‘I am Nancy,’ she said, a little unsure of the protocol. The woman was a complete stranger, yet oddly it didn’t feel that way.
‘Well, Nancy, let us hope our experts will soon find a solution. I have seen for myself how much is changing in Venice, and not for the good. I can no longer store anything in my basement. Last year it lay two feet in water.’
She thought of the palazzo Leo had hired and wondered if it, too, might suffer the same fate, but her companion was quick to reassure, as though she had known what was passing in Nancy’s mind.
‘You must not worry. It will be a few weeks before the high tides come and you will have left Venice by then. But in any case, my house is in Dorsoduro, in calle dei Morti, do you know it? And acqua alta has been a problem there for as long as I can remember.’
‘I suppose you would never think of moving?’
‘Moving?’ Marta gave a small laugh. ‘I was born in that house and have lived there all my life.’
‘Then your family is truly Venetian.’
Her companion smiled warmly. It was the first time she had really smiled, Nancy realised. ‘Indeed we are. We are a part of the city itself. Over the centuries we have done much for Venice, and now more lies ahead. Our future promises great things. The Moretto name will be honoured everywhere—I am determined.’
It struck Nancy as a strange thing to say, but she didn't like to ask what great things the signora had in mind and said instead, ‘My husband is taking me to my first opera tonight.’
Signora Moretto sighed again and took another sip of coffee. ‘It is Puccini, I think. Always Puccini, but the tourists love him. Venetians do not go to the theatre to hear music. They go to show off their new clothes and be seen by their friends. It is a shame. If they loved the music, we would hear the composers of Venice, but where is Monteverdi? Where is Vivaldi? And the tickets have become so expensive. Soon it will be only tourists who can afford a seat. But I shall go this evening.’
As a tourist herself, Nancy felt unable to comment, and there was silence until the signora said, ‘You must enjoy, my dear. Enjoy being with your husband. The years go too quickly and you are left wondering how this has happened. How it is that you are alone and struggling.’
Marta’s expression was grave, her eyes almost haunted, and Nancy scrabbled around for something cheering to say. Before she could, though, the woman had risen from her chair.
‘I am afraid I must go now,’ she said, ‘but it has been good to meet you, Nancy.’ She lifted her hand in a farewell gesture. ‘Make sure you enjoy the performance tonight.’
‘And you, too,’ Nancy said with a smile.
‘But certainly—Puccini or not. I will see you at La Fenice, no doubt.’
But Nancy hadn’t seen her, at least not alive. That frightening thought entwined itself with the worsening weather and made her shiver more fiercely. Since they’d left the theatre, the mist had thickened, the beginnings of a fog drifting in from the sea or seeping up from the waters on which the city was built. Tendrils of cold damp wrapped themselves around her neck and the drizzle was slowly turning to heavy rain.
She quickened her pace, trying to keep Archie in sight as he weaved his way around corners, down alleys and over bridges. He knew the city well—in his time with Leo he'd often visited—but an umbrella would have been more useful, she thought with irritation, than this hectic pace. She could only hope they would be home very soon.
Then turning a last corner, there was the palazzo. ‘You need to experience the true Venice,’ Leo had said, ‘and you won't get that staying in an anonymous hotel. I'll rent a small palazzo. I’m sure you’ll love it.’
Chapter Three
The building was at the end of yet another narrow calle, its rear entrance protected by huge wooden doors that opened onto a narrow strip of garden and to one side, a flagged courtyard with an antique well head, its stonework sodden and glistening in the teeming rain. As with so many in the city, the palazzo had seen better days, the garden wild and overgrown, the brickwork crumbling. Nancy imagined this must be the true Venice she was to experience, and couldn't help hanker a little for the anonymous hotel.
Archie pushed open the studded wooden doors and stood back to wave her in. Somehow he made even this harmless gesture seem an affront. Ignoring him, she stood still for a moment, looking up at the stone windows, gossamer in the misty air. A light burned on the first floor—Leo still working on his speech, she guessed. He was passionate about conservation and eager to establish an Art and Archives Rescue Fund, and though Nancy admired his strong commitment to a cause still in its infancy, she had wished very much for his company tonight.
