Page 24 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

“Premarin,” Solomon repeated. “Everyone’s friend. Who poured wine into your glass. Perhaps that diluted the poison that was already there.”

“Or he somehow dropped something in when he poured.” She shifted restlessly. “And we talked to him and his friends for some time. We can’t rule him out. And there’s someone else, Sol. Rossi’s girl, Adriana, was there, the maid collecting glasses.”

“I know. I saw her. An odd coincidence, perhaps, but Rossi tells me she takes such work from an agency as it offers. She has worked at the consulate before, apparently. He was neither embarrassed nor put out by the fact that I’d seen her there. He didn’t appear remotely interested.”

“He must know we are investigating Savelli’s murder. He could easily have guessed we suspect him.”

“He won’t have many clients if he keeps murdering them. Again, we have no evidence one way or the other. I didn’t see Adriana anywhere near you or your glass, but I didn’t watch her all the time. I can’t rule her out.”

“Neither can I,” Constance said. “She did pick up some glasses close to where we stood with Premarin.” She shook her head. “Only… While she clearly puts up with a lot from Rossi, she doesn’t strike me as someone who blindly follows orders. She would not poison someone just because he told her to.”

“She could think she was protecting him without orders.”

Constance made a little gesture of frustration. “We are no further forward. We have the same suspects as for the Savelli murder. Giusti, Premarin, Rossi, or Adriana. And now we have added Kellar.”

“But not Elena,” Solomon pointed out. “And she alone came to help. Though I admit I was suspicious at first.”

“I think she is lonely and unhappy, and was so even before her husband’s death.”

Solomon nodded agreement. “She has motive and, perhaps, opportunity in Savelli’s case. But I don’t think she has the character. And she was nowhere near the reception to poison you.”

Part of him could not believe he was discussing the poisoning of his wife so calmly.

Perhaps that was the only way to deal with the horrific—by treating it as normal.

Though that idea was horrific in itself.

Murder and attempted murder were not normal, and when they started finding it so, they would have to dissolve Silver and Grey and stop…

There was a faint flush on Constance’s cheeks. She looked exhausted.

“We’ve talked too long,” he said with contrition. “Take a last drink and go to sleep.”

She obeyed like a child, and he set down the glass for her and helped her to lie down. She was already half asleep. Only when he moved to sit in the chair did she grasp his hand weakly.

“Will you stay with me, Sol?”

“Always,” he said, and his voice cracked. Her fingers tightened, but she smiled, and he sat on the bed beside her, watching her sleep while his heart ached.

*

The police finally came the following morning.

Constance had woken from a long sleep feeling very wooly, and she was still physically as weak as a kitten, but at some point, she had been aware of Solomon asleep in bed by her side and was glad.

She knew how this had devasted him—it was still a matter of wonder, but his care moved her even as she worried for his own health.

He was walking toward the bed looking much refreshed and more his usual elegant self in a light suit and crisp shirt.

“Foscolo and Lampl are here. I have told them what we know of the poisoning, and they have obviously spoken to Dr. Donati, but they want to see you, too. Are you up to it?”

The wooliness began to recede. “If can wear my dressing gown and a cap and sit in the chair covered with blankets like an old, invalid lady, then yes.”

Solomon’s eyes lightened at her tone, and he helped her out of bed.

She felt ridiculously proud that she could deal with her own comfort and basic ablutions for herself, although she was very glad of his aid in wrapping her in dressing gown and shawls while she sat exhausted again in the chair.

She drank some more water with its flavoring of wine and realized she was hungry.

That cheered her further, although she rather dreaded tempting providence by actually eating.

She was glad of the delay offered by the policemen.

Inevitably, Lampl entered first. He bowed very correctly. “Signora, how are you? I am so sorry to hear of your illness.” He certainly gave her a cold, hard look, as though making sure any illness had been involved.

Behind him came Foscolo, who behaved in much the same way.

Solomon set chairs for them opposite her, and then he stood at her shoulder, a comforting and protective presence.

“And so you believe you were poisoned at the consulate reception?” Foscolo said.

“Dr. Donati believes it,” Constance said mildly.

“Why do you think anyone would want to hurt you?”

