Page 14 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

“T hat has to be significant,” Constance said eagerly as they walked up the passage toward Alvise and the boat.

The rain had gone off, so there was no need to rush.

“Rossi blunders drunkenly into insulting Savelli’s marriage and blabbing about jewels, and suddenly Savelli sends his men after Giusti to steal his wife’s jewels back.

And yet I don’t see him as a man of such temper. ”

“The dismissal is the direct result of Rossi’s verbal blunders,” Solomon said.

“But the attack? That makes little sense to me however I look at it. Except as jealousy. You are sure Savelli loved his wife, even in some repressed, excessively formal way. But that did not kill him. On the other hand, Rossi might have.”

“Because he was dismissed with only half the portrait painted?” Constance said doubtfully. “He even got paid—some of his fee, at least. It doesn’t seem much of a motive for murder.”

“It might when you’re drunk enough.”

Constance thought about that. Drunkenness and violence went together all too often, as she had cause to know.

Although there was something rather appealing about Domenico Rossi, even drunk as a wheelbarrow.

She would need much more information before she would let him near her girls—always a useful guide. And once she accepted that…

“Savelli knew him,” she said slowly. “If he was awake that night and saw Rossi arrive at his back door, he might well have nipped down to speak to him—to ask him what the devil he was doing, or even ask him to finish the painting after all. Only Rossi was too drunk and angry and stabbed him. Probably with more luck than science.”

“Artists tend to know the human body very well. I wonder if he has a boat?”

“We can ask him tomorrow morning,” Constance said. “If he turns up.”

“The girl will make him. Though actually, I don’t think she’ll need to. He seemed quite keen. And he’s good, isn’t he?”

Constance nodded. “I hope it isn’t him,” she said as they emerged from the passage. “But then, I haven’t met anyone yet I want it to be. Except Savelli’s own thugs. That Pellini…”

“Well, they’re worth looking into, if we can find someone to talk about them.”

“Elena herself might. She doesn’t like them.”

Solomon handed her down into the boat, then climbed after her.

“Where to?” Alvise asked.

Constance glanced up at the sky, where the sun was beginning to peek through the clouds. There was even a patch or two of blue. She looked at Solomon. “Giusti?”

He nodded.

“Palazzo Giusti,” Alvise said, and picked up his oar. As the sun came out, he lifted his voice and began to sing, and Constance was beguiled all over again. She took Solomon’s hand and let Venice enfold her.

*

Clearly, the Palazzo Giusti had once been an impressive structure. It was old, probably older than the Zulian, and at a distance, still a gracious, beautiful building. Only as they drew closer could Constance see that some of the stonework was crumbling, and the whole house had an air of neglect.

The door was opened quite casually by an ill-dressed young man who blinked in surprise when he saw them on the doorstep. Solomon asked for Giusti, and the servant held open the door and waved them inside with a gesture somehow more resigned than mocking.

The theme of neglect continued inside. Although clean enough, the paint was faded, and some tiles were broken. The entrance hall, which should have been as impressive as Savelli’s, was empty of furniture and hangings and caused their footsteps to echo loudly.

The servant strode along, and they hurried to keep up as he led them upstairs and along another faded, empty passage to a set of open double doors. He called inside, saying something about a lady and gentleman, and stood back.

Giusti himself appeared at the door, clearly surprised and curious, though his face broke into a grin when he saw them. His bruises looked less angry but more colorful.

“My friends! Welcome to my abode, crumbling as it is. Luigi, if we have wine, bring it.”

The room retained an ancient, faded beauty.

A once-lovely carpet that the moths had found had lost most of its color.

There were patches of brightness on the faded walls where pictures had been removed.

Again, the furniture was sparse, but there was enough to be comfortable, though the upholstery was threadbare and had probably also suffered from moths at one time.

But the old, exposed beams of the ceiling had been recently varnished, and the windows had been thrown open to the sunshine, flooding the room with light and the kind of view one never tired of.

“You are admiring the faded glory, signora?” Giusti said with a crooked smile.

“It is a beautiful room,” Constance replied honestly, taking the seat he indicated on the sofa. Solomon sat beside her.

“It is still home. To be frank, I have no money to keep it as it should be kept, and none to go anywhere else—not without selling it, and I can’t quite bring myself to do that.”

“You gave all your money to the revolutionary cause?” Solomon said.

