Page 5 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

5

The journey to San Tomà was uneventful and, as they stepped off the vaporetto , a sign high on the wall pointed them towards the Scuola Grande.

‘See!’ Jack said, taking her hand. ‘Signs – just what we need.’

Walking through the streets of San Polo revealed a new Venice from the city Flora had so far seen. The old artisan quarter was a district of quiet lanes, narrow passageways and meandering canals, with some of the houses they passed being the oldest buildings in Venice: walls washed in red ochre, iron balconies gently rusting and terracotta roofs that dipped and swayed in dizzying fashion.

‘It’s quite different.’ Flora stood and gazed up at the window boxes filled with flowers. ‘So old and absolutely no souvenir sellers.’

‘Not in this part of San Polo, but the Rialto market isn’t far. I guess there’ll be plenty of stalls there.’

‘Near where we ate?’

He nodded. ‘Pretty close. It’s the liveliest area, I’d say. Plenty of tourists to keep it busy.’

‘I like it here . It feels lived-in, as though there are still native Venetians in this part of the city, unconcerned with visitors and simply going about their daily routine.’

A large, dusty square had opened in front of them, the Campo San Rocco according to Jack’s map and, at one end, an impressive white stone building – the Scuola Grande. Last night, before falling asleep, Flora had read a few pages of the one guidebook she’d brought, not wanting to feel completely ignorant. The Scuola, she’d read, had been established by a group of wealthy Venetian citizensin the fifteenth century, dedicated to San Rocco – popularly regarded as a protector against the plague – and concerning itself with a profusion of trades and crafts. Nearly a hundred years later, Tintoretto had provided it with paintings.

‘Apart from housing your wonderful Tintorettos, any idea how the building is used? I can’t imagine that local artists and craftspeople belong to the school these days.’

‘I’m not sure, though I did see a poster yesterday advertising a classical concert here. If this is like other scuole , there’ll be two halls, a lower and an upper, either of which would make a superb venue for music.’

A modest fee allowed them entrance to the sala terrena , or the lower hall, its four walls filled with paintings paying homage to the Virgin Mary in a depiction of her life. Unusually, Flora found herself agreeing with Sybil – religious art, it seemed, left her indifferent, too. Not so Jack. He spent so long gazing at TheAnnunciation that she had finally to grab him by the arm and drag him up the staircase to the sala superiore .

The upper hall was magnificent, from its brilliantly glossy floor to a ceiling filled with scenes from the Old Testament and walls that displayed a string of episodes from the New. A tour de force that together told the biblical story from the Fall to the Redemption.

‘Quite a place,’ Jack remarked, his neck cricked at a painful angle in an attempt to absorb the ceiling’s full majesty.

It wasn’t the paintings, however, that lit Flora’s interest, but the carvings fringing the panelled walls, an array of figures brought to life in wood. In brilliant detail they celebrated all manner of skills and trades: carpenters, artists, musicians, writers, teachers, decorators.

There was one, she reckoned, that looked like the painter himself, holding a brush and palette, and she tugged at her husband’s shirtsleeve to gain his attention. ‘Look, Jack. I think this might be Tintoretto.’

‘It is, signora.’ A priest, who had been circling the perimeter of the hall a few steps behind them, smiled at her as she turned. ‘You like the figures?’

‘They are wonderful.’

‘I agree. I come often to walk this upper hall, not for the paintings – I have art in my own church – but for the carvings.’

‘Your church is nearby?’ she asked.

The priest should know Santa Margherita. Jack might have his map but any help in finding their way through the maze of small alleys would be welcome.

‘It is behind the Scuola, just streets away,’ the man replied. ‘Santa Margherita.’

Flora felt her mouth drop and closed it immediately. ‘You aren’t Father Renzi, by any chance?’

‘But yes.’ The priest looked baffled and slightly uneasy.

‘My…um…stepfather has mentioned you.’ Jack had joined them. Saying aloud the word ‘stepfather’ had cost him, Flora thought. ‘Count Falconi,’ he added.

The priest’s face cleared. ‘The count is a good friend. A very good friend. From my old district.’

‘We were on our way to see you, in fact. Count Falconi asked us to visit.’

‘He did? Why was that?’ A pair of deep brown eyes registered puzzlement.

‘We’ – Jack half turned to her, seeming unsure how to continue – ‘we look into things. Dig around. Ask questions.’ It was difficult trying to explain exactly what they did do. ‘We help sometimes, when the police have dismissed a problem.’

This last explanation appeared to work and the priest’s expression was suddenly intent. ‘Massimo thinks you can help me?’

