Page 25 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

S olomon hesitated before leaving the Palazzo Zulian.

It went against his nature to leave her, even safe, asleep, and guarded by a houseful of servants who seemed to have taken the attack on her as a slight to their honor.

It struck Solomon that if he had tried to on the night of her abduction, he could have whipped up an army to storm the Palazzo Savelli and take her back.

Fortunately, that had not been necessary, but it was a comfort to know.

As Alvise rowed him to Premarin’s house, it struck Solomon that he and Giusti and Savelli all lived close to each other, on or around the same length of the Grand Canal.

One could walk the distance easily, but the back door, opening almost directly onto the water, was only accessible by boat.

Without a boat, Savelli’s murderer would have had to go through the house.

Had he? Had Savelli let him—or her—in, and then tried to send them home by boat, at which time his visitor simply stabbed him?

Such evidence as they had was against it.

Elena had heard no one in the house, and the Savelli boatman had not been summoned.

He doubted any other had either, or the police would probably have found them.

Premarin, it turned out, was not at home. Impulsively, Solomon asked for Signora Premarin and was admitted at once.

Constance had found the young lady difficult to talk to, and rather strange. She also suspected her of harboring illicit feelings for Savelli. If the murder was about love, it didn’t have to be the love of Giusti and Elena.

Signora Premarin received him with surprise but unexpected delight.

When he smiled, her face became animated, as now when she gave him her hand, her plainness vanishing into something almost pretty.

Solomon, fastidious and hopelessly devoted to his own wife, could still see her attractiveness, though whether it had been enough to drag the similarly devoted Savelli from his wife was another matter.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Solomon said politely in careful Italian. “I hope you don’t mind my calling when your husband is from home?”

“Of course not. You are very welcome. Please, sit down.” She cast aside the needlework she had abandoned on the sofa, as though she expected him to sit next to her.

Solomon, wary by nature and not unused to certain women’s wiles, pretended not to notice and took a chair close enough to talk, but far enough away to avoid touching.

A servant brought the inevitable wine and cicchetti. Solomon felt obliged to accept, although the hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he remembered Premarin pouring wine into Constance’s glass.

Since Signora Premarin poured it herself from the same bottle, and drank happily, he risked a sip of his own and politely took a small savory with anchovy and cream.

“We were sorry not to see you with your husband at the British consulate reception,” Solomon said.

She wrinkled her nose. “I am too stupid to enjoy such affairs, and I cannot speak English. I like the way you speak Italian.”

“I try my poor best, but feel free to laugh and correct me at will. How is your husband?”

“He is well. Busy.”

Solomon waited for her to ask after Constance, but she didn’t. So he abandoned subtlety. “I am glad to hear it. My wife was taken ill after the reception, so I was hoping he was not affected.”

“Oh no, Nicolo is never ill. I expect it was the clams. Some cooks are not careful enough with them.”

“Thankfully, we did not eat the clams. You did not hear about anyone else being ill from the event?”

She shook her head. After a moment, as though the thought had just occurred to her, she said, “Is your wife recovered?”

“Not entirely. But she is better than she was.”

“Oh, good. You have not been married for long, have you?”

“No, just—”

“Your wife is very beautiful. Do you love her?”

Solomon blinked. “Yes. Do you love your husband?”

“Of course.” Her eyes fell to her wine, and she took a sip, then reached nervously for one of the savories. “He is a good man and kind to me. Not every man is kind.”

“That is sadly true. Who has been unkind to you, signora?”

“Oh, no one in particular.”

Constance was right—conversing with the girl was frustrating to the point of impossibility. She was an odd mixture of blunt and secretive. But with the attack on Constance, their inquiry had become urgent. They needed the truth immediately and the culprit safely behind bars. For everyone’s sake.

“Was Signor Savelli kind or unkind?”

Her eyes shone quite startlingly for an instant, then faded into sadness. “Kind, of course. She did not deserve him.”

“Why not?”

“She is cold.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I watched her—watched them both when we dined. I could tell she made him unhappy. She did not hang on his every word, as I did.” She blushed furiously, then met his gaze with sudden boldness.

