Page 22 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

Yet it was her questions that aroused him from his torpor: “Where? When? Who was there?” More importantly, they seemed to waken Constance from hers.

Although appallingly weak, she was still his Constance, flooding him with hope.

And the fact that she did not object to Elena’s presence made him think.

Elena was right. Constance’s death in her presence would see Elena arrested, rightly or wrongly.

Struggling over his own exhausted fears, he recognized finally that the doctor would not have left the house if he truly feared still for his patient’s life.

“Her heart is still strong. She can’t have ingested much, and much of what she did take must have been expelled. She needs sleep…”

Solomon had barely taken in the words at the time. He was too busy willing her to live.

Leaving his hand in Constance’s relaxed fingers, he turned his head slowly to regard the widow. “Where? When? Who was there?” he repeated. “We were at a reception at the British consulate, and the poison must have been in the wine.”

“ You were not ill. Neither was anyone else, or Donati would have told me. The poison was in her wine. Why?”

“Because we are asking questions about your husband’s murder,” he said. “Someone is trying to scare us away before we reach the truth… Should they not be poisoning the police also?”

She shrugged. “The police have an agenda that is not necessarily yours. Who was at the consulate?”

More to the point, who was close enough to put poison in Constance’s glass? “Kellar. Premarin. Giusti.”

Her eyes flickered. “And the staff?”

He almost groaned. Then the memory flashed through his mind—the girl in the white apron and the slightly crooked cap, flitting around collecting used glasses. “Rossi’s girl… Adriana.”

Elena frowned. “Why would Rossi’s model poison your wife?”

“For Rossi. If he killed your husband.” Perhaps he had accepted Solomon’s commission only to get close enough to hurt them…then got cold feet and left it to the girl instead.

“Rossi is a drunk. But a talented one. He would rather paint your wife than kill her.”

Solomon turned back to Constance. Was he imagining the hint of color in her cheek, the peace of her sleep? “It didn’t kill her. Perhaps it was never intended to. Just to frighten.”

“I hope you are frightened.”

“Oh, I am.”

Her brow twitched. “You mentioned Kellar. Sebastian Kellar? Why should he wish your wife—or my husband—ill?”

Because he had confessed his disreputable past to Constance just by asking after her mother? If it bothered him, why mention Juliet at all? He was a subtle and possibly dangerous man, but did he carry poison around in his pocket just in case he ran into someone he wanted rid of?

“I doubt he does,” Solomon admitted. “And if he did, he should have dealt with me in the same way.”

“But you will take her away now, won’t you? You will both leave the city and never come back. And the police will pick some criminal at random to execute for Angelo’s murder.”

Solomon rubbed the back of his neck, easing an ache he hadn’t noticed before. “Why wouldn’t they want the truth?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do. They just don’t insist on it. Someone will pay, preferably someone who is guilty of something .”

He dropped his hand back into his lap. “You are cynical.”

“I am realistic. And I mistrust Austrian oversight in this case. It means they want a quick result, and Foscolo will go along with it. They must discourage people from doing away with Venetian allies of Austria.”

“You are saying that even if the murder is not political, its investigation is?”

“Of course. Signor Grey, let me order some food for you, and then you must rest. I will sit with your wife and call you when she wakes, or if there is any change.”

He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze straying to the other side of the bed where he had slept since they had arrived in Venice. He wanted nothing more than to crawl in beside Constance and hold her.

But this was not about him. He needed to do what was best for Constance.

He glanced back to Elena. The woman’s rather hard eyes softened, though she must have read the suspicion in his own.

“Whichever maid you trust most, have her sit in here too. Just for an hour or two.”

*

Every part of Constance ached, outside and in. Behind her was a nightmare of sickness and purging and general awfulness. She felt too weak even to move. Yet she was no longer afraid. For a moment, in fact, she felt so peaceful that she wondered if she had died, and quickly opened her eyes.

If she was dead, so was Elena Savelli, who regarded her over the top of the book in her hands. The book lowered. “You look better. How are you?”

“Not dead. Where is Solomon?”

“In the dressing room. I persuade him to rest.”

“That is good… What time is it?”

“Just after two of the clock.”

“In the afternoon,” Constance said cautiously. “The afternoon after I was taken ill?”

