Page 9 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

9

It had been an interesting day, Flora decided, and a clever idea of Jack’s to use the slightly cooler weather to see something of a Venice they hadn’t yet explored. She was certainly tired, but tired or not, was looking forward to the evening and a visit to a restaurant that she reckoned was behind most, if not all, of the trouble they’d uncovered. An hour or so lazing and she’d be ready to go.

Jack yawned, joining her on the bed and wrapping his arms around her. ‘I don’t know if I can eat much tonight,’ he murmured.

‘Really? That doesn’t sound like you. We could always forget the main course, I suppose. I don’t think they’d object. Have just a starter and a pudding – their desserts looked lovely.’

‘We’re definitely going out to eat?’ he asked innocently.

She turned her head to look at him, her expression puzzled. ‘Why wouldn’t we? We’re going to La Zucca. You do remember?’

How could he forget the restaurant or the repercussions he feared from Flora’s meeting with an owner who, inevitably, would be less than pleased? And so it turned out. They had eaten their main course of chicken cacciatore – neither, in fact, had fancied a starter – and by luck, or ill luck, Jack grumbled to himself, it was the owner rather than their waiter who walked out to their table on the terrace and presented them with the dessert menu.

Flora smiled brightly up at him, a sure sign she was in questioning mode. ‘You have a beautiful restaurant here,’ she said.

‘Thank you, signora.’

‘Beautiful surroundings, too. So close to the Grand Canal. You must be very busy.’

‘ Il ristorante è popolare . It goes well,’ he acknowledged.

‘We’re just finding our way around Venice,’ she confided. ‘It can be confusing.’

He nodded pleasantly and handed them both a new menu, intending to leave them to make their choice.

‘We’ve been talking of travelling more widely, though,’ she said before he could walk away. ‘Exploring the Veneto.’

‘ Il Veneto – is very beautiful, too.’

‘Can you recommend anywhere we should visit in particular?’

Here it comes, Jack realised.

The owner spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘There are so many places. Tutto é bellissimo .’

‘Do you come from Venice yourself?’

‘No, signora.’ He tried to walk away.

‘Perhaps we could visit your home town.’ Flora’s smile became brighter. ‘Where would that be?’ And when he appeared not to understand, she asked again. ‘Where do you come from? Da dove viene? ’

‘Asolo.’ He answered abruptly.

‘Asolo is in the Veneto?’ she asked, adopting a useful ignorance.

‘It is, signora, and very beautiful.’

‘Thank you. We might visit. And I’ll have the amaretto gelato , please. How about you, Jack?’

As soon as the owner had strode back into the restaurant, Flora turned to him as he knew she would.

‘You see? There is a connection.’

‘And what are we to do about it? He didn’t appear exactly helpful, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I may go for a little walk after the ice cream. To find the toilet.’

‘Flora…’ he warned.

‘I’m allowed to go to the Ladies. And if I should lose my way…’

Jack leaned across the table, his voice low. ‘What, exactly?’

‘I could explore. There must be a lot more to the restaurant than this terrace and the tables inside. A cellar maybe.’

‘And if you find a cellar, what then?’

‘I’ve no idea, but it’s surely worth a little scrummaging. A man is dead, a painting stolen and an elderly lady who should be safe at home is still missing.’

The gelato, brought this time by their waiter – Flora remarked on the change – was mouthwatering. The owner, she checked again the name over the door, Silvio Fabbri, had disappeared into the dim interior of the restaurant. There were a few lamplit tables inside but the warmth of the summer evening had the majority of customers choose seats on the long terrace.

Crunching her napkin into a ball, she got to her feet and gathered up her handbag. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

‘Don’t be – and never mind the cellar. Stick to the bathroom,’ Jack advised.

‘But of course!’

A waitress was serving the several indoor tables and pointed Flora in the right direction. A flight of stairs towards the back of the restaurant led to a half landing and the women’s washroom, but then continued on, leading down to…she would find out.

Checking over her shoulder that she was unwatched, Flora sped down the staircase to discover that the restaurant boasted an enormous basement which must, she calculated, stretch beneath the businesses on either side of La Zucca. It was far larger than she’d expected. And far more interesting. From the furthest end came the clank of pots, the smack of china, the shouts of people under pressure – that would be the kitchen. But the sounds were at a distance and, turning in the opposite direction, she began to explore what else this cavernous space contained. Doors were her first thought. At least six, side by side, all shut and all probably locked.

But maybe not. Flora walked up to the first and was about to try the handle when a slight noise caught her ear. No more than a faint scuffle. She turned quickly but before she could face whatever had made the noise, a hand gripped her shoulder, hard and painful. She caught her breath and waited.

‘Signora, you are lost?’

