Page 6 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

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The priest got to his feet and solemnly shook hands with them both. ‘You will excuse me now? I must return to my house in case there is a message from the police.’

It seemed unlikely, but Jack wasn’t about to bring Father Renzi’s spirits any lower than they already were.

‘But, if you should ask any questions and you have any news, you will come to Santa Margherita?’ The priest still lingered by the table.

‘We will, I promise.’ It was easy enough to promise, but difficult to see how they could unearth anything substantive, knowing no one in Venice and with little Italian.

‘Father Renzi.’ Flora jumped up, as though stricken by a sudden thought. ‘Do you know a Franco Massi? He came from Asolo, too, I believe.’

‘Franco? But, of course. The Massi family are well-known in that district. Franco has been in Venice for some years and I know that he has done very well. But also that he does not forget his beginnings. He has been a very good son – for the most part. I hear that he often returns to see his parents. They are growing older, of course.’

It was obvious to Jack that the priest had not heard of Massi’s death. Perhaps he avoided newspapers or never listened to the local radio. He supposed they should break the bad news, but first…

‘When you say Franco has been a good son “for the most part”, is there some doubt?’

The priest waggled his head from side to side. ‘A small doubt only. His parents were not happy that Franco broke his engagement. They liked very much the girl he had chosen and were hoping for a marriage. And, of course, for grandchildren! That is not likely with their younger son.’

‘Do you know why he broke it?’

‘Signora Massi told me when I was last in Asolo that Franco felt his parents would need more of his help as the years passed. He has a disabled brother, you see, and fears that caring for the younger boy will become harder. He thought, I imagine, that with a family of his own, it would not be possible to give his parents the support they will need.’

It seemed a poor excuse to Jack, and to Flora, too. ‘Why then did he suggest marriage in the first place?’ she asked. ‘The family’s situation can’t have changed.’

Renzi spread his hands. ‘Who would know? The heart, my dear, has its reasons.’

She looked unimpressed with the aphorism and was gazing pointedly at him, Jack realised. It was time to speak. ‘Father Renzi.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think you cannot have heard the news. Franco Massi is dead. Two nights ago he fell into the Grand Canal and drowned.’

The priest looked aghast. ‘He is dead! This cannot be.’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘But this is terrible. How can he have fallen? How could he not swim to safety?’

‘The police are saying it was an accident,’ Jack said carefully. ‘That he must have hit his head as he fell and been rendered unconscious.’

‘This is terrible,’ Renzi repeated. ‘His parents will have hearts that are broken. Franco has always been their hope, their light. I must speak with them.’ His tone had a new urgency. ‘Telephone to Asolo immediately.’

‘Before you go,’ Flora said, as the priest made to walk away, ‘do you know Bianca Benetti? She was Franco’s fiancée.’

Hearing the name, Father Renzi retraced a few steps. ‘I cannot say that I know the young woman well, but I have met her. Just once. They were here – Franco and Bianca – having coffee in the square and he rushed up to me. Come to meet a beautiful girl, Father, he said. And she was beautiful…but…the poor child, how she must be suffering.’

The priest stood motionless, staring blindly into space, until Flora’s second question brought him back to the present. ‘Would you know where she works?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ He sounded a little vague. ‘Franco must have mentioned it. Yes.’ He nodded to himself. ‘It is a hotel on the Giudecca. Close to the Cipriani where Franco is…was…employed. That boy has done so well. Such a good future in front of him.’ The priest shook his head, his beard quivering slightly.

‘The name of the hotel?’

‘Minerva, I think. Yes, Hotel Minerva.’

A final wave, and Renzi walked towards one of the small lanes that intersected with the square. Jack’s eyes followed the disappearing figure of the priest, then felt another pair of eyes trained on him. Hazel eyes.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he groaned. ‘We’re on our way to Hotel Minerva.’

It was only fair, Jack thought, as they walked back to the San Tomà stop. He’d been indulged with a visit to the Scuola Grande and, surprisingly, they’d been rewarded with more than the Tintorettos. If Flora was determined to help Father Renzi, and it seemed she was, discovering whether Franco Massi had any connection to the priest’s difficulties would be a first step, and a visit to his fiancée at the Minerva might just help. Once back on the Giudecca, the hotel shouldn’t be hard to find.

Their conversation with Bianca was likely to be brief, he reckoned, and should leave them time to enjoy an afternoon at the Cipriani. Particularly, an afternoon at the swimming pool: in his mind a stretch of deep blue water glinted in the sun, a cushioned lounger sat beneath a huge umbrella, and an ever-watchful pool attendant served fruit and sorbets and ice-cold drinks. It was a treat that had been in his thoughts ever since he’d spied the pool from an upstairs window. It was quite unusual for a Venetian hotel to boast such a luxury and this one, he judged, was near Olympic size.

