Page 28 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

Whatever the motive of the killer, this was damnably personal for Solomon.

*

Constance felt so much better in the morning that she nibbled some bread with her clear beef soup, and insisted on bathing and dressing, after which she walked downstairs on Solomon’s arm and ensconced herself in the drawing room, from where she could look out over the canal.

The magic of Venice had not faded, she decided. It had just acquired more facets. Like people. Like London.

Rather to her own and Solomon’s surprise, Giusti presented himself punctually at half past ten as Solomon had suggested in his note. He entered looking almost fearful, though his face lightened considerably at the sight of Constance.

“Signora!” he said, striding forward with his arm outstretched. “I am so glad to see you up and about.”

She gave him her hand without rising. “I am definitely recovering, though lamentably weaker than a newborn kitten!”

“I called when I first heard the rumors—which are flying around the city, by the way. Surely you cannot have been poisoned at the British consulate!”

Solomon waved him to a chair. “Sadly, there is no doubt about it. The doctor is convinced.”

“But this is shocking! Could it have been an accident?”

“An accident affecting only my wife’s glass?”

Giusti grimaced. “But why?”

“The only reason we can think of is because we were asking questions about Savelli’s death,” Solomon said.

Giusti nodded, frowning. “Attack your wife and ensure you both leave… But that still leaves the police, who are asking much the same questions. And Foscolo was there for some of the time, at least. I suppose that would be too obvious… But this is terrible! Is that why you asked me to call? To say farewell?”

“Oh, we are not leaving just yet,” Constance said.

His eyes widened with surprise but no obvious chagrin. “You are a brave lady,” he said warmly. He cast a quick glance at Solomon. “Could you not persuade her?”

“No one is more stubborn than my wife,” Solomon said evasively.

“Coffee?” Constance offered. The idea of drinking wine so early in the morning still went against her nature, although the Venetians seemed happy to do so throughout the day.

The servants brought coffee in and served it, for which Constance, ridiculously exhausted after coming all the way down the stairs, was grateful.

“Guisti,” Solomon said, once they were all comfortable, “on the night of Savelli’s death, after you and I collected Constance from his palazzo, you went straight to your own home and stayed there, yes?”

Giusti regarded him, his face suddenly, deliberately blank. Constance caught her breath.

And then, to her annoyance, the door opened again and Mario the manservant announced, “Signora Savelli.”

It was as though a bolt of lightning shot through the room. Giusti leapt to his feet. Elena walked in and stopped dead just inside the door. Her gaze locked on Giusti and the blood seemed to drain from her face.

Giusti, grasping the back of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, stared at her for one tense moment, then tore his gaze free and flung words over his shoulder at Solomon.

“Yes. I was at home all night.” Only then did he bow to Elena.

She, however, was no longer looking at him, but at Constance. “I have called at a bad time. But I am glad to see you up and about. I shall come back in the afternoon.”

She spun around to go, but Constance would not allow it. It suddenly angered her that they, surely the people at the center of this tangled mystery of murder and hate and lies, should try to drag it out further.

“Stay,” she said peremptorily.

Elena was so surprised that she glanced back, her brows raised. “Seriously?”

“I have never been more serious in my life. Please, sit and talk to us. And in the name of God, please tell us the truth. Who was there the night of your husband’s death? I know you saw or heard someone and you lied to us.”

“I saw no one,” she said. Her lips were stiff and bloodless, and yet she sank into the chair as far from Giusti’s as was possible.

“You are both lying,” Constance said, astonished by the hardness in her voice. “And we have had enough. Signor Giusti, would it surprise you to know that you were seen after three o’clock that morning, rowing in the canal that runs along the back of the Palazzo Savelli?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, then, as an afterthought, “By whom?”

“Signora Premarin.”

“She lies,” Giusti said quickly. “Everyone knows that. Besides, what the devil was she doing out at that time of the night?”

“She was watching my husband,” Elena said slowly.

“I saw her there once before, last month. She hides imperfectly in the shadow of the tree between the canal and the piazza, as though she wants to be seen. She wanted me to see her, to think she was waiting for Angelo. Silly girl. He barely noticed her beyond politeness. I told her to go home, that she was putting herself in danger. She probably imagined I was jealous.”

“What time would this have been?” Solomon asked.

Elena shrugged. “Two o’clock? Three?”

“You don’t sleep,” Constance said, ignoring the sense of guilt at betraying confidences because this was much, much more important. “You look out of windows to pass the time. Who did you see the night of your husband’s murder?”

Elena stared at her and said nothing.

“Me,” Giusti said. “She saw me. From the back window of the second floor. I know, because I saw her.”

“He didn’t stop,” Elen said, her shoulders relaxing so suddenly that they drooped. “He rowed straight past.”

