Page 9 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

T he magic that was Venice burst upon Constance afresh as Alvise guided their boat into the Grand Canal in the spring sunshine. It seemed impossible to mix this beauty of light and color and sheer, bustling life with the ugliness of murder.

Just for a moment, she longed for the uncomplicated peace of their first days in the city with only wonder to disturb her, and the pleasure of enjoying it all with Solomon. But they had never been able to walk away from a mystery.

Alvise—who had also been interviewed by the police—eased the boat into the steps before the magnificence of the Palazzo Savelli. It was hardly the most splendid of the city’s palaces, but it was certainly larger and more ostentatious than the modest beauty of their own borrowed house.

Solomon climbed out and handed Constance up.

They walked together across to the front steps of the palazzo.

She was glad to see no obvious police guard there.

Solomon knocked on the door, and it was opened by a smartly dressed manservant in livery.

Though Constance looked at him closely, she did not recognize him as one of her abductors.

Not that she had seen them for long, only while Savelli had been telling them off and they had shuffled from the room like naughty schoolboys.

And she had tried to recover her courage.

Solomon presented their joint card to the servant—not the Silver and Grey business card, but the new visiting card: Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Grey , with their new London address.

“If Signora Savelli is able to receive us,” Solomon said in creditable Italian.

The servant admitted them to a large, echoing hall with a tiled floor, painted walls, and a massively high ceiling.

A magnificent staircase swept upward. The servant indicated a wooden settle with cushions, then made his stately way up the staircase.

Only then did Constance notice the other liveried servant by the front door.

Visitors were not left alone. The household guarded its lady, much like in Constance’s far-less-reputable establishment. She wondered if they would be sent away, and if so, how much they could learn from the servants between here and the front door.

But when the servant returned, he invited them to follow him upstairs.

He led them along another magnificent hall to a drawing room filled with light.

Like most of the city’s interiors that Constance had seen, the windows provided as much art as the walls.

But the room was furnished with taste and elegance, without the overblown splendor apparent in many.

Intriguingly, an easel covered with a dust sheet stood in one corner.

A lady in black rose from a brocade sofa, at once commanding Constance’s attention.

Elena Savelli was probably not beautiful, but no one would ever notice that.

A little taller than Constance, with luxuriant jet-black hair beneath a wisp of black lace, she had pale skin and dramatic black eyebrows.

All her features were strong, from the high, intelligent forehead, to the slightly too-long nose, firm mouth, and determinedly pointing chin.

Solomon had described her as dazed yesterday. Perhaps she still was, for Constance saw no signs of unendurable grief. Shadows beneath her eyes spoke of sleeplessness, perhaps, but her eyes themselves were clear and brilliant.

“Mr. Grey,” the widow said in charmingly accented English. “Somehow I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

“I hope we are not intruding,” Solomon said, bowing. “If so, you must forgive our ignorance of local customs.”

Signora Savelli waved that aside as though such customs did not apply to her.

“May I present my wife, Constance,” Solomon murmured.

Constance curtseyed. “My condolences, signora. I am so sorry.”

For the first time, she had the widow’s full attention and felt a prickle of awareness. Elena Savelli’s gaze was sharp, perceptive, and veiled. A woman used to keeping secrets. Constance could not hold that against her.

“You are kind,” Elena said. “Especially when, I understand, you sustained injury at my husband’s hands. For that, I add my apologies to his.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Constance said, wondering if she had heard of the incident from her husband or from the police. Or even from Giusti.

“Then you are not acquainted with Ludovico Giusti?”

“We are now,” Constance said.

Two maidservants appeared with wine and the ubiquitous small savories known as cicchetti , and Elena invited them to sit. When they were served and the maids had withdrawn, their hostess regarded them with frank curiosity.

“While you are very welcome in my home,” she said at last, “I am surprised either of you can bear to be here. And my husband is beyond any retribution you may seek.”

“We have not come for retribution,” Constance said, waving that aside. “We were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. In fact, our purpose in calling is to try to help.”

Elena’s lips quirked into a faint smile of pure scorn. “You are a fashionable medium? You speak to the dead? Or revive them, perhaps?”

