Her search for ‘arthritis’ produced long descriptions of the painful condition and several illustrations confirmed that arthritis was indeed Concetta’s problem. From the maid’s personal knowledge of her former mistress, it must have been Marta’s problem, too. But doctors seemed to agree there was little the patient could do to alleviate suffering, other than taking an analgesic.
It was only when she heaved the third and final volume into place that Nancy saw mention of any new treatments. The book had been published earlier in the year and included recent advances in rheumatology, key among them a new wonder substance developed in America. That fitted with what the maid had said, and so did its name—Cortisone was not too far from Concetta’s ‘zona’. The writer of the article seemed mesmerised by this miracle treatment. It could turn pain to nothing, transform twisted hands and feet into strong limbs again.
It was only when Nancy read to the end, she saw listed the possible side effects, the dangers Concetta had warned against. Dizziness was right there, just as the maid had suggested. But so, too, were changes in mood and behaviour, and more worryingly, depression and suicidal thoughts. Under the influence of the drug, Marta’s death could well have been the accident it was assumed to be, or the suicide of which no one would speak.
*
Sitting on the trim little water bus as it chugged a purposeful path back to San Zaccaria, Nancy was close to giving up. The Moretto death was a mystery unlikely to be solved. But that thread of determination in her—stubbornness according to her parents—was nagging her to continue. Had her discoveries at the university made an essential difference to what she believed? The tablets in excess were dangerous, that much was certain, but how likely was Marta, an intelligent woman, to forget how many she had taken? If someone else had been involved though… had somehow ensured the signora took more than she should? By the time Nancy reached the palazzo gates, her belief in the murder was alive and well. She wouldn’t give up just yet.
For the rest of the day, though, she must put it out of her head. This evening, Leo had promised her a special dinner to celebrate the end of the conference. ‘There’s a group meal at the Venice casinò,’ he’d said, ‘but I can’t stand another official get-together. We’ll go somewhere small and intimate and eat by candlelight.’
*
She wore the eau-de-nil crêpe again—she had few other choices—but made sure to pin to its delicate bodice the antique brooch Leo had given her weeks ago. It had belonged to his mother and was precious to him. To her, too, now, and he looked delighted when he saw it.
She was touched he’d gone out of his way to dress in his smartest clothes: charcoal suit, pristine white shirt and a dashing silk tie. When he handed her into the gondola especially ordered for this evening, she was as near to feeling a princess as she’d ever been.
She had seen pictures of gondolas, plenty of them—who had not?—but she had never imagined for a moment that she would one day ride in one. And never realised until now quite how fast or how sturdy they were. On her first evening in Venice she had glimpsed them in the lamplight, riding side by side, and found them vaguely sinister. Lines of shiny black varnish, their ornamental prows glinting steel, they seemed gleaming talismans from a violent and long ago past.
But now, settled on an array of cushions, her feet sinking into thick carpet, she felt nothing but comfort. And complete ease. The gondolier, his toes facing outwards ballet style, was skilful in directing his lopsided craft along the network of small canals, until suddenly they were out in the lagoon. There was no wind tonight and the moonlight lay softly on the waters, a sheet of silver stretching into the distance. Above, a wide sky filled with stars.
‘What do you think?’ Leo sat facing her, his face pale in the moonlight.
‘It’s an experience I never thought I’d have.’
‘You like it, though?’
‘How could I not?’
He had gone to great lengths to make this evening special and part of her wished he hadn’t—the feeling that she was an inadequate wife was never far away. Yet she would not have been human if she hadn’t loved every minute of the journey and wanted its magic to stay with her. She lay back against the cushions, her fingers catching idly at the water, as they scythed through the lagoon.
In no time at all, though, the gondolier, his body twisted in the opposite direction, had spun the boat to his right and with a swing brought the vessel into the Grand Canal. They began a stately drift along the parade of magnificent palaces that lined both banks. Nancy noticed the way that water lapped constantly at their cellar steps, suggesting the damp and decay that lay beneath the splendour. A metaphor for life in Venice? But the moon’s silver was everywhere, softening cracks and fading crumbling stone to an old, all-conquering beauty.
