

‘He was good at his job. Il suo lavoro – era bravo? ’

The girl gave a small, sad smile. ‘Sì, sì. From London,’ she offered.

‘Franco worked in London! The Ritz maybe,’ Flora suggested, half joking.

To her surprise, the maid nodded enthusiastically at the name. ‘The Ritz,’ she said, in an awed voice. ‘In Venice, he work the Gritti Palace. Very smart. You know?’

‘The big hotel on the Grand Canal?’

Again, the girl nodded. ‘But Franco come here and the Cipriani best.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Flora agreed. ‘And it must be lovely to live here all the time. Do you have a room at the hotel?’

‘ Mi scusi? ’

‘A room.’ She pointed at the girl. ‘For you, una camera qui .’

The maid laughed. ‘No.’ She showed Flora her wedding ring. ‘I live in Mestre,’ she spelt out slowly.

‘And Franco?’

‘ Qui, naturalmente. Nell’allegato. In annexe.’

‘Franco was single? Franco non sposato? ’

Flora once more gave thanks to the Italian primer she’d found tucked into the corner of a top shelf at the All’s Well. The time she’d spent with it, between serving customers, was paying off.

‘ Non ancora .’

‘Not yet. So, he was getting married? He had a fiancée? Una fidanzata? ’

The girl spread her hands. The conversation was too tiring to continue, Flora saw, and no doubt she had a dozen more bedrooms to make up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I’ll go now.’

‘ Il suo fazzoletto? ’ the maid called after her.

But Flora had gone, handkerchief forgotten. She had an annexe to find.

It wasn’t difficult. Avoiding the breakfast terrace, she stepped out of the rear door of the hotel and, instead of turning right into the garden as she’d done previously, she looked left, and there it was. A square block of honey-coloured stone no more than a hundred yards away.

Outside its main entrance a workman was busy resetting paving slabs. ‘ Buon giorno ,’ she greeted him as she came close.

The workman got up from his knees, his apron clanking with the tools that hung from each pocket. ‘ Buon giorno, signora. ’

She pointed to the building behind him. ‘ Allegato? ’

‘The annexe, yes,’ he said in English to Flora’s relief.

‘I have a message,’ she began. ‘For Franco Massi. From a friend in London.’ She’d cobbled the excuse together on her way down from the bedroom and hoped it would suffice.

The man shook his head. ‘Franco is dead, signora.’

‘But how dreadful!’ Again, she adopted a shocked expression. ‘I wonder…this card…’ she said slowly, making a pretence of feeling in her skirt pocket for the non-existent message, ‘could I leave it somewhere? In Franco’s room, maybe. His family will come for his belongings, I imagine, and they might want to write to his friend.’

The excuse was sounding thinner with every word she spoke, but the workman seemed not to think badly of it. ‘The room is there.’ He pointed through the door at the lower corridor. ‘On the left, signora. Room number three.’

Thanking him, she walked into the building and along the corridor he’d indicated to the third room. Thankfully, the door had been left unlocked and very quickly she slipped inside. Flora’s first impression was how small the room was and how tidy: a single bed, a small chest of drawers and a wardrobe appeared to be its only furniture.

On top of the chest, a row of toiletries stood in a line – hair oil, talcum powder, a sharp-smelling cologne, when she put her nose to it – and behind the wardrobe doors, another row, this time of very smart suits. An extremely well-groomed young man, she thought, and, casting her mind back, it was an image of quiet polish that she recalled. A book by the bedside, a biography of Giuseppe Garibaldi, hinted at Franco’s interest in his country’s history, but other than the clothes and the book, there was little to suggest anything of the man who had lived here so recently.

Until she walked over to a tiny desk, pushed into one corner. Its wooden surface was completely bare, clear of any papers or ornaments, and was why she hadn’t immediately noticed it. Now, she saw there was a photograph frame sitting to one side. Just one photograph. The fiancée, she decided.

Picking up the frame to get a better look, Flora almost dropped it in surprise. The face – it was familiar! She knew this girl. She would swear it. Starting to pace up and down the small room, she tried to remember. Then she had it. The Priory, that was how she knew her. A year or so ago when Dominic Lister was still Sally’s business partner.

She sank onto the bed, still holding the photograph. That’s right…she was remembering more now. This was the very girl Sally had mentioned a few months past, asking Flora to get in touch if she had the time when she and Jack were in Venice. She had completely forgotten Sally’s request, she realised, the excitement of the trip her only excuse. Sally had been furious, she recalled, when Dominic had hired the girl as a chambermaid. The girl had come with no experience but she had come with a pretty face. That was pure Dominic. But then Sally had relented, hadn’t she, and made friends with the girl. Flora had quite often seen them together in Abbeymead, drinking a cup of tea at the Nook, the village café, or shopping for food in the high street. When the village had proved too quiet, the girl had left to work in Brighton, but she had obviously kept in touch with Sally even after her return to Italy.

But what was her name? Flora struggled to remember. Barbara? Belinda? Not Italian enough. Bianca! That was it!

Bianca had been Franco Massi’s fiancée! Another coincidence perhaps? Flora doubted it very much.