“If you truly thought that,” Solomon said quietly, “you would already have sent us about our business. We offer our help to you in discovering the truth of your husband’s death.” Fishing in his pocket, he produced another visiting card and stood up to take it to her.

“ Silver and Grey ,” she read aloud. “ Inquiries .” Her eyebrows flew up. “What kind of inquiries?”

“Into all kinds of mysteries and puzzles,” Constance said. “From missing possessions to murders.” She smiled faintly. “I am Silver. I only recently married Mr. Grey.”

“So this is your partnership? Your business?” Elena sounded more intrigued than offended. “But in London—forgive my ignorance—do you not have the police?”

“We do,” Solomon said. “Though it is still a novelty in some circles, and their inquiries are frequently regarded as unwarrantable intrusion.”

“And yours are not?” Elena asked politely.

“Oh yes, of course they are,” Constance said. “But no one likes suspicion held over them—which is how our partnership began, in fact. And now we find ourselves once more under suspicion.”

“For my husband’s murder,” Elena said.

Solomon inclined his head.

“I think Ludovico Giusti beats you in that race. He and my husband have been feuding for years.”

“Over you,” Solomon said, and sipped his wine.

Elena shrugged. “At one time. Mostly over revolution and jewels.”

“What is the story about the jewels?” Constance asked.

Elena’s head tilted slightly to one side as she regarded her.

Then she said, “My parents died shortly before the revolution of 1848. You may know that I was betrothed to Ludovico Giusti. I gave him my father’s favorite ring, some other jewels.

Some I know he used to pay for weapons, and to feed his men—with my blessing, you understand.

But…nothing went as planned. The revolution did not succeed, and I did not marry Ludovico.

I married Angelo Savelli, and my husband wanted my jewels returned. ”

Constance took one of the savory bites without looking at it. “Signor Savelli did? Or you did?”

Elena swirled the wine in her glass. “I accounted them lost along with Ludovico.”

“You thought Ludovico was dead?” Constance said cautiously.

“I did, for a little. So I betrothed myself to Angelo. And then Ludo came back and I had to choose.” Her fingers tightened on the stem of the delicate glass, twisting it.

She set it down carefully beside her. “It was a choice that cut me off from the remainder of my family and my old friends. I have been accused of betraying Venice, of dishonoring the sacrifice of patriots by choosing wealth over love.”

“Did you?” Constance asked.

The other woman blinked as though surprised to be asked.

“I chose survival, Venice’s as much as my own.

We tried and failed to win our cause, and must live with the consequences.

Savelli is as Venetian at Giusti. He just chose a different path and one that would bring the city much-needed peace and stability.

He has—had—influence and interests that have helped Venice, but there are those who refuse to see that. ”

“Like Giusti?” Solomon said.

“Well, he has ulterior motives. As did my husband when he demanded my jewels. It wasn’t that he wanted them for me, or himself, let alone for Venice.

He wanted them because I gave them to Ludovico.

And Ludovico would not return them for the same reason.

They were poking at each other like schoolchildren, increasingly vicious and determined.

To be fair, Ludovico did send some back—a necklace of my mother’s and one of my own that he had not sold.

He sent the messenger to me, of course, without informing my husband.

It was not enough. My husband really wanted my father’s antique ring—it was wrought gold with lapis lazuli—probably because Ludovico flaunted it under his nose at some meeting. ”

She stopped talking, picked up her glass, and took a drink. “Perhaps I will leave Venice. Do you find traveling beneficial, signora?”

“Yes, but I will go home again,” Constance said. She sat forward. “Signora, was it for this ring that your husband sent men to attack Ludovico the other night?”

“He did not tell me so. He didn’t tell me anything at all until the incident was over, but yes, I suspect that was the reason.

He knew Ludovico was returning from some formal party, so he probably expected him to be wearing it.

You see the level of idiocy their quarrel had reached?

I wish I had kept the wretched thing myself. Or thrown it in the canal.”

“I don’t blame you,” Constance said frankly. “Was this the first time they had resorted to physical violence?”