‘He does, although we aren’t very sure ourselves. But if we could talk…’

‘We talk outside,’ the priest said decisively. Their conversation in the great hall had been carried on in little more than whispers. ‘There is a café opposite the San Rocco church. I will show you.’

San Rocco was only steps away from the Scuola and they soon found a table in what little shade was left. Having ordered a round of aranciatas , Father Renzi returned once more to his friend.

‘Massimo has told you of my problems?’

Flora leaned forward to say quietly, ‘We understand that a valuable painting has gone missing from Santa Margherita and that your housekeeper has disappeared.’

‘Both very bad things. The painting is part of my church’s history, but Filomena – that is the most distressing. It is urgent I find her.’ In some agitation, he pulled at the beard mushrooming from his chin.

‘Can you tell us what you know? Anything that might help.’ Jack didn’t sound hopeful.

‘There are things I should say, but I will have to go back in time.’

‘As far as you need,’ Jack said, as the aranciatas arrived at the table.

Flora sipped slowly, enjoying the trickle of cold liquid down her throat. She was eager to hear the priest’s story.

‘There is a family in the village where I served for many years,’ Renzi began. ‘A small town really. And they have a son, Luigi. A few years ago, he was caught thieving and was put into jail.’

‘Is he still in prison?’ Flora was quick to ask, suspecting that Luigi might have returned to his old habits.

The priest shook his head. ‘The boy has served his sentence. He was released over a year ago.’

‘A free man then, but is he still thieving? Could he have stolen the painting?’ Jack brought her suspicions out into the open. It was the same question, Flora reflected, that she had asked the count.

‘I cannot believe it,’ the priest said. ‘Why would he do such a thing? He stole before and looked what happened. To risk prison again for a painting he could not sell? The Rastello is famous and no dealer would touch it.’

‘Unless the boy had contact with a professional gang, willing and able to move pictures around Europe. A lucrative smuggling racket exists between here and Albania, I know.’

‘How do you know?’ Flora was intrigued.

‘From research I did for a book. I was sure it would come in useful! Under Enver Hoxha Albania is a closed country, but there are always openings for men who want money, and Albania has an interesting coastline: a wild landscape and a profusion of rocky coves where a boat can land unseen.’

Flora frowned. Albanian smugglers or not, she was still trying to fathom the priest’s involvement. ‘Father Renzi, what role did you play in the boy’s story?’

The elderly man looked blankly across the square as though seeing a very different scene, and it was minutes before he spoke. ‘Ah, there you have it,’ he said at last. ‘It was the role I played for which I have suffered.’

There was another long silence. ‘It was an ambitious theft that landed the boy in trouble. Too ambitious. I think Luigi had been stealing for some time, small items from neighbours’ houses and then he would sell them at a market somewhere. But he met a man new to the area one night in a bar – he was celebrating a birthday – and this man was more experienced at burglary. He had grander plans than stealing the neighbours’ small possessions. Together, they broke into the palazzo of one of the richest men in our district. Nino Vitali is a businessman from Turin and uses his palazzo only for holidays, but he is a wealthy collector and the house contained many objects of value.’

‘And these two stole from it?’

‘They tried, but the palazzo had far more alarms than they expected, and they had to run, very quickly – it meant they could steal only a little. Also there were dogs.’ The priest gave a small shudder at the thought. ‘They fled, but Luigi Tasca was seen by one of the servants Vitali keeps at the house. A steward. He was certain that he saw two men running and one that he recognised – Tasca – but the light was not good and there was a small doubt.’

‘And his accomplice – the experienced burglar?’

‘The police went straight to him, of course. He was well-known to them, but they found nothing in his rooms and no evidence against him. He swore that he was at home that night and had no idea where Luigi was. It was only the steward’s evidence that suggested the man was lying.’

‘But how did this affect you ?’ She was struggling to form a clear picture.

‘The police came calling on Tasca and he gave me as his alibi. He said he had been at my house at the time of the burglary. He had gone looking for his friend, Matteo – Matteo Pretelli is Filomena’s nephew and the two boys were very good friends. They often used to meet at Filomena’s apartment, the one she had in my house.’

‘Matteo’s aunt is Filomena?’ Jack checked. A longer cast of characters than he’d expected was beginning to unfold.

‘Exactly.’ Father Renzi looked pleased at his understanding. ‘Luigi Tasca said he intended that evening to go to Matteo’s house to look for his friend, but then decided he was more likely to find him at his aunt’s apartment. When he got to my house, however, Matteo wasn’t there and Luigi did not see his friend. Instead, he told the police that he saw me. Or, at least, that I saw him. At precisely the time the robbery was committed.’

