Page 17 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

“No,” Premarin said. “To Savelli himself. Elena is as virtuous as she is beautiful. Everyone knows that.”

“But Savelli didn’t trust her?”

“He didn’t trust himself. He never forgot that she was once betrothed to another. Even though Giusti never went near her.”

“These men that he hired, do you know anything about them?”

“No, but the police do. Unsavory types. And then there was the thief Savelli apprehended, who escaped. My firm belief is that one of those low creatures committed this crime.”

“Isn’t that a little too comfortable?”

“It does not comfort me,” Premarin said with dignity. “Nor Signora Savelli, I daresay, who lives under the same roof as these men.”

Solomon suddenly remembered Elena ordering about the men who had tried to intimidate Constance. They had obeyed her immediately, and she had clearly expected them to. She was a strong woman, of course, and used to commanding her household, but what if…

What if one of those bravos had turned on Savelli on Elena’s orders ?

Shoving that possibility aside for future consideration, Solomon tried to concentrate on Premarin while he had the man’s attention.

They were in St. Mark’s Square now, and the magnificence, the beauty, struck him all over again.

The Basilica of San Marco, with its domes and spires, rose in unique, unequaled splendor.

He could almost imagine himself among the ghosts of men who had walked here hundreds of years ago.

“When did you last see Signor Savelli?” he asked.

“The day before he died. When we heard about the government contract. He was quite gracious about it.”

He could afford to be, since he had won it. “Did you mind?”

“It hardly ruined me.”

“How was he that day? Did he seem well? Worried or distracted?”

Premarin seemed about to wave away such concerns, but his hand fell back to his side as he considered.

“Actually, he was a little…unlike himself. He did not appear to be particularly elated—not as I would have been—to win the contract. He was distracted, as though something else entirely was on his mind.”

“Did he tell you what that was? Give you any clue?”

“He was not a confiding sort of a man. And to my shame, I did not inquire. I was thinking of my own disappointment.”

They were drawing nearer to the basilica now. Lots of somberly dressed people were walking in. The service would be well attended. Solomon wondered if this would be any comfort to the widow.

Premarin halted and turned to face him. “Mr. Grey,” he said seriously, “I would advise you to leave the matter in the safe hands of the police. Foscolo is a good man. And no one wants the truth more than Herr von Lampl, who is ambitious and quite obsessive. You are quite safe from prosecution. You are recently married, yes? Enjoy Venice with your wife.” He beamed and offered his hand.

Leaning closer, he whispered, “And in a day or so, perhaps you and I might talk business.”

*

Constance, aware of the constant conversation in front, found her own companion harder work.

For one thing, Signora Premarin spoke no English, and Constance had very little faith in her own poor Italian.

Also, the younger woman’s wide-eyed stare was quite disconcerting. Constance had to make all the effort.

“It is a tragic day for Signora Savelli,” she said in Italian. Or, at least, she hoped that was what she said. “Are you a close friend?”

The girl shook her head with surprising firmness and issued a sudden blast of words, which Constance eventually untangled enough to understand that Signora Savelli was her husband’s friend and much too clever for poor Bianca Premarin. Signor Savelli, however, was the kindest man in the world.

“Kind?” Constance repeated, to be sure she had understood the word. No one had mentioned Savelli’s kindness before.

“To me,” the girl said with a blushing, proud, yet secretive smile.

Constance tried again. “Did the couple visit you?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” A pause. “We visit them also. We dine together.”

“When did you last dine together?” Constance asked hopefully.

“Last week.”

“Ah. Um… Were they a happy couple?”

“Beautiful,” said Signora Premarin reverently, but again with the secretive smile.

“How long have you been married, signora?”

“For two years.”

“Then you have a lively stepfamily.”

The girl shuddered, though it may have been due to a sudden gust of chilly wind as they entered St. Mark’s Square.

“Did you see Signor Savelli again? After the last time you dined together?”

This time, color flooded the young woman’s face and she increased her pace, muttering, “My husband…”

By the time they caught up, the men were already shaking hands to part and there was much bowing and curtseying before the Premarins turned toward the great doors of the church, and Constance and Solomon stood gazing up at the stunning stonework and glass.

She had already seen the wondrous inside of the church, but she doubted one would ever get used to the beauty, either of the inside or out.

They turned reluctantly, retracing their steps to return to their boat. Constance dragged her mind back to order.