She twisted round and his clasp lessened slightly. A young man, tall and muscular, with dark curly hair. His smile seemed to mock, a smile that Flora didn’t like.

‘The bathroom,’ she said, hoping he’d swallow the excuse. ‘I’m looking for the bathroom.’

‘But you have come too far, signora,’ he said in English. ‘ Troppo lontano . Please, I show you.’ The clasp on her shoulder intensified once more and Flora felt herself propelled towards the staircase she had recently descended.

‘Up,’ he said. And it was a command rather than a request.

‘ Matteo, sei tu qui sotto? ’ The voice from above was harsh and impatient.

‘ Sì, sto arrivando. I am coming.’ The man named Matteo gave her a little push and she was forced to climb the stairs, coming face to face with a second young man, this one wearing an angry expression and a none too clean shirt.

He ignored her and spoke in rapid Italian while Matteo, it seemed, attempted to soothe him. To reassure him? she wondered. Dialogue crackled back and forth until her guide seemed suddenly to realise that Flora stood close by and was listening.

‘This is where you want, signora.’ He waved a hand towards the cubicles she’d seen earlier.

Flora thanked him and smiled at his companion. In return, she received a scowl.

‘What happened?’ Jack asked, fearing the worst, as he’d done all day. ‘You look tense. Are you?’

‘Only a little. The restaurant has a huge basement, Jack, and doors everywhere. I’m certain there’s something down there they want to hide. I was stopped by a young man – the owner’s son, maybe? – who made sure I went no further. His name was Matteo…’ She trailed off. ‘Wasn’t there a Matteo in the priest’s story? Matteo…Pretelli.’

‘There must be thousands of Matteos in Italy.’

‘So, another coincidence?’

Jack ignored the challenge. ‘You went looking and Matteo?—’

‘Suddenly, he was there. I hadn’t heard a sound and then a hand was on my shoulder. And not a gentle hand either. He more or less forced me to walk back up the stairs.’

‘You were trespassing. They don’t want customers wandering where they shouldn’t.’

‘Maybe, but it is an enormous basement. The cooks take up a fair space, I imagine, but apart from the kitchen, there are half a dozen rooms. I wanted to know what was behind those doors. I still do.’

Jack grimaced. ‘We’re not going to find out. At least, not tonight – if ever. I think we should pay and disappear. You’ve done enough exploring for one evening.’

He was right, Flora knew, and hoped that she hadn’t spoiled for him what had been a thoroughly enjoyable day. But for the episode in the basement – and for a moment she’d felt real fear – it had been a wonderful evening. Eating together, talking together. Really, this is what they should be doing, she told herself, as they began their walk back to St Mark’s and the Cipriani berth: days spent sightseeing or lazing by the pool, evenings eating by the lagoon or beside one of the small canals that made Venice the city it was.

But she couldn’t relax, not entirely. If it had only been a matter of a missing painting, she might have shrugged it off, left it to the squad from Rome to solve the mystery, but knowing that a woman, an elderly woman at that, was involved – a woman the priest feared had come to harm – made it impossible to forget. Impossible to do anything but try to discover what had happened to her. And Father Renzi, too. Flora had liked him a lot, had felt desperately sorry for his predicament and wanted very much to see him regain a life that was peaceful and untroubled.

Despite her qualms, there was no doubt in her mind that she had to continue to dig. There would be the chance of a second honeymoon, she comforted herself, sometime in the future, and hoped that Jack would see it that way, too.

‘I think it would be wise to give La Zucca a miss for a while,’ Jack said, as they wandered through the streets to St Mark’s piazza.

The evening had been difficult, he thought. That was the word. Difficult but not disastrous, certainly not as bad as he’d feared. Maybe Flora would be content now with what she’d discovered and they could forget any future visits. Disappointment, however, lay ahead.

‘I’m glad you said for a while.’ Flora tucked her arm in his. ‘We’ll have to search that cellar – or the police will. I mean, six doors to six rooms and all of them closed!’

‘And all of them stuffed to the ceiling with goods for the restaurant.’

‘You don’t know that, and how would that even be possible? But I agree – we won’t go back just yet.’

A breathing space, at least, he thought.

* * *

They had walked halfway back to the square and were sauntering through a narrow, ill-lit passageway, an archway of brightness ahead, when a figure came rushing past them, cannoning into Jack and sending him crashing against the stone wall of the building that towered above them.

A young woman who had been walking a few paces behind tutted loudly and, with Flora, helped Jack to his feet.

‘ Ruffiano ,’ she said. Then in English, ‘Ruffian. You OK?’

‘Yes, thank you. Grazie mille .’

She smiled at them both and walked on.

‘He was a ruffian,’ Flora began to say when she realised that Jack was clutching his arm in a worrying fashion. ‘You’re not OK, are you?’