“Probably because we have been asking questions about Signor Savelli’s murder. But then, so have you, I imagine, and you both look perfectly healthy.”

“Your husband,” Lampl intervened, “has given us a very detailed description of your movements and those near you at the reception. Perhaps you could tell us your own recollections.”

Talking about it last night had helped clarify events in her mind, so she could tell them accurately and concisely. “Some of this you witnessed yourself,” she added.

Lampl glanced from her to Solomon and back.

Foscolo said, “And what have you learned from this experience?”

“Very little that is of practical use.”

“That it can be dangerous to pry into police matters,” Foscolo said severely. “That you should leave the questioning to us. Those are the lessons you must take from this.”

“You mean give in and be frightened off?” Constance retorted.

“Yes,” Foscolo said. He all but glared at Solomon. “Sir, you have a duty to your wife—”

“We all have duties,” Solomon interrupted. “I wonder if, in the course of yours, you have come across the Englishman, Sebastian Kellar?”

A tiny frown formed on Lampl’s brow and vanished. “He is a respected diplomat, here in Venice and all over Italy.”

“Is that his only function?”

“He might dabble in trade. I honestly don’t know.”

“He does not commit crimes, nor get drunk and embarrass himself,” Foscolo added. “What more do you want?”

“Does he have a connection to Savelli?” Constance asked.

Lampl leaned back in his chair. Foscolo leaned forward. Both looked baffled. They did not look at each other.

“Not that we know of,” Foscolo said at last. “We know nothing against him at all.”

“Does the Austrian government regard him as a threat?” Solomon asked Lampl.

“If it does, it has neglected to inform me,” Lampl said. “Look, I cannot tell you to leave Venice, but I would advise you to do so until we get at the truth.”

“Then you no longer suspect my husband or me of killing Savelli?” Constance said.

“We have made inquiries,” Lampl said stiffly, “and have come to the conclusion that it is not likely.”

“Much more likely are the thugs he chose to surround himself with,” Foscolo growled, and received an annoyed glare from his superior. As if he didn’t notice, he continued steadily. “They give each other alibis, but all we need is one witness.”

“One witness at three, four, or five in morning?” Lampl said scornfully. “There are none.”

“There is bound to be one,” Foscolo said stubbornly.

Lampl opened his mouth to retort, but Solomon intervened. “My wife is tired.”

They pulled themselves back to order and Lampl rose. “Thank you for your time. I wish you a quick recovery, signora. And please believe we will pursue the matter to the utmost, whether or not it is connected to the Savelli murder. Good day.”

“They argue almost like an old married couple,” Constance said when the door closed behind them.

“A married couple with years of acrimony behind them and no common cause.”

She twisted her neck to look at Solomon. “You don’t think finding the murderer is their common cause?”

He shook his head in an impatient kind of way. “Perhaps they just disagree on methods. But they are not a team. They don’t pull together.” He came around to face her and crouched at her knee.

“Constance, shall we go?” he asked urgently. “As soon as you are well enough. We can go to Florence, Pisa, Rome…”

“Later,” she said vaguely. She reached out and caressed his cheek.

“If this was a warning, we are warned. I could not bear to lose you over this or anything else, but…I am safe here for now. And, surely, so are you. Our culprit won’t want to draw attention to himself—or herself—by risking another attack so soon. ”

“That is sheer speculation,” he pointed out.

“It is. Let’s look at my notes and update them.”

“I think I added everything yesterday and this morning,” he said, rising to fetch said notes from the little bureau beneath the window.

Maria brought breakfast then—a thin soup for Constance that smelled of chicken and vegetables, and something heartier for Solomon.

While they ate, they went over the facts, the opportunities, and the questions thrown up by what they had written, and soon the papers were spread all over the floor with arrows joining one point to another.

Constance warily swallowed a morsel of soup.

It was watery but tasty and quite unthreatening, so she took another, and then a larger spoonful, and decided to wait.

Her stomach felt odd, but did not actively rebel.

She was able to concentrate on the discussion until tiredness overtook her again and the thoughts in her head disintegrated. She blinked, trying to get it back.

But already, Solomon had waded through the papers and was lifting her in his arms. It was sweet to be carried to bed, even if she only slept.