“That girl,” she said, “was infatuated with Savelli.”

Solomon looked startled. “Really? Were they having an affair?”

“That would rather turn everything we think we know on its head, wouldn’t it?

But honestly, I don’t see it. I think it’s all in her mind, like a fantasy.

A young woman married—no doubt by her family—to an older man who must present quite an unheroic figure to a romantic girl.

And then there is Savelli, young and handsome and equally successful, apparently kind to her. ”

“Not more than kind?”

She shrugged. “There is no accounting for taste, but if I were married to Elena, I would not look twice at that girl. I’m not sure Premarin does.”

“But from Savelli’s point of view… He is married to that strong woman whose feelings he suspects of ambivalence at the least. Would the doe-eyed devotion of a starry-eyed young woman not be appealing?”

“No one has suggested either Savelli was unfaithful. Her infatuation might have been balm to his troubled soul, but I doubt he acted upon it. She is not exactly grieving, from what I observed. It’s just a story to her. Did you learn anything from Premarin himself?”

Solomon shrugged. “Just that Savelli won a lucrative government contract they both wanted and didn’t seem to appreciate his good fortune enough.

This was the day before he died, and Premarin found him a little distracted.

He admitted he resented not being granted this contract—though he might get it now that Savelli is dead, I suppose.

I don’t know what happens to the business. ”

Contance blinked. “It would be quite cold to murder someone just to win a bit of business.”

“Especially when they seem to have been friends of a sort. Besides, Premarin might be quick, clever, even ruthless, but he is hardly stupid enough to take such a risk as to murder a man at his own back door.”

“Not for business. But then, no one would murder for such a reason, would they? There has to be something deeper involved.”

Solomon cocked an eyebrow. “Like Premarin’s wife?”

“Many men do regard their wives, however neglected, as possessions, and they certainly don’t like other men to touch.” She sighed. “Though on the face of it, she is unlikely to inspire a crime of passion.”

“What if it isn’t?” Solomon said, his face suddenly intense. “Think about it. One blow straight through the heart—can that be luck? Or is it the skilled attack of an assassin? And there were plenty of those, surely in his own house.”

“Because he didn’t pay them?” she said doubtfully. “Dismissed them for abducting me? Then why would they stay? They are still at the Palazzo Savelli.”

“Because they acted for Elena.”

Her breath caught. “Could she do that? Would she? If she wanted to be with Giusti, why did she choose Savelli?”

“Because he is rich. Giusti has nothing. This way, she has the chance of Giusti and, presumably, Savelli’s fortune.”

Constance did not like it. She could tell Solomon didn’t either, yet they had to consider it. And it made a horrible kind of sense. “She was so helpful to us when I expected her to throw us out.”

“Perhaps she could afford to be. At worst, she can cast the blame on whichever bravo committed the murder. Her hands are clean, and it is her word against his.”

She shook her head. “But why was Savelli outside in the dark without his coat? Dealing with some perceived crisis made up by his murderer? It’s possible, isn’t it? But there’s no proof, and I don’t like it.”

“Premarin wants us to leave it all to the authorities. He seems to admire Foscolo. And Lampl. In fact, he thinks we should just relax and enjoy our honeymoon.”

“It’s a valid point of view, but I would rather know the truth before they haul you off to prison.”

“I’m sure it will be a great comfort.”

*

Inside the Basilico di San Marco, Bianca Premarin fixed her gaze upon the beautiful face of the Madonna Nicopeia , the icon that had been Venice’s pride and joy for centuries.

Signor Savelli had told her once that it had been stolen from the Christians of Byzantium, which was probably why it meant so much to her.

Not because it was stolen or came from a country that no longer existed, but because he had talked to her about it.

The smell of incense, and the droning voices of priests and mourners, spilled suddenly into her consciousness and she realized he would never talk to her again. She would never see him again. He was dead.

Grief flooded into her eyes, along with sheer hopelessness. What did she have now, except her rich old husband and his maddening children?

No wonder the Madonna looked disappointed in her, pointing to her own child. In sudden terror, Bianca recognized her terrible sins, sins she could never confess, let alone be absolved of. She was doomed to hell for love. For murder.

Paralyzed, silently weeping, she could not even see the Madonna now except as a blue-and-gold blur. But she could not hide from God or her sin. And she would never have Angelo to lend her strength.

Lost. I am lost. What have I done…?