She almost ran to the side door and, once inside, shook out her skirts. A slow drip of water trickled from the organza onto the lobby’s uneven tiles, dribbles of water following the old geometric pattern of swirls and waves. She waited for the dripping to stop before she made for the marble staircase, keeping to the middle of each step where hundreds of years of use had hollowed a concave.
At the top of the stairs, she headed directly for the light, crossing an immense open space, its floor thick oak, its walls filled floor to ceiling with books. Then through gleaming double doors to the main salon. Most often Leo took his work to the tiny room he’d commandeered as his office at the back of the palazzo, but tonight he sat at the large oval table beneath two immense Murano glass chandeliers suspended at intervals from the frescoed ceiling.
He jumped up as soon as he saw her, scattering the pile of papers on which he’d been working.
‘Nancy—you’re back. Thank goodness! I saw the fog coming down and was getting worried.’
‘You shouldn’t be.’ She went up to him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I had the faithful Archie leading the way.’ She wondered if he heard the tinge of sarcasm she couldn’t quite suppress.
‘Where is he?’ Leo adjusted his glasses and looked vacantly towards the doorway.
‘In his room, I imagine. Changing his clothes.’
‘And so must you, my darling. You're wet through. Go and change and I’ll ask Concetta to make us hot drinks before she leaves.’
‘You haven’t asked me about the opera.’
‘Later—or you’ll catch a chill.’
He hustled her out of the door and up the stairs to the bedroom they shared. It was a large and airy room, overlooking a small canal, and with a magnificent ceiling frescoed in the style of Tiepolo—a woman crowned with a laurel wreath, accepting the tribute of Venetian nobles led by the Doge and the Pope. It rather put the Pope in his place, Nancy thought.
She liked the room, but it was a long climb to get there. The palazzo was a rambling structure, spread over four floors, and seemingly patched up by a succession of plumbers and builders. Already, after only a few days, the stairs had begun to seem unending.
But Leo appeared to think the setting romantic and was working hard to make this a honeymoon. Nancy found it difficult to match him. She had never pretended passion, but hadn’t realised just how hard marriage would be.
In a few minutes, she was back in the salon wearing the extravagant silk dressing robe Leo had given her as a wedding present. Concetta was settling their tray on the small intaglio table.
‘Thank you.’ Leo smiled warmly at the maid, eliciting a gentle simper in return. He was a handsome man, Nancy thought, watching the way the light glinted off the strands of silver in his hair. At forty-five he was still able to turn a woman’s head.
‘So… now tell me about the opera.’ He patted the brocade of the sofa and she sat down beside him. ‘How was it? Did you love it? Hate it?’
He was almost too effusive and she wished he wouldn’t try so hard. ‘It was wonderful, certainly. Joyous, sad…’
‘Yes…’ he nodded for her to go on and when she didn’t, he said, ‘actually you don’t sound too joyous.’
She reached out for his hand. ‘Something dreadful happened, Leo. At the end of the performance—a woman fell from one of
the top boxes into the auditorium.’
‘My God! How did that happen? Was the barrier faulty?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I saw no wreckage. The police arrived as we left.’
Leo nodded. ‘They’ll be a post-mortem. I imagine the poor woman didn’t survive.’
Nancy shook her head dumbly.
‘But my poor darling.’ He encased her in his arms and hugged her tight. ‘What a thing to happen.’
‘I met her,’ she said in a muffled tone.
‘The woman who died?’
‘Yes. I met her earlier today—in the gelateria on the Zattere. We talked a while. She was so friendly. And there was something about her that, I don’t know, touched me… Her name is Signora Moretto.’
‘My God!’ he said again.
‘She said she knew you.’