The gondolier was bringing the boat to the landing stage with a flourish, whipping his oars neatly out of the rowlocks to act as brakes and coming alongside in a surge of water. They had arrived at the restaurant.
She couldn’t remember afterwards the name of everything she had eaten—she was still adrift on the gondola—but she knew it had tasted good, very good, and it was late when they left for home, Leo insisting on a nightcap after the bottle of wine they had shared.
‘We’ll walk, shall we? I can’t go to bed just yet.’
‘Nor me.’ She tucked her hand in his. ‘I’m happy to walk. As long as you know the way!’
‘I’ll do my very best, I promise.’
It was a quiet stroll, the tap of her heels loud on the warm stones as they sauntered through narrow streets, past shadowed courtyards and across deserted squares. There were few other people around: here and there a couple slowly making their way home, enjoying what was left of the beautiful evening. But when they reached the canal that fronted the palazzo, Leo stopped.
‘Why don’t we sit a while?’ He pointed to the stairs that led down to a landing stage, where a solitary gondola danced on the coming tide as it waited for morning.
He took out a handkerchief and brushed whatever dust there was from the top step and she slipped down to sit beside him. For a while they were silent, feeling the gentle air on their faces and watching the light of an almost full moon shimmer over the canal and spill across the shuttered houses opposite as they lay sleeping in the day’s warmth.
‘I’m always sorry to leave Venice,’ he said at last, ‘and conference or not, it’s been a very happy week.’
‘It’s been wonderful,’ she agreed, slipping her arm around his waist and hugging him close. Tonight even the palazzo, cold and damp and inconvenient as it was, felt benign.
‘We can come back,’ he assured her. ‘And next time, I’ll make certain I’m not working. There are all kinds of treasures I wanted to show you, but there hasn’t been time.’
‘There will be, I’m sure. We’ve years ahead of us.’
There was a pause before he said, ‘It’s the next week or two I’ve been thinking about.’ He threw a small twig into the canal and watched as it swirled its way under the nearest bridge.
Nancy was surprised, believing their plans already fixed. ‘I thought we’d be returning to London. I know you have meetings there.’
‘I have, but once they’re over, I’d like us to travel down to Cornwall for a few days. I want to show you Penleven. More importantly I want you to meet my family. How would you feel about that?’
Nancy wasn’t sure how she felt. She knew she should embrace Leo’s home, Leo’s family, but neither his father nor his brother had come to their wedding and meeting them for the first time was bound to be awkward.
As if he realised her thoughts, Leo said, ‘Perry has written. I had a letter forwarded here a few days’ ago. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’
‘And your father?’
‘He has been a little unwell, but he’ll be wanting to see us.’
Nancy suspected the illness was an excuse, but said nothing. She had the impression that Leo’s father was as stuck in
his ways as her own parents. He must have been shocked when his brilliant son announced out of the blue that he was about to acquire a wife, a girl nearly twenty years younger and one without any discernible advantage.
‘It’s important you get to know the area,’ Leo said encouragingly. ‘Not that we’ll ever live in Port Madron, but it might give you a clue of how I came to be me!’
And that was what was missing, Nancy recognised. That deep sense of really knowing a person. She had come to know the surface Leo, the protective husband, the generous man for whom she felt genuine affection. But there had been moments in the days since they married that she’d glimpsed someone a little different, a Leo who could be cold, one who disliked being questioned, one who expected his wishes acted upon.
When they’d married, her knowledge of him had come entirely from his work—as a Renaissance expert consulted from time to time by Abingers. She had been helping with the hanging of a work that Leo had authenticated when they first met and been struck by the way he spoke to everyone in exactly the same manner—the porters, the chief curator, herself. And that was unusual. There was a strict hierarchy operating in the auction house, as in all others, and porters and a second assistant were rarely addressed directly.