“It seemed a good idea at the time. It was to herald a new age of prosperity for all the people of Venice, only it didn’t quite.”

Although Giusti spoke lightly, deprecatingly, Constance glimpsed a deeper pain in his eyes.

The revolution had mattered to him. Whatever he pretended, he cared.

It was possible—even probable—that when he accompanied Solomon to rescue Constance from Savelli, he had done it as much from kindness and gratitude as from a desire to hurt Savelli in any way he could.

“Have you no means of business?” Solomon asked.

Giusti shrugged. “Little enough before the revolution, less now. Austria takes what it can and crushes native entrepreneurial efforts. Venice loses business to other ports.”

“It shouldn’t,” Solomon said thoughtfully.

Constance could see there were ideas forming and percolating in his mind. From Giusti’s steady gaze, he knew it too.

With a hint of hope, he said, “What is your business, Mr. Grey?”

“Largely shipping. I like Venice.”

Giusti’s eyes flared for a moment, but he seemed too polite to press further. “That is good for us. Ah, rejoice! There is wine. And even cicchetti.”

Luigi poured the wine and offered the plate of cicchetti before leaving the jug and the plate on the table and striding off.

“Is he your only servant?” Constance asked.

“Practically, yes. He and his father, who is really too old. Most of the servants died during the siege. Cholera was our enemy within.”

“You have much tragedy in your life,” she said. “Much to resent.”

“And I do, of course. But I cannot change the past, not by blaming myself or others. And I am alive. Was there a particular reason you chose to visit me this afternoon?”

“We have set about proving our joint innocence,” Constance said lightly. “And we need your knowledge.”

“Of what in particular?”

“Of the people and the motives,” Solomon said. “We need to know about the jewels, which were such a bone of contention between you and Savelli. Signora Savelli told us she gave them to you, implying they were for the revolutionary cause, but that you did not sell them all.”

“I couldn’t,” he said simply. “I thought she might need them. I chose to beggar myself. I could not do the same to her.”

“And yet you did not give them back to her.”

“I gave her back what was left of the jewels we had agreed I should sell. The others were a gift.”

“ Did you sell them?” Solomon asked.

“I am not a thief. I can show you them if you like.” He gave an open, careless smile, and Constance understood.

“You kept them because they were hers,” she said.

A flush came to Giusti’s face. “Her father’s ring was a personal gift.”

“Which you wore to annoy Savelli.”

He looked at his hands twisting together and forced them to stillness. “It was the only fun I could find for a while.”

“And the other pieces?” Solomon asked.

“I had seen her wearing them.” Giusti drew a breath and looked up to meet Solomon’s gaze. “And perhaps I hoped she would come and ask for them. I would have returned them then. Even her father’s ring.”

“But it was Savelli who asked.”

Giusti’s lips twisted. “ Commanded . And then tried to steal. I’m only surprised he didn’t try to break in here.”

“Why was he so determined?” Constance asked. “He did not need the money. He could have bought her other jewels, his own gifts, untainted by you.”

Giusti shrugged. “Greed. Maybe.” His eyes fell again. “I don’t think he wanted me to have anything of hers. He feared he was second best. But he wasn’t, was he? She chose him. And she never came near me.”

“You still love her,” Constance said softly.

He leapt up and swung to the window, as though her words were unbearable. “What can I say?” he flung over his shoulder. “My nature is damnably loyal.”

To a cause. To a woman he would always love. And yet… “There is a rumor you have a mistress,” Constance said. “That is why I was abducted.”

“I know.” There was self-deprecation as well as defiance in his voice. “But believe me, in recent years, none of my brief passages with women could justify the title of mistress.”

“Giusti,” Solomon said, “did you ever go there? To Savelli’s house?”

Giusti shook his head, but he did not turn back. Constance and Solomon exchanged glances. Was it Giusti who had drawn the wakeful Savelli from his house the night of his death? Was the idiocy of love responsible for this tragedy from which none of them could return?

Constance changed the subject. “Are you acquainted with Domenico Rossi?”

Giusti turned in clear surprise. “The painter? I’ve come across him once or twice. Quite the character. Larger than life, you might say, but too fond of the drink. He churns out souvenir paintings by the dozen, but in among them are gems. He has talent.”

“We’ve asked him to paint a portrait of us,” Solomon said. “Apparently, he half finished one of Signor and Signora Savelli.”