‘Marta Moretto knows everyone, but then she runs the most prestigious antiques business in Venice. Our acquaintance is very slight.’
‘She seemed to know you well.’
Leo spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘I’ve spoken to her several times over the years, but I wouldn’t say I knew her well. I was called in a while ago to value a Renaissance portrait. The firm deals mainly in nineteenth-century works—not my period —but in some way or other they’d acquired this painting and there was disagreement over its value. I was asked to set a reserve price.’
Marta had spoken warmly of Leo, but there was no answering warmth in his voice and that surprised Nancy. She wondered if something had happened to disturb their relationship.
‘The signora seemed very proud of her business,’ she prompted.
‘With good reason. Moretto are an excellent firm. And they have a history. They’ve stayed a family affair. The signora took over when her husband died, and his father and grandfather ran it before him. I believe there’s a younger Moretto to follow—Marta’s son. Between them all they’ve built a successful business. Hardly surprising—they’re very good at what they do… But what a terrible thing for you to see. I hope Archie took you away immediately.’
‘Oh, yes. He did his job.’
This time her tone made him look closely at her. ‘I hope he’s looking after you.’
‘Yes, of course, Leo. Why wouldn’t he?’
‘He can be chippy at times, I know. And I did rather spring our marriage on him.’
Leo had sprung the marriage on her, too. But in the dreadful situation she’d faced, she had felt only gratitude.
‘I suppose all of us are getting used to living differently.’ She was trying to sound conciliatory, but she need not have worried. Her husband was only half listening. For the moment, both Archie and Signora Moretto had been forgotten.
‘I’ve some news. Good news. Tomorrow, once this wretched paper is out of the way, I’m a free man—for the afternoon at least. I’m sorry we’ve had so little time together, but for a few hours I can devote myself entirely to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Anywhere you want to go, we’ll go.’
‘I took a walk on the riva this morning and I could just see the Lido across the lagoon. I'd rather like to visit.’
He looked disappointed but then arranged his face into a smile. ‘We can manage that, I’m sure. There’s a drinks reception at lunchtime, at the Cipriani—it’s to mark the half-way point of the conference. Spouses are welcome and I’m hoping you’ll come and liven things up a little. We can go on to the Lido after that.’
Back in London, she had browsed through the conference programme Leo had left lying on his desk. A number of sessions had interested her and she’d been keen to attend. Working at Abingers, she had developed a much wider interest in art than her college course had allowed. But Leo had said she would find the talks as dry as dust and she’d be better to spend her time discovering Venice.
She’d wondered then if he was ashamed of introducing her to his colleagues. After eight years at the auction house, she had progressed no further than a second assistant in Fine Arts. Not because she lacked the skill or the knowledge, but because the chances of a woman, and a woman without the right background, carving out a successful career was remote. If she moved to Books, it had been said to her quietly, there might be opportunity, but Fine Art was a dead end. It was the preserve of men, of private school, of Oxbridge.
‘The Lido it is.’ Leo put his arms around her and gave her another hug. ‘But we’ll have to hope the fog lifts. Otherwise the island will be miserable.’
‘It will lift.’ She smiled across at him. ‘Shall we go up now?’
Going to bed was a delicate business and it was the time of day she had come to dread. She hadn’t been ignorant on her wedding day, as so many girls were—though Mrs Nicholson had shied from even the barest mention of what her daughter should expect—and Leo was a considerate lover. But Nancy felt no passion for him, only guilt that her response was so tepid. She had tried to summon more emotion, but it felt wrong, false, as though she were in some way betraying him, which was absurd. He had known from the outset it was only affection she offered; she had told him clearly enough when he’d asked her to marry him.
But it hadn’t proved a discouragement and his proposal had come as a shock—it seemed to Nancy they barely knew each other. At the time, she hadn’t been sure whether Leo’s enthusiasm sprang from thinking marriage the best way to protect her or whether, in fact, he loved her deeply and hoped to inspire the same in her. On their wedding night, though, he had left her in no doubt—it was evident he was deeply in love—and Nancy felt guiltier still. Somehow, though, they had to negotiate this relationship and make the marriage stick. With genuine respect and affection on both sides, it was surely possible.
