Page 38 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)
S olomon had hoped Constance would sleep through the dawn and not wake until he was back. But he should have known better. She was already awake and watching him when he slid from the bed.
Deliberately, he concentrated on what lay ahead, not on her, but somehow he was not surprised to find her washing and dressing beside him in the pale light of one candle. She said nothing until his shoes were fastened and he reached for his coat.
“Let me come, Solomon. I’ll keep out of sight and do nothing.”
“Then there is no point in your being there, is there?” With his coat on, he went back to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I will be fine. And you must stay here and remain safe.”
“But you have no one to watch your back.”
“One of Foscolo’s men will be there. And I will have Alvise.”
“And how many will be with Lampl? Any number of police and spies, including Savelli’s bodyguard.”
“If he means to attack me, he can’t allow so many people to know,” Solomon said patiently. They had had this discussion already. Twice. “I can take care of myself, Constance. I always have.”
She caught his wrists. “Don’t despise him as a pampered aristocrat, Solomon. Lots of them are vicious.”
“So am I.” He bent and kissed her. “I need to know you are safe. Otherwise, I may not be sharp enough.”
It was a low blow, and he could see her hating him for it. But she released his wrists and let him go.
“I love you,” he said gently.
She tried to smile, and if anything had convinced him to stay, that failed attempt would have been it. “I will love you when you come home.”
Solomon kissed her again, and her mouth clung to his for a moment before she stepped back. He left the room without turning back and made his way carefully down the darkened stairs to the front door, which he unlocked and relocked behind him.
Alvise awaited him in the boat, nodding a greeting as Solomon climbed in. Then he began to row toward the Grand Canal, apparently untroubled by the lack of light.
Solomon hoped it would not occur to Constance that Alvise could be Lampl’s spy in their household.
Solomon had considered it himself before recruiting the gondolier’s help.
But Alvise had already defended him in a scrap, and Solomon, who still regarded himself as a decent judge of character, had decided that even if Alvise did spy, he would not attack him.
So much depended on what Lampl did, on how he attacked. Would he provoke Solomon into attacking him so that he felt obliged to shoot in self-defense? Would he entice him close enough to try to slide a knife between his ribs, meaning to then heave him into the canal?
He just had to observe closely and react with speed. Solomon was not a brawler by nature, but life had taught him to be constantly aware, and he knew his own strengths. He was quietly confident.
Dawn was just beginning to break as Alvise tied up where they had agreed and they walked the rest of the way to the Rialto Bridge by quiet streets.
Alvise kept his distance in case Lampl saw him, but in the quiet, Solomon could just hear the faint footfalls, comforting, allowing him to concentrate on his immediate surroundings, the buildings he was passing, the corners he was approaching.
Even so, when he turned wide around a church-like building, the shadow detaching itself from the doorway took him by complete surprise. His fingers curled, poised, as a man fell into step beside him.
“Good morning,” said Ludovico Giusti.
You should not be here . Solomon’s skin crawled with sudden, unthinkable suspicion.
Had they been wrong all along? Was Giusti, the great Italian patriot, a spy and traitor after all?
Had he murdered Savelli for his own ends but on Lampl’s orders?
Poisoned Constance? The possibilities rushed upon Solomon, trying to scramble his brain while he poised for an attack.
Did Lampl even write that letter?
He must have done. Foscolo had recognized the writing.
Somehow, Solomon kept walking.
“You are abroad early,” he managed, every nerve ending aware, his gaze searching constantly for other threats that could finish him before he even got to the Rialto.
Surely no one could have known he would come by this particular route…
? Had Giusti been watching him, seen him tie up the boat?
If so, then he knew about Alvise. And Alvise did not know about him.
Unless Alvise…
God help me, I wish I were alone . The thought flitted through his brain, and he discarded it at once, for at this stage, it didn’t matter. He had to deal with this reality. Whatever it was.
Giusti said quietly, “Foscolo sent me. He said you might be suspicious. I’m to watch your back.”
“You’re to go home. It’s not about suspicion. Your presence will scare off Lampl.” Or complete the ambush . He could not allow Giusti onto the bridge.
