Page 5 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

“D ead?” Solomon stared at the man, suspecting some kind of subterfuge to avoid an angry husband, a mere foreigner of no account.

But there was no jest, no slyness in Foscolo’s sharp face, only profound interest in Solomon’s reaction.

It was how Solomon himself—and a couple of policemen of his acquaintance—often looked at people, which gave him his first, uneasy clue.

“Dead,” Foscolo repeated.

“He was very much alive last night,” Solomon said slowly.

“When exactly did you see him last night?”

Solomon raised his eyebrows. “I am afraid if you wish me to answer your questions, Signor Foscolo, I require rather more than your name.”

“Of course you do. I am a policeman—perhaps you would call me an inspector?—of the city of Venice. Would you care to join me upstairs, where my…superior is also eager to meet you?”

There was only the slightest pause before the word superior , but it was enough to remind Solomon of the uneasy government of the city.

It was only five years since Venice had rebelled against its Austrian masters, who had only retaken control with some difficulty and much ill feeling. And many lost lives.

Solomon inclined his head and accompanied Foscolo toward the staircase. Although the Venetian had dashed down to him with the brisk steps of a busy, active man, he now set a slow, ambling pace, like someone enjoying a private conversation during a stroll.

“So, at what time last night did you see Signor Savelli?” he asked with deceptive mildness. Clearly, he was not a man to be distracted.

“I did not see him at all,” Solomon replied. “Except as a shadow in the back doorway. About eleven of the clock, or perhaps a little after. Before midnight, at any rate. I was in my boat at the time. I came to confront him today because he abducted my wife.”

Foscolo blinked rapidly, his only sign of startlement. “Are you sure?”

Solomon met his gaze and a smile flickered on the policeman’s face and vanished. He was not without humor.

“You are sure,” Foscolo said. “Where and how did this happen?”

Solomon told the tale of the abduction briefly and without embellishment or obvious emotion. Even so, he could almost feel the policeman’s skepticism. Or perhaps it was just surprise.

“This is not usual behavior for Signor Savelli,” Foscolo remarked. “Are you sure he was responsible for such wickedness?”

“Yes,” Solomon said dryly. “I found her at the back door of this building. Apparently, Savelli was sending her home, but you will understand I chose to take her myself.”

“You must have been very angry.”

“I still am.” There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“According to my wife, his ruffians acted beyond their orders, and on a complete misunderstanding of the situation. Savelli released her immediately with apologies, but you will understand I could not let the matter rest there. How did Signor Savelli die?”

If the police were involved, Solomon doubted the cause was natural, though it may simply have been a mark of respect to a prominent gentleman of the city.

His mind flitted to Savelli’s sworn enemy, and he wondered uneasily if Giusti had merely gone home to bind his wounds and then returned to the Palazzo Savelli to continue the fight in person.

“We will come to that. How well did you know him?”

“Not at all. We never met. I have been in Venice only a few days.”

“And what brought you here, sir?”

“Pleasure. My wife and I are making a wedding journey.”

Foscolo’s eyes softened. “The honeymoon,” he said. “Your marriage is recent?”

“Indeed. I compliment you on your English.”

“Thank you. This way.”

Foscolo led him into a large, airy room containing two desks with chairs on either side, as well as more comfortable armchairs.

Leather-bound books, some of which looked old and valuable, lined the walls, and several glass cases stood on cabinets at the far end, presumably containing other valuables.

The man who had admitted Solomon to the house stood to attention by a small table.

Another fair and well-dressed man rose from the large walnut desk slanted across one corner of the room.

Although probably about the same age as Foscolo—surely not many more than Solomon’s thirty years—he had an air of authority that seemed to be natural.

Foscolo made the introductions in English. “My superior, Signor von Lampl. Signor, Mr. Grey, from England.”

Solomon was not blind to the undercurrents. Apart from the word signor , which he seemed to emphasize, Foscolo continued to speak in English, no doubt in the hope that his superior—clearly an Austrian—would not understand.

But Lampl, looking weary, merely offered one smooth, elegantly aristocratic hand, saying, “How do you do, Mr. Grey?” Having indicated a chair for Solomon, he turned back to Foscolo and a quick barrage of Italian was exchanged.

Over the years, Solomon had picked up bits and pieces of many languages. In this rapid fire, he caught that Foscolo was repeating what Solomon had told him.