Tomorrow at the reception she would be by his side, doing her best to play the loving wife and hoping she’d not let him down. But the morning hours would be free. Time in which to ask questions. While Leo talked, her mind had been busy. If she had, in truth, glimpsed a figure in Signora Moretto’s box, he or she must be responsible for the woman’s death—if only for making no attempt to save her. But when the police came to investigate, they would be told the signora was alone: as far as Nancy knew, no one else in the theatre had seen anything to arouse suspicion.
Where had that figure come from? Who were they? Were they a member of the audience—or even one of the performers? Or were they someone who had slipped into La Fenice unnoticed? If so, it was likely they had chosen the stage entrance, the turnstile at the side of the theatre used by the singers and technical staff.
Nancy felt herself compelled to do something, to keep faith with the woman she had met today. She would make sure, as certainly as she could, that Marta received justice. Tomorrow she would go back to the theatre and speak to the portinaio. He would know the singers and the crew by sight; he would even know many of them personally. Last evening, for whatever reason, had he allowed a stranger through?
Chapter Four
When next morning Nancy stepped through the salon windows onto the balcony, she was dazzled. The rain had cleared in the night and the sun was bright on ancient stone, glinting off the waters of the small canal that flowed beside the palazzo. In the distance, over the roof tops, the jagged peaks of the Dolomites were just visible. During the day they would disappear as waves of humidity crept in from the lagoon.
But it was still early—Leo had risen an hour ago to check his speech for the final time —and already the city was humming. She could hear a vaporetto plying its route several canals away. A gondola passed below, making its way to the Grand Canal and the tourists who would pay handsomely for a ride in its black-painted, brass-embellished elegance. A small working boat chugged slowly to its destination, its deck piled high with fruit and vegetables for market, and an expensive motoscafo, ornately decorated, cut its engine as it drifted in from the lagoon.
Nancy breathed deeply. She could smell coffee and fresh brioche and cigarettes. She would miss Concetta’s breakfast, she decided, a
nd eat outside at one of the small cafés that dotted Castello. Or she’d forget about eating and go straight to La Fenice before the portinaio became too entangled with the business of the day.
For that she must walk to the busy vaporetto stop at San Zaccaria—she knew her way there, at least—and then take the number two route to Giglio on the Grand Canal. From that point, it was unlikely she would get lost walking to the theatre.
The vaporetti were frequent and fast and in twenty minutes she was standing outside La Fenice. Avoiding the grand front entrance, she walked around to the side of the building. The portinaio was in the small glass-fronted hutch that overlooked the stage entrance, two small espresso cups abandoned on his desk and a third in his hand. Hopefully, it meant he would feel lively enough to talk.
‘Buongiorno,’ she began as confidently as she could, then asked him in her best Italian if there was to be a performance that evening.
‘Tonight no,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow perhaps. You buy a ticket at the box office, signora. At the front of the theatre.’
‘Thank you, I will. I have a friend who would like to see the opera,’ she improvised. ‘I’ve already seen it myself—I was at last night’s performance. The most shocking thing happened. Do you know of it?’
It was obvious he must, but she hoped it would open the conversation. ‘The poor Signora Moretto,’ he sighed. ‘Che tragedia!’
‘Tragic,’ she agreed. ‘And for it to happen here. I believe she loved this theatre.’
‘Always she was coming.’ He had switched to a heavily accented English. ‘For years a patronessa.’
‘What happened, do you think?’
He waggled his head. ‘Non lo so. I don’t know. An accident? The lady takes medicine for her pain. She has the bad leg. Maybe a mistake and she has too much.’
Nancy nodded in pretend agreement. ‘That must be it. People last night were saying,’ —she lowered her voice—‘that it might be deliberate, but I find that difficult to believe.’
Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 2