‘Why didn’t he keep to his original plan of going to his friend’s house? He could have said that he met Matteo there at the time he was supposed to have broken into the palazzo and Pretelli would likely have lied for him. Much simpler.’ Jack shielded his eyes from a sun that had emerged from behind the parasol.

‘I have no idea but, if he had done so, it would not have been as simple as you say. His alibi would have been destroyed immediately – Matteo had travelled to Milan for the day and could not possibly have seen him.’

‘But when he used you as his alibi?’ Flora prompted.

‘Ah, yes, I am coming to this. It is where the problem arrives. I denied that I had seen him and from that moment I became the enemy of the Tasca family. They blamed me for the disaster that overtook their son and took their revenge.’

‘The count mentioned something of that. But what exactly happened?’

‘It is painful to talk of.’

‘If we’re to be any help,’ Flora said, ‘we should know.’

The priest put down his glass, the drink untouched. ‘I was caught in a trap. The Tasca family were my devoted parishioners and I liked them personally. They are a large family but always they come to mass and the children attend bible class every Sunday. If I denied that I had seen Luigi, the boy’s alibi would fall to pieces and it would be the steward’s word against his. Who would the jury believe?’

‘His alibi collapsed and they believed the steward?’ Jack hazarded.

‘The jury did. And the family never forgave me for my refusal to help.’

‘But you couldn’t tell a deliberate lie. Not as a priest,’ Flora protested.

Renzi shook his head, a sorrowful smile on his face. ‘My dear, a priest in these small communities is more than a servant of God. He is a mainstay, a friend, a comforter, a father. The Tascas expected me to come to their son’s rescue and I did not. That is when the problems began.’

‘Which were?’ Jack fidgeted in his seat, seeming wary of being drawn further into this maelstrom but feeling he must ask.

‘Many difficulties. The family refused to attend my church and persuaded others to do the same. They ignored me in the street when I greeted them, tore up my garden and left rubbish instead of flowers. Worse’ – the priest’s face was filled with pain – ‘they spread lies about me – that I drank heavily, took from the collection, made my altar boys uncomfortable. They posted anonymous messages around the village, although everyone knew who had written them. Unpleasant and untrue accusations that I could do nothing to stop.’

‘And the church authorities moved you to Venice to get you away?’ Flora asked, wondering why they had done little else to stop this assault on a loyal servant.

‘I asked for a new post and they saw the wisdom of my request. It broke my heart to do this, but I had no choice. I have tried hard to make it work, but I miss my village, my town, and always will. Filomena, too.’

Jack leaned forward. ‘Is this the first trouble you’ve encountered since you moved?’

The priest looked surprised. ‘What kind of trouble are you thinking?’

‘Has the family continued to bother you since you’ve been at Santa Margherita?’

‘Not at all. I have heard nothing from them.’

‘Has anything else been stolen from the church?’ Jack pursued.

The priest hesitated. ‘Nothing,’ he said at last. ‘There was a candelabra…a few months ago…I noticed it was missing, but Filomena told me she had taken it to the goldsmith for repair. She had dented it accidentally when cleaning. She is growing old, you see, and can be a little careless these days.’

‘And that’s all, just the candelabra?’

He seemed to hesitate again, but then gave a nod.

‘And Filomena – you’ve no clue where the lady could be?’

‘None. The painting disappeared into thin air and so has Filomena. I fear very much that harm has come to her.’

‘Have you mentioned the problems you had with the Tasca family to the Venice police?’

‘I would not wish to do so. It would be as though I was accusing them and I cannot truly believe they have any part in this. I have been three years in Venice and, as I told you, have heard nothing from them.’

‘Could you talk to them perhaps?’ Flora suggested. ‘To be sure that they know nothing? Talk to Luigi Tasca himself, maybe.’

‘It is not possible. None of the family will speak and it would stir more trouble – they would say that I was once again trying to blacken Luigi’s name. And I must let the police carry on their investigation – they have made it plain I should not interfere. Their minds are made up. Filomena has chosen to go away, they say, no one has made her, and the artwork will be recovered all in good time. The art squad from Rome is excellent; they will trace what has happened to the painting.’

‘Essentially, they’ve washed their hands of the business.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Well, you may not be able to talk to the Tascas, but we can.’ Flora was already thinking of what she would ask them.

The priest put out his hand as though to detain her. ‘You will be careful. They are an angry family and I do not know what they might do.’

‘We’re very good at being careful,’ she said cheerfully.

Are we? was Jack’s less comfortable thought.