With every tiny hair standing on end, Solomon turned the final corner, and the Rialto Bridge stood silhouetted against the lightening sky, directly in front of him, arched and ageless and deceptively simple, spanning the splendor of the Grand Canal.
“Wait here,” Solomon instructed Giusti. Whether or not the man was on his side, that much was vital—though, of course, he could not force him to obey. “Don’t let him see you.”
Without pause, he kept walking, tensing for the immediate attack from behind, from right or left.
None came. Giusti remained where he was.
Solomon could no longer hear Alvise’s footsteps and had no idea if that was good or bad.
He climbed the steps onto the empty bridge.
It looked oddly naked without its usual covering of scurrying and admiring people.
But every arch hid a possible threat, a possible enemy.
No one stood at the other end. No one approached it. Even this, the busiest of the canals, was quiet. Only a couple of boats in either direction seemed to be moving in the still water, like dots in the distance.
His footsteps sounded on the bridge, echoing in his ears so that he could not be sure what moved behind him.
It recalled an incident in Jamaica when he had been alone and followed stealthily for some purpose he had never discovered.
He had missed David’s presence then, for, like now, ambush had seemed inevitable.
Ruthlessly, he pushed the memory out. He could not afford to let the smallest part of his attention wander.
Foscolo had said he would have a man watching, but if he had, Solomon could not see him.
He could see no enemy either, which surprised him.
He had expected Lampl to be here first, lying in wait.
He stopped in the middle of the bridge and faced the water.
He could not see Giusti to his right. Nor Alvise.
And he heard no footsteps. No one approached the bridge from either side of the water.
He turned to face the other direction and leaned as casually as he could muster, as though he had come to watch the sun rise.
He found the right angle to lounge, with his back half against the side of the bridge, from which he could see all approaches, and waited for someone to emerge from the arches, or from one end of the bridge or the other.
The air felt unnaturally still. The water below barely moved.
The two men appeared quite openly from a side street some yards to the left of the bridge, on the opposite bank to where Solomon had left Giusti and, presumably, Alvise. They moved smartly through the gray dawn light, one very much larger than the other.
The smaller man was Lampl, and he had clearly brought his bodyguard.
Nevertheless, Solomon maintained his lounging position and kept observing the bridge and all approaches to it.
He only straightened when Lampl had climbed the steps, and even then, he made sure he could see both sides of the bridge.
The large man—much more brutal in appearance now that he was nearer—waited at the top of the bridge steps. Lampl advanced alone, wearing a long, dark overcoat against the damp chill of dawn. He looked neither scared nor triumphant, just serious.
He inclined his head with normal civility and spoke in English. “Mr. Grey.”
“Herr von Lampl.”
The Austrian came to a halt a foot or so away, an unthreatening distance. “Thank you for coming. We do not have long.”
“You say you have proof of who poisoned my wife.”
“I do. But I need some assurances from you.”
Solomon was more than happy to listen. The longer he kept Lampl here, the longer he was giving Foscolo to find the real proof. “Go on.”
“You must tell no one except the British consul.”
Solomon blinked. “What on earth does the British consul have to do with justice in Venice?”
“Nothing except influence,” Lampl said vaguely. “Leave this proof with him and then you must flee Venice immediately. Never return.”
“I don’t understand,” Solomon said flatly. At the far side of the bridge, the large man hadn’t moved. Nor, as far as could tell, had Giusti. Where was Alvise? And Foscolo’s man?
“I don’t have time to explain it to you.”
“Make the time,” Solomon said, hiding his alarm at this hurry.
Lampl whisked open his overcoat and Solomon tensed, but the quick, slender hand diving into the coat’s inside pocket only produced a small glass phial. “Take it.”
“What is it?”
“The poison given to your wife.”
“By whom? Where did you get it?”
“You know,” Lampl said, and, of course, he did. “Take it. Give it to the British consul, and all will be well.”
Solomon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well for me? I doubt it. Because it is in my possession, I will be arrested for my wife’s attempted murder. And Savelli’s.”
For the first time, a gleam entered Lampl’s eye that might have been amusement, or even admiration. “You have a suspicious mind, Mr. Grey. I have tried to save you and your wife, but if you will not accept the help…”