“How long did you stand at the window, watching him?” Solomon asked.

“Not long,” Elena replied, her voice curiously hollow now. “Only a minute.”

Then Giusti could have come back…

Solomon swung on Giusti. “And you—what were you doing there?”

Giusti dropped his head into his hands and tugged furiously at his hair. “God help me, I don’t know. Savelli worried me. To attack me in the street, to abduct Signora Grey—it was madness for anyone to do these things. For him, it was bizarre.”

“Yet you did not stop to ask after his health?” Solomon asked without troubling to hide his disbelief.

“It was not his health that bothered me,” Giusti retorted.

“It was Elena’s,” Constance said. “You were afraid he would hurt her in his…unbalanced state.”

Giusti nodded wordlessly. He looked at no one, but Elena was watching him.

“Give us more, Giusti,” Solomon said.

The young man shrugged, almost helplessly. “There is no more. I saw her at the window and had to be content. I was in no state to take on her husband and his bravos again in any case. Every bit of me hurt. I could barely row. I went home.”

Solomon scowled at him. “Do you know the time we could have saved if you had told us this in the first place?”

“He couldn’t, could he?” Elena said unexpectedly. “It would have proved that I was up, not asleep.”

At last, Giusti took his head out of his hands and met her gaze.

“You were protecting each other,” Constance said, and drew in a breath. “Do you suspect each other?”

As one, they shook their heads.

With what was apparently a great effort, Giusti dragged his gaze free and looked directly at Constance. “Whether or not I suspected her, even if I had done it myself, I would not have poisoned you. I didn’t, for whatever that is worth. Do you have any idea who did?”

“There were times when the glass was out of our sight,” Solomon said. “And neither of us were paying attention. But the people we knew who could have done it were you, Premarin, Sebastian Kellar, and Adriana, the girl clearing away the glasses.”

Giusti frowned, shaking his head. “I doubt it—unless the girl was coerced, though who on earth by?”

“She is Rossi’s girl.”

“Rossi? The artist? I thought he was painting you both.”

“He had a grudge against Savelli.”

“Hardly one worth killing for,” Elena snapped.

But Giusti sat up straighter. “The man has a drink problem. I have run across him in some shocking states. I reminded him once of trying to punch me in a tavern one night, and he looked at me blankly as though he had no idea what I was talking out.”

Elena looked at him. “You mean he could have got vilely drunk and taken everything out of proportion, as drunks do, and decided Angelo had treated him so abominably that he deserved to die?”

“Something like that. And then not remembered anything about it.”

Constance met Solomon’s gaze. “He didn’t come today. Perhaps he started to remember.”

“And perhaps he just decided there was no point in coming while you were ill,” Solomon said.

“Or he was drunk in some tavern,” Giusti added. “I’ll go and get the truth out of him for you.”

“No,” Constance and Solomon said together.

Solomon’s lips twitched. “We’ll send for him. I don’t want him to close up like a clam. But thank you for the offer.” He adjusted his gaze to encompass Elena as well. “And thank you for telling us the truth at last.”

An instinctive, surreptitious glance passed between Giusti and Elena. It might have been permission, for he said, “There is one thing more. I sort of called on Signora Savelli the next night.”

“Sort of?” Constance repeated.

“He climbed up the building,” Elena said without expression, and yet Constance had the idea that it both impressed and terrified her, “and entered by a first-floor window that was unlocked.”

“Why?” Constance asked.

“Because he was dead,” Giusti said. “I needed to know she was well. Again. And…”

“And what?” Constance prompted him.

“Condolences,” Giusti muttered. “I needed to offer condolences. He was her husband.”

“And your friend,” Elena said in little more than a whisper.

Giusti swallowed. “Once.”

Solomon said, “Forgive me, but I have to ask. Was that the only time you—er…scaled the walls?”

Giusti’s fingers curled involuntarily. Then he gave a shrug and an odd, crooked smile. He met Solomon’s gaze with an expression of reckless defiance, as though he were about to charge into battle or fight a duel.

“I had done it before as a boy. With Savelli. It was my only time as an adult. But since it is a day for confession, it is not the only time I rowed past the palazzo.”

“Were you looking for a fight?” Solomon asked. “Or reconciliation with an old friend?”

Giusti shook his head. “No. Just a glimpse.”

Of her. Of Elena. Poor, foolish, lonely boy …

He sprang to his feet. “I’m sorry. I will go. But let me know if I can help. You are doing more than the police. And suffering more.”

“Not now,” said Constance, who felt suddenly much more cheerful about the whole case.

Extracting the admissions they had from Giusti and Elena was like an achievement. They were nearing some truth, at last. And judging from the queer expression in the widow’s eyes when she looked at Giusti, so was Elena.