She came close and through the gloom peered at his shirtsleeve. A bloom of red had spread across the white cotton.

‘You’ve been stabbed!’ she said. ‘Oh, dear Lord, you’ve been stabbed!’

‘I felt something,’ he admitted. ‘But it won’t be serious, not where it is, just messy. Have you a handkerchief? Better still, use mine.’

Flora fumbled in his pocket for the square of linen, her hand shaking slightly. Then, in the dim light, folding his sleeve back, she could just make out a slash mark, no more than two inches wide, but pouring blood.

Jack craned his neck to squint. ‘It’s a superficial cut, by the look of it. If you can bind it…’

Flora wrapped the handkerchief around the wound, tugging the ends into as tight a knot as she could manage, then holding him by the other arm, walked them as quickly as possible to the waterside. To the Cipriani phone and safety.

By the time they stepped off the launch at the hotel’s landing stage, the bleeding had stopped and Jack was adamant that he had no need of a doctor. Unsure of her powers as a nurse, Flora was worried, but had to trust to his judgement. He’d been a soldier for six years, after all; he must know more about wounds than she ever would.

Once in their room, she undid his shirt buttons and very gingerly peeled off the bloodied cotton, dropping it into the bath along with the bloodstained handkerchief. Time enough to launder them later. For now, it was important to wash, dry and protect what was an unpleasant gash.

It was fortunate that, despite Jack’s mockery, she’d brought a veritable medicine chest with them and now it came into its own. Soap and water and a dusting of boracic powder should keep the wound healthy, but when she tried to unroll a bandage she’d packed, he held up his hand in protest.

‘It will be fine as it is. But thank you.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Right now, I think a brandy might be just the thing, don’t you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I read somewhere that alcohol can inflame a wound.’

‘And I read somewhere,’ Jack countered, picking up the phone to call reception, ‘that alcohol could be just the thing to dull the pain!’

A few minutes later, two balloons of golden liquid arrived at their door. ‘We should take them onto the balcony,’ he suggested. ‘It’s still warm enough.’

She followed him outside and, for a while, they sat in silence looking over the lagoon and the illuminated mass of San Giorgio Maggiore. A spectacle to enjoy.

Flora had hardly spoken since they returned and he could see she was troubled. ‘A penny for them?’

‘It might cost more than a penny.’

Her expression in the half-light was difficult to read and he saved his response until she pointed to his arm, now encased in a fresh shirt. ‘Did that happen because of me?’

He frowned. ‘Because of you? How?’

‘I was poking around, as Alice always says. And I was caught. I don’t think Matteo believed I was looking for the bathroom.’

Jack struggled to make the connection. ‘You think…you think my attacker was from the restaurant? But why? He was some random no-good, probably high on alcohol or worse.’

‘But was he? Was he simply a thug? He didn’t hold us up at knifepoint and demand money, which is what I’d expect. He ran at you quite deliberately, slashed, and then ran away.’

‘That’s what I mean. A random drunk.’ Jack raised his glass. ‘Try the brandy and you’ll feel better.’

But, after taking a sip, it seemed that Flora didn’t. Her forehead was furrowed deeply and her gaze had fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance. ‘The man who rushed past us in that alleyway,’ she said slowly, ‘the man who stabbed you…I think he was the person I saw at La Zucca. The one who called down to Matteo.’

‘You couldn’t have recognised him,’ Jack protested. ‘It was nearly dark in that alley.’

She took another small sip and said even more slowly, ‘He was short and stocky. A quite different figure from his friend.’

‘Short and stocky could apply to a great many Italian men.’

‘I’m sure it was him,’ she said doggedly.

‘Another hunch?’

‘More than that, Jack. It was his clothes, too. They seemed familiar. The shirt he wore was the same blue – I saw it even though the light was dim – and it smelt the same.’

‘Let’s accept for one moment that it was the man you saw at the restaurant. What possible purpose could there be in following their customers and injuring them?’

‘A warning?’

‘In that case, why slash at me? All I did was sit at a table and eat my dinner. You were the one doing the poking around.’

‘I’m a woman – maybe he baulked at stabbing me.’

‘So, he hurts me instead.’ Jack swirled the brandy around his glass. ‘How does that work?’

‘If he hurts you, he hurts me, too,’ she said simply. ‘That restaurant has something to hide, I’m certain, and the knife was a warning for us to keep away. I want to know who that man is. And who Matteo is. If those men have any connection to Asolo, the priest will know them. He might even have photographs of his time there, photographs of his congregation.’

‘You’re going to ask me to go back to San Polo, aren’t you?’

She beamed. ‘I am, but only when your arm has stopped hurting.’