Page 10 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

“Oh no.” For an instant, fresh anger tightened Elena’s lips.

She sighed. “But it was probably the first time they had involved others. It was a measure of contempt that Angelo sent his men to beat Ludovico and take the ring by force. He hired some of them as bodyguards, you know, without considering the nature of the men concerned. They could have killed Ludovico.” Her gaze refocused on Constance.

“And they certainly overstepped by taking you. Rumor must have reached them of some new mistress of Ludovico. And they must have thought you, Mr. Grey, were of their own type, some hired bravo. Imbeciles.”

“Would you mind if we spoke to them?” Solomon asked. “And to your other servants?”

Elena raised her eyebrows. “Please do, but I would advise you to watch your back. And be quick, because I will certainly turn most of them off.”

“Is that wise?” Constance asked quickly. “Until we know what happened to your husband, should you not keep all the protection you can?”

The widow’s eyes widened infinitesimally, as if the thought had never entered her head.

Because she knew who had killed her husband and why?

Her eyelashes swept down, masking whatever lay behind them.

Constance thought suddenly that she was very alone and had probably been so long before the death of her husband.

In marrying Savelli, she had alienated her family and friends and made an enemy of Giusti. The quarrel between the two men was clearly well known in the city, certainly to the police.

“You must know Giusti very well,” Solomon said. “Do you think he is capable of murder?”

“Of course he is,” Elena said impatiently. “He killed in the war. Angelo fought for the Austrians. Do I think he did kill my husband? No. Angelo told me he left in the same boat as you did.”

“Perhaps he came back,” Solomon said.

“Perhaps you did,” Elena countered. “After all, my husband was responsible for kidnapping your wife and no doubt terrifying her. That is not easy to forgive.”

“No, it isn’t,” Solomon said. “Which was why I tried to call on him yesterday. Signora, when did you last see your husband alive?”

“When he told me about Giusti and Signora Grey. About one in the morning, perhaps a little later.”

“Did he go to bed?” Constance asked.

“Not with me,” Elena said, holding her gaze. “But he has his own rooms, of course.”

“May we see them?”

Again, the widow’s eyes widened. “You want to see my husband’s rooms?”

“And speak to his valet, if he has one,” Constance said, getting everything in at once.

Elena stared at her, then at Solomon, as if unsure whether to be angry. She gave a graceful shrug. “Very well, why not? What else do you want to know?”

“Who hated him? Who bore a grudge and a temper violent enough to kill him? Giusti implied he had business rivals.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Oh yes,” Constance said. Some of her own would have cut her throat in passing. Once upon a time. Now, she had no real rivals, since her business was unique, though that didn’t mean everyone loved her. “Who were your husband’s?”

Elena drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair for a moment, then said, “Nicolo Premarin was trying replace him in some government contract. He was boasting about it, claimed the contract was signed. Only it wasn’t, and Angelo kept it.

I heard Premarin was angry. But then, I don’t care for the man, so I would say that.

Don’t you think you should be looking further down the”—she paused, struggling for right word in English—“the ranks of our population? An opportunistic thief or someone of that nature?”

“Was anything stolen from your husband?”

“Not that I know of,” she said reluctantly.

She swallowed some wine, set down the glass, and pushed it across the table.

“There was coin in his pocket and he still wore his ring and his cuff links. But…” She jumped to her feet in sudden excitement.

“He did witness a robbery in San Marco last week. Someone snatched a lady’s purse and Angelo caught the fellow, handed him over to the authorities after returning the purse to the lady.

The thief was loud in his cursing and promise of retribution. ”

“Ah.” Solomon had risen with her. “Did you tell the police about this yesterday?”

“No, for I had forgotten until now. They should know already, since they took charge of the culprit. But I will remind them. Come. I’ll show you Angelo’s room if you really want to see it.”

Frustratingly, the dead man’s bedchamber gave away little of his character.

It was comfortable but not luxurious, containing everything a gentleman should have and all in the finest quality.

But there was nothing extravagant in his taste, no clue as to his interest in books or art or pastimes.

His dressing room, which looked onto the back of the house, was much the same: functional, tidy, and tasteful.

“He was a very private man, your husband?” Constance said. She made it a question, and Elena merely nodded.

“Yes. But then, he only slept here. He conducted correspondence and business from his study or the dockside offices.”

Constance glanced at Solomon.

“Would it be too much of an intrusion,” he asked, “to see his study? His correspondence?”

