Page 7 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

A fter walking with Giusti to the door, Solomon returned to the drawing room to find Constance by the window, watching his departure.

“What is she like?” Constance asked. “The wife?”

“I don’t know. Dazed but not broken. Or not yet.”

“Is she beautiful?”

To his surprise, Solomon had to think about that. “I don’t know,” he said again. “But she is the sort of woman one remembers.”

“Giusti remembers,” Constance said. “She is the true cause of their quarrel, isn’t she?”

“I would not be surprised.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“Murdered Savelli? Why now? Why not before or just after Savelli married her?”

“You don’t want it to be Giusti?”

Solomon slipped his arm around her waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “No, I suppose I don’t. I like him.”

“I actually liked Savelli, in an odd sort of a way,” she admitted. “I felt almost sorry for him somehow. Alone with his thugs and a woman they had wronged in his name. He loved his wife. I wonder if she loved him?”

“More than she loved Giusti, I imagine,” Solomon said wryly.

“Women marry for all sorts of reasons,” Constance said. “Especially, I suspect, in the midst of revolution and war.”

He looked down at her. “They married in 1849,” he said, “when the Austrians were taking back power. Savelli backed the Austrians. I wonder what Giusti was doing?”

“Fighting the Austrians,” Constance said. “By accident or design, she chose the winning side. I wonder where the jewels come into it?”

Perhaps it was inevitable, but still he felt the familiar stirring of excitement. “Are we investigating this crime, then?”

“We do seem to be,” she replied. “No honeymoon holiday for us.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Solomon murmured into her ear, which his lips suddenly found quite fascinating. “I’m sure we can fit both into our busy lives.”

The catch in her breath fed his own arousal, and he found her mouth, sensual and eager. That this amazing woman was his still astonished him. That her desire matched his own felt like a blessing, or even a miracle, both a relief and a wonder.

They were married and they were in Italy. There was nothing to stop them retreating to the bedroom in the middle of the afternoon. So they did.

*

It was after five o’clock before Foscolo called upon them. Constance, lethargic after her afternoon of love, tried to refocus her mind on murder and policemen, but only the realization that Solomon was likely to be the prime suspect—with or without Giusti—forced her back to reality with a bump.

Foscolo appeared to be an experienced man, though not yet forty years old, she guessed.

Like other policemen she had met, there was a certain cynicism, even weariness about his eyes, but they were steady and perceptive and not without humor, and she doubted many people could lie to him successfully.

Nor was he afraid to let admiration show in his face as Solomon introduced them.

However, she doubted such appreciation made a blind bit of difference to his conclusions.

“Your husband told me of your ordeal at the hands of Signor Savelli’s servants,” he said, as the three of them sat down in the drawing room. It was still sunny and the doors to the balcony were open. “I must apologize for such lawlessness in my city. I only hope you came to no lasting harm.”

“None that will not heal.”

“I commend your bravery, signora. Perhaps you would tell me in your own words exactly what happened to you?”

Before she could speak, the drawing room door opened again. A servant said, “ Scusi! ” in a frightened voice and another man strode in.

Constance, something of an expert in judging men, found him a completely different specimen from Foscolo.

A year or so younger, maybe, and considerably wealthier, he was definitely of the aristocracy.

His eyes were neither cynical nor weary.

On the contrary, they were bright and determined.

A driven man. He also appeared to be irritated.

Foscolo and Solomon had both risen to their feet. It struck Constance that Foscolo was no less irritated than the newcomer. Just for an instant, it tightened his mouth and almost spat out of his dark eyes, and then his face smoothed into blandness.

“My superior, Signor von Lampl,” he said to Constance. “Signor, Mrs. Grey.”

Lampl snapped a bow, not without grace. “Mrs. Grey. Mr. Grey.” He turned to his underling and released a torrent of Italian that Constance could not follow.

Nevertheless, she got the gist that Foscolo should not have come here without him, while Foscolo himself clearly saw no reason for his superior’s presence.

However, the Venetian inclined his head to the Austrian in apparent acceptance and returned to English. “Because of your status as an important visitor to our city, Signor von Lampl believes his presence is an important sign of respect to our British allies.”

And no one wanted Foscolo, a policeman rather than a diplomat, upsetting the wealthy Mr. Grey, let alone the British consul?