She even tossed her head in an odd, coquettish gesture that was truly disturbing.

“Do you think I am an unfaithful wife, Signor Grey?”

“No,” he said at once, and her shoulders drooped.

“I am in my mind. Still. I am a sinful woman.”

“In what way?” he asked. He almost wished Premarin would come. At the same time, he was afraid he would, thus ruining whatever confidence was imminent.

She lowered her eyes, a secretive little smile playing about her lips as she pleated the silk of her skirt with her fingers.

“I went to his house,” she said huskily. “At night.”

*

When Constance woke up, Solomon was not beside her.

Elena Savelli sat in the chair by the bed, reading her book in the sunlight shining through the half-open window.

In sudden panic, Constance cast her gaze around the floor, which she had last seen strewn with her own and Solomon’s jottings about everyone, including Elena.

Of course, Solomon had tidied them away out of sight.

“You look better,” Elena said.

“I ate three spoonfuls of soup and they all stayed in my stomach.”

“Congratulations. I believe they are bringing you more. Try for four spoonfuls.”

“I don’t know if I am quite so ambitious. Where is Solomon?”

“I don’t know. They tell me he went out in the boat. Do you want help to sit up?”

“No. I think I can manage that.” Constance sat up with caution, mainly to avoid the return of the headache that had plagued her, especially with sudden movements. It remained blessedly absent, so she regarded the other woman more cheerfully. “It is kind of you to come back.”

“It’s hard to be ill without female relatives to look after you and spoil you.”

“I never had that. Just friends. You miss your family.”

Elena nodded and seemed about to speak when Maria came in with the promised bowl of soup, and yet more water with wine. Behind her came another maid, who set a little table for Elena with a glass of wine and a plate of cicchetti.

Constance waited until the servants had gone and she taken a drink and a spoonful of soup. Then she said, “Your family truly never forgave you for your marriage?”

Elena swallowed her first bite before she answered.

“I thought they would in time, when everything settled down again and they realized Angelo was good for me and for Venice. I thought my sister at least would come secretly and maybe talk the others around. She didn’t.

To them, I am a traitress. I betrayed them and Venice and Ludovico Giusti. ”

“You must have loved your husband very much.”

Elena’s gaze was on her food, which she ate, perhaps to give herself time to change the subject. Constance, since her stomach didn’t seem notice the soup, took another spoonful.

Unexpectedly, Elena said, “I’m not very sure I know what love is.

I thought I was madly in love with Ludovico—all that excitement and desperation to be together, so overwhelming when mingled with our noble cause.

Democracy, independence, a united Italy.

It was childish. I understood that during the siege. ”

“It must have been awful.”

“Men died all the time. And then there was cholera, other diseases, and everyone began to die, even children… I felt responsible. I kept thinking, What have I done? And then, What is Ludo doing? Fighting to the bitter end, always at the front, leading raiding parties into the countryside against the Austrians and their allies. The city was hell, and we had done that to it. No one else seemed to see that. Except Angelo Savelli. He wrote to me from the beginning, you understand, because he and Ludo had fallen out when we pushed the Austrians from the city. When Ludo was reported lost during one of his raids, it was just part of the hell. And then Venice surrendered, and the Austrians came back. My family—those who were still alive—fled to our country house, but I stayed behind.”

“Why?” Constance asked.

Elena shrugged and sipped her wine. “I don’t know. Because I deserved the hell, I think, and I felt somehow that I had to see it through to the very end. And Angelo was still that one sane voice amongst the horror.”

“You married him for protection,” Constance guessed.

“Protection,” Elena agreed. “And sanity and respect. And love, I thought, a more mature love this time, not the madness that was Ludo, which had brough us all to hell.” She gave a twisted smile.

“But Venice survives, as you see. Divisions remain, ill feeling, betrayal, but mostly, everything goes on as it did before 1848.” Her smile, such as it was, faded, and she took another sip of wine.

“Ludovic came back, of course, because he was not dead but severely injured and in hiding from the Austrians. Everyone pretended not to notice so that he could stay. Only I was forced to decide between him and Angelo, because by that time I was betrothed to both of them.”

“You no longer loved Giusti?”