“Exactly.” Elena spoke in rapid Italian, and the maid Constance had not even noticed—her name was Maria, and she had occasionally helped Constance to dress when Solomon was otherwise engaged—rose and went out with a quick, tremulous smile.

“She goes to fetch fresh wine and water, which is all the doctor will allow you.”

“I am so thirsty. What is in the glass?” Constance looked at the bedside table.

“The same, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t let you drink it.”

“You were not at the consulate.”

“I see you understand what happened to you.”

To her horror, weak tears started in her eyes. Fortunately, Solomon emerged from the dressing room with his hair on end and his shirt open at the throat, and she tried to lift her arms toward him. And then he was on the bed with her, cradling her against him.

“I thought I was with child,” she wept, and he stroked her hair and kissed her temple until the door clicked and Elena was no longer there. Constance sniffed and gave a watery laugh. “I scared her off. Why did she come?”

“Because she felt sorry for you, I think. And you told her to look after me.”

“I thought I dreamed that,” Constance said, allowing Solomon to lay her gently back against the pillows in a more upright position, which seemed to help her aching head. “I must trust her.”

“So must I, though I left Maria here with her to be sure.”

“She doesn’t seem to feel insulted.”

“No, she expects it. She understands a great deal. I just wish she would trust us in return.”

“Does she know who poisoned me?”

“No, I don’t think so. But she knows more about her husband’s death than she told us.”

Maria entered with a jug of water, a tall, clean glass, and a bottle of wine.

“Thank you,” Solomon said as she took the old glass away. “You can return to your other duties now.”

In the doorway, the girl stood back to allow Elena to re-enter the room.

“Domenico Rossi is here,” she said. “He claims to have an appointment to paint you. I told him you were indisposed, but it struck me that you might want to speak to him.”

“I’ll go down in a few minutes,” Solomon said, opening the wine bottle to add a splash to the water in the glass. “My thanks, signora, for your help today.”

“And mine,” Constance said. “I hope you will come again.”

Elena inclined her head. “As I hope you will call on me. In the meantime, send for me if you need me.”

*

With reluctance, Solomon left Constance alone, sipping her water, while he went downstairs to the drawing room to find Rossi seated on a stool behind his easel, which he had placed in the same spot as yesterday, right in front of the open, right-hand window.

“Sit,” Rossi commanded. “Quickly. Just there.”

Solomon sat. After all, he had to be somewhere, and this way, he looked directly into the artist’s face.

“Where is the lady?” Rossi asked with undisguised impatience. “I need her too.”

“She is indisposed. I saw your Adriana last night. Or, at least, yesterday afternoon.”

“She said so.” Rossi clearly wasn’t interested. “She gets occasional work through an agency. Signor, you wear different clothes!”

“Does it matter?”

Rossi shrugged irritably. “Not for today. You don’t look so well. But you’ll do. The afternoon light is better here.”

“Does Adriana often work at the British consulate?”

“Once or twice before, I think. They have staid parties there to introduce British merchants to Venetians. Or just to be important. Adrianna clears up after them.”

“Did you send her there?” Solomon asked steadily.

To his surprise, Rossi laughed. “No one sends Adriana anywhere. I prefer her in the house, but…” He shrugged.

“The money is useful.” He scowled at his picture and then at Solomon, then picked up his brush.

His brow cleared slowly. As though he could now think about something else, he asked, “How is Signora Grey indisposed? What is the matter with her?”

“I believe she was poisoned.”

The brush stilled. “ Poisoned? Who would poison that beautiful lady? It is a crime against nature, against God. I expect she ate the clams. She will be fine by tonight.”

If Rossi was an actor, he was a damned good one.

But then, Solomon reflected, one could say the same about Elena.

Neither of them had been at the consulate, and his instinct was to look more closely at exactly what had happened around Constance’s glass. Someone there had put something in her wine, and they needed to know who quite urgently.

When Rossi had stomped off, irritated by Constance’s absence, Solomon raked in the desk for Constance’s notes and, taking them with him, retreated back to the bedroom.

If she was up to the task, it was time to compare notes and work out who had poisoned her.

Once they knew that, surely they would find Savelli’s murderer too.