“Naturally, Mr. von Lampl is welcome,” Solomon said mildly. “My wife and I are happy to answer the questions of the police, whoever asks them.”

Foscolo inclined his head with, perhaps, a hint of irony. “I had just asked Mrs. Grey,” he told his superior, “to describe her ordeal at the hands of Savelli’s servants.”

Lampl nodded curtly and sat. Constance told her tale calmly from the moment they had seen the attack on Giusti, until she had stepped out of the back door of the Palazzo Savelli and into the boat with Solomon and Giusti.

When she had finished, Foscolo sat forward as though to ask a question, but it was Lampl who spoke first.

“You are quite admirably calm about the whole experience, madam. You must be extremely brave.”

“The servants were mere thugs,” Constance said, “But Signor Savelli neither threatened nor frightened me.” It was true, of course, and throughout her life Constance had faced down considerably scarier people.

But she realized quite suddenly that she could not tell the policemen this.

Her past was an insult to Solomon. Nothing could change that.

“My wife is a brave lady,” Solomon said shortly. “And if you do not believe in the roughness of her handling, perhaps you would like to see her bruising?”

This time, Foscolo spoke before his superior. “If you please, madam, and if it does not discommode you.”

Constance drew back her wide sleeves to reveal the bruises on her forearms and then tugged them back further to show the larger, angrier marks above the elbows. Lampl’s breath hissed.

Foscolo said, “They look very painful. I am sorry such a thing occurred at all, let alone here.”

“Signor Savelli was angry with his men, not with me.”

“Then he believed you,” Foscolo said, “when you explained you had nothing to do with Ludovico Giusti?”

“Of course he did. I have been in the city a matter of mere days.”

“And yet,” Foscolo said, “I believe Signor Giusti visited here today. While Mr. Grey was at the Palazzo Savelli.”

It almost took Constance’s breath away, but only the truth would serve—especially since, beside her, Solomon had stiffened alarmingly. Lampl was glaring at Foscolo, apparently speechless.

“He did,” Constance said. “He was looking for Solomon, to tell him about Signor Savelli’s death.

I believe Giusti had already spoken to you and had not mentioned our involvement in the fight last night.

He wished to be gentlemanly and keep us out of it, but obviously that could not happen. As we both told him.”

“Foscolo will revisit Giusti,” Lampl said. He met Solomon’s gaze. “Do you wish to make charges against Signor Savelli’s men?”

Solomon turned to Constance. They had talked about it already, but he left it to her to answer.

“I would not add to his widow’s pain over what was clearly a misunderstanding, however lawless. But we would like to talk to the men at some stage.”

“ Talk to them?” Lampl repeated, startled.

Foscolo was frowning, gazing in bafflement from her to Solomon.

“I imagine you regard us as suspects,” Solomon said mildly. “We would like to help discover the true culprit. Or culprits.”

“That is unwise and could well be dangerous,” Foscolo said. “It is our duty to investigate, but you should know that your boatman and your other servants have already confirmed what you told us about your movements on the night in question. So there is no need for you to—”

“To help us in our investigations,” Lampl interpolated hastily, as if afraid Foscolo would have said interfere .

“Do you know more precisely when he died?” Solomon asked.

“We think between three and five o’clock this morning,” Lampl replied.

“And the weapon?” Solomon asked. “Do you have any idea what it was?”

“Every idea,” Lampl said coldly. “It was left in his body and it belonged to Signor Savelli himself.”

“Can you be certain of that?” Constance asked.

Lampl blinked at her as though uncertain whether to be disgusted by her interest.

“Yes,” said Foscolo. “It was one of only two ever made.”

“And the only one extant,” Lampl said stiffly. “I have seen it in his home many times.” He rose rather heavily to his feet and bowed. “We thank you for your cooperation and apologize once more for your unpleasant experience of Venice. Come, Foscolo.”

Foscolo’s expression gave little away, though he did appear to take his time gathering up his notebook and pencil, placing them back in his pocket and getting to his feet. He too bowed before following his superior from the room.

Constance looked at Solomon. “What an odd pair. They neither like nor trust each other.”

“Like Omand and Napier,” Solomon remarked, naming two London detectives with whom they had had dealings in the past.

“At least these two here dislike each other more than they dislike us . I wonder if it’s personal or political?”

“Both, I imagine. In these times, they will be difficult to separate. We need to learn more about Savelli. I think we should call on the widow.”