“But this is outrageous, Mr. Grey,” Lampl said, swinging on him quite suddenly. “Complete strangers pluck your wife from the street, from under your very nose, and yet you knew exactly where to go to get her back from said strangers?”

Solomon owed Giusti a debt of gratitude for that, but there was no way he could tell his story honestly without betraying his name. “It was not exactly under my nose. I was distracted at the time, by four men setting on a fifth. I went to help, leaving my boatman with my wife.”

“That was brave of you, sir,” Lampl said, his face expressing only politeness, “especially in a strange city and where your aid was unlikely to alter the outcome, since it still left four to two. Did you know the man being attacked?”

“No. I could not even see his face until I was in the thick of the fight,” Solomon replied. “It turned out to be a gentleman by the name of Giusti.”

Foscolo and Lampl exchanged glances, an instinct that appeared to embarrass them both.

“Ludovico Giusti?” Foscolo asked. “Had you or your wife met him before?”

“No. But it was while we fought off his attackers that two other men abducted my wife. I saw them drag her away down a side street.”

“But you remained to fight Signor Giusti’s battle?” Lampl asked.

“The battle was over by then,” Solomon said. “We had scared them off.”

“Two against four,” Foscolo said without emphasis.

“Actually, it was three against four by then, since my wife had sent our boatman to help us. Which left her unprotected.”

“So, you went after her? Alone?”

“No, Signor Giusti returned my help by accompanying me and my boatman to the Palazzo Savelli. He claimed to recognize those attacking him as Savelli’s men, recently hired bodyguards, and was convinced my wife would be brought here.”

A frown of irritation tugged at Lampl’s brow. “With what possible purpose when you and your wife are strangers to him? To all of Venice, in fact! Did Giusti tell you some tale of Signor Savelli’s villainy?”

“He told me about a feud, over a lady and some jewels. Giusti believed Savelli’s men acted under the mistaken idea that my wife was connected to Giusti, and I was merely her bodyguard.”

“Because you went to Giusti’s rescue,” Lampl said slowly. “That almost makes sense. So, on Giusti’s advice, you came directly here? Did you see Signor Savelli?”

“I think so, though only for a moment. He stood in the back doorway, watching as his servants prepared to take her home in his boat. Only, when she saw me waiting, she obviously came with us instead. Neither Savelli nor his servants objected.”

“And Giusti,” Foscolo said, “did he leave you at the Palazzo Savelli?”

“No, he came with us. My boatman took him to his own house on the way to her own.”

“And where is it you are staying, Mr. Grey?” Foscolo asked.

“The Palazzo Zulian. We have rented it from the owner for six weeks.”

Foscolo’s eyebrows lifted. “In Cannaregio?”

Solomon inclined his head.

“And how is your wife after her ordeal?” Foscolo asked. “She must have been terrified.”

Solomon stared at him, clenching his fists involuntarily. “Being forced away from me by strangers? Being gagged and blindfolded by her own hood? The men held her so roughly that she has huge bruises on both arms. Of course she was terrified.”

“And that is why you came this morning to visit Signor Savelli?”

“Yes.”

Both men regarded him. He could almost see them wondering why so angry a husband had not confronted the villain last night. Or, indeed, if he actually had.

Controlling his fresh spurt of temper, Solomon said coldly, “My wife explained that Savelli apologized to her and offered her no further insult. He was angry with his own men, even before he discovered she had no idea who Giusti was. On the other hand, I could not let such an act simply pass.”

“What did you intend to do here this morning?” Foscolo asked.

“Speak to him before I determined whether or not to involve authorities such as yourselves and the British consul.”

“Very proper,” Lampl said.

Impossible to tell if he was mocking or approving or simply understanding.

“I hope you have not changed your mind about Venice,” Foscolo said. “Your unpleasant experience should not encourage you to leave the city.”

“It hasn’t,” Solomon said, understanding the warning. “Or, at least, not yet.”

Foscolo held out his hand in clear if civil dismissal. “Thank you for your cooperation. We know where to find you.”

For the first time, Lampl looked irritated, as if he had more questions, or at least preferred to be the one doing the dismissing. “I’m afraid we will also have to speak to your wife and servants. I hope that will not further upset her.”

“My wife is a most resilient lady,” Solomon said, releasing Foscolo’s hand and turning his gaze on the Austrian. “I shall not allow her to be upset. Although we are both happy to assist with your inquiries. May I know how Signor Savelli died?”