‘Lunch?’ he asked, as they clambered aboard the vaporetto on their way back to the island.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure I could eat anything. I’m still full from breakfast.’

‘Me too. Shall we skip a meal? If we’re desperate, we can always buy paninis on the way.’ He was as eager now as Flora to find Bianca Benetti, although for somewhat different reasons.

Ferried back to the Giudecca by the Cipriani launch, and having shrugged off the need for a panini, they found Hotel Minerva with ease. A ten-minute walk by the side of the lagoon, through attractive gardens and past numerous small shops and several restaurants, brought them to the Calle San Giacomo. A sign at its entrance directed them to follow the passageway to the hotel at its end.

The Minerva was a good deal smaller than their own hotel and clearly less luxurious, but clean and comfortable with a pleasant receptionist behind the desk.

‘Bianca Benetti?’ she queried. ‘Yes, she is here. Bianca is one of our housekeeping staff. I will ring to see if she is available to come.’

They were invited to take a seat in the lobby and, after a lengthy wait, were gratified to see the pretty girl that Flora had met in Abbeymead step out of the lift and look around. Flora stood up and waved to her.

Bianca nodded, a head of thick curls bouncing in acknowledgement. Even dressed in the hotel’s uniform of brown-striped dress and cream pinafore, Bianca made an impression, her curvaceous figure brightening the somewhat drab attire.

‘It is Flora, no?’ she said, her English heavily accented.

‘That’s right. I remember meeting you at the Priory.’

‘That was a good time,’ the girl said a trifle sadly. ‘I miss England. I miss Sussex.’

Flora knew the feeling although, strangely, she had felt little homesickness this time, and had to keep reminding herself to telephone Alice, as she’d promised, and reassure her that all was well and neither she nor Jack had so far fallen into a canal, though she wouldn’t mention the man who had.

‘Please, come and sit down.’ Jack made space for the girl on the Venetian-red sofa and she sank down beside Flora.

‘Sally asked me to call and say hello if we had time this week,’ Flora began gently. ‘I didn’t think we would but…we heard the news…about your…about Franco…and thought that we really must come.’

Bianca stared at her feet, and for the first time Flora noticed how drawn she looked.

‘We are so sorry, Bianca.’ Better to pretend ignorance of a broken engagement. Father Renzi might not, in any case, be right.

‘Accidents happen,’ she said, her voice lacking any trace of emotion.

Flora was taken aback. Even if Franco had broken the engagement, he’d been this girl’s fiancé.

‘Franco—’ she began delicately, only to be interrupted.

‘How did you know of Franco?’

‘He checked us into our hotel – we’re staying at the Cipriani. After we heard what happened to him, and realised he was engaged to someone we actually knew, we felt we had to call.’

Bianca’s smile was taut. ‘Not any more engaged. We said goodbye last month. I am sorry to hear that anyone has come to harm in the canal, but Franco – he is nothing to me now.’

There was a long pause while Flora strove to think of something to say. She had expected a heartbroken fiancée, even a heartbroken ex-fiancée, but Bianca’s cold indifference was discomfiting.

‘I have spoken to Sally, you know,’ the maid said. ‘She told me you were coming here – on your honeymoon.’

The sudden change of conversation had Flora blink. It was evident they would not be speaking of Franco, as she’d hoped.

‘Really?’ she stuttered. ‘I didn’t know you and Sally spoke that often.’

‘Sally is a good friend. She understands.’

What exactly Sally understood was difficult to fathom – it seemed unlikely that Bianca was about to clarify – and, really, it was Franco who interested them.

Flora decided to try again. ‘Can I ask when it was that you last saw Franco?’

The girl looked surprised. It must seem a strange question, Flora acknowledged, but then Bianca shrugged at the oddity as though she couldn’t remember or couldn’t be bothered to.

‘You don’t remember him telling you any worries he had?’

The maid’s expression was derisive. ‘Franco? Worries? No chance. He was king of his own little castle.’

And what did that mean? But before Flora could ask for enlightenment, the receptionist had walked over to the small group and tapped Bianca on the shoulder.

‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ she said in English, ‘but you are wanted, Bianca. Room 233 are unhappy with their pillows.’

The girl rose gracefully to her feet. ‘I must go, but I hope I will see you again before you leave Venice. You should take a boat trip. Here.’ She delved into her apron pocket and brought out a card. ‘This is my father. He is a boatman and has a brand new vessel. He knows all of Venice very well and will take you wherever you want.’

They scrambled to say a hasty goodbye before the maid whisked herself away and into the lift on her mission to room 233.

‘Well, that didn’t work too well,’ Jack said, getting to his feet. ‘She evidently wants nothing to do with Franco, even a dead Franco. We seem to have wasted our time.’ He’d been unable to stop thinking of the swimming pool.

‘Maybe not entirely.’ Flora tapped the card. ‘We should take a boat trip.’