It was a question that risked their being thrown out of the house, and Constance more than half expected it. Certainly, Elena’s bold eyebrows rose very high.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. “You are looking for evidence of his secret life? The dancing girls and the mistresses? The vices that a mere wife is never shown? Come, then, but you are wasting your time.”

“I believe you,” Solomon said. “But there may be other things to see—acrimonious correspondence with some enemy none of us knows of, or even with Giusti. Or some cause for having left the house by the back door in the early hours of the morning.”

Elena paused at the door and glanced back over her shoulder. “You think he went outside to meet someone there? Why would he do that without protection? Especially if it was Giusti, whom he had just had beaten. Or you, Mr. Grey, whose beautiful wife had just been taken and frightened by strangers.”

“That is a good point,” Solomon agreed. “Especially when he had hired bodyguards. Why did he do that, by the way? Was it normal? Or did he fear some particular threat?”

“He did not say so. He said it was for me. But I am irritated by followers and prefer my own company.”

She led them down the grand staircase again and threw open a door beyond the drawing room. From his expression, Solomon recognized it.

“This is his private study,” Elena said, “where he could bring friends when he chose to. He has offices downstairs, too.”

It was another lovely room, flooded with light and lined with books and furnished in beautiful walnut wood. Elena wandered toward the glass cabinets at the far end.

“My husband collected antiquities,” she said with odd bitterness, waving one hand over the first cabinet without looking at it. “Weapons, largely, as you see.”

She was right, Constance saw with one cursory glance. If the man collected antiquarian jewelry like Elena’s father’s ring, it was not obvious.

Nor did he keep correspondence here. No papers littered his desk. Only blank paper, pens, and inks were kept in the drawers. As if, even here, his personality was suppressed.

Wordlessly, Elena led them out and down a less-grand staircase to the ground floor, where a suite of rooms were clearly used as offices. The largest and most comfortable was clearly the master’s.

Here at last was a busy room, full of bookcases and desks, ledgers and papers. Everything seemed to be tidy and ordered.

Elena stood by quite rigidly as Constance and Solomon poked around his desk, rifling through a few business letters. Because it was different, Constance picked up an invoice.

“Who is Signor Rossi?” she asked.

“Domenico? He is—was—painting our portrait.”

Constance laid it down again.

“My husband was a good man,” Elena said with sudden sadness. “And a good husband. No one had a reason to kill him.”

“There is always a reason,” Solomon said. “Even if it isn’t one the rest of the world understands.”

“You are being very cooperative and very patient with us,” Constance said. “Does that mean you believe us to be innocent of the murder?”

“I don’t think you would be—ah…inquiring into the crime if you had committed it. You would invoke the protection of the British consul and flee. Or at least keep quiet. Are you protecting Giusti?”

She may have been speaking to both of them, but it was Constance she looked at, and just for an instant there was deep feeling in her secretive eyes. Constance could not read it. And then it vanished.

“He is easy to like,” Elena said, just a little too carelessly to be natural.

Is that jealousy? In a dog-in-the-manger kind of way. She chose Savelli, but no one else should have Giusti either?

Elena moved toward the door. “Come. I’ll take you to the servants.”

They followed her, though Solomon cast a last look over his shoulder, as though still trying to learn something that the room was determined to hide.

“How was your husband in the last few days?” Constance asked her. “Did he seem anxious about anything or anyone?”

“No. But then, my husband was not a talkative man. He would not…upset me with his concerns.”

Constance heard the tiny pause before the word upset and suspected the dead man’s reticence had hurt his wife.

She could understand that, for Solomon had once been similarly inclined.

That he had unbent and trusted her, that their relationship had grown into this partnership, this companionship, was a matter of happiness and pride to her.

Did you try? Did you love your husband? Impossible to ask right now.

As was, Did you kill him?

“Then he behaved as usual?” Solomon asked.

“Well, no, he did not usually abduct respectable women off the street, not even by accident.”

Solomon ignored the sarcasm. “But it was normal to send his men after Giusti?”

She threw back her head in a gesture that might have signified frustration or anger.

“Their quarrel was getting out of hand,” she said.

“I thought it would fade with time, but it got worse… Ludovico ignored both of us unless he was poked. But Angelo seemed unable to leave the matter alone. He thought Ludovico wore my father’s ring to insult him or rile him, and maybe he did.

But Angelo used the missing jewels as an excuse, as though the property was his only concern. ”

“That must have hurt,” Constance said.

Elena caught her breath and stopped, her eyes guarded as she flung a quick glance at each of them. “It angered me.” She walked on more swiftly, her whole posture discouraging further questions.