After that they had spoken several times when he was visiting; she’d had the impression he’d come looking for her, but that had seemed outlandish. Until the day he found her in floods of tears over the gossip that was being spread around the firm and had taken immediate action to stop it. It was then she’d discovered she had a friend. But the person behind the professional expertise, behind the decisive action, the kind gesture—Leo’s hinterland as it were—was unknown to her. As hers was to him.
As if to underline that point, he said, ‘We should visit your parents, too. When you’re ready. They ought to know you’re married, Nancy. And Riversley sounds a beautiful village.’
It was beautiful, she acknowledged, but she had no intention of ever returning. And no intention of telling her parents of her marriage. Their refusal to help when she feared for her life had broken an already flimsy relationship. And crucially, she dare not tell them. They might still be in touch with Philip, and he could easily trace a Leo Tremayne. Trace Leo and he would trace her, and the terror would begin again.
‘I’ll show you around Riversley one day,’ she said, her promise deliberately vague.
Chapter Ten
It was probably Nancy’s worry that she would never fit into Penleven or feel part of Leo’s family that made her confront Archie the next day. She caught his assistant, briefcase in hand, at the top of the marble staircase as he was about to leave. Leo was conveniently absent, tucked away in his office and writing a review of the conference.
‘Could you come into the salon for a moment?’ she asked.
Archie said nothing but followed her as far as the doorway.
‘I wanted to thank you for finding Luisa Mancini.’
‘All part of the service.’
Nancy quailed a little. She had dressed in her most business-like outfit and pulled her long hair into a tight knot, but against Archie’s flippancy it was going to be difficult to say what she wanted.
‘I’m grateful for your help, but I also want to clear the air with you. I know you’re not happy that I’ve married Leo. I understand it’s been a shock. You went home to visit your family and found me in Cavendish Street when you returned. But I’m here and married to Leo, whether you like it or not. So… whatever you think, keep it to yourself. No more remarks, please, casting doubt on my feelings.’ She hoped she sounded authoritative.
He leaned against the doorway, his legs crossed at the ankles. ‘You know what, Nancy—see, I’m learning—I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what your feelings are. I found Luisa for you, but that’s an end to it. Don’t bother me again. I’ve no intention of being dragged any further into your hare-brained schemes. In which case, we hardly need meet and you won’t be bothered by my remarks.’
‘It wasn’t hare-brained,’ she protested, losing something of her dignity. The careless way in which he draped himself against the door felt undermining and made it hard for her to stay in control.
‘It was barmy,’ he retorted. ‘Mario Bozzato as the murderer? If there was a murder. Nobody, police included, have considered the possibility for a moment.’
‘No one else saw what I saw. I know there was someone in that box.’
‘You saw a shadow, that’s what you said. How does that become a person?’
‘I saw a moving shadow,’ she said, stubbornly. ‘After Marta… after she fell… I know there was someone there.’
‘And have you told this to Leo?’
‘No.’ The suggestion jangled her nerves. ‘Why would I?’
‘Possibly because he knew the Moretto woman. Possibly because he’s your husband. The question isn’t why would you, it’s why would you not.’ He sounded animated. ‘And the answer is simple. Because you’re making a wild guess that’s just got a lot wilder. What Luisa told you yesterday has thrown your grand theory out of the window.’
Nancy was surprised he spoke with so much energy. Moments ago he’d made it brutally clear she was on her own. But something about her search had caught his interest.
‘I don’t agree,’ she said. ‘I know everyone wants to believe it was an accident. It’s convenient that Marta took pills for her arthritis. They could have made her dizzy, so she toppled over or, if people secretly think it was suicide, that she deliberately took them to dull the fear of falling. But there is a third possibility. She could have been fed the pills by someone else. They would have made her confused so that when the killer struck, she was unable to save herself.’
Archie’s expression was derisive. ‘Another load of inspired guesswork, and that’s putting it politely. How do you come up with this stuff?’ He detached himself from the door jamb and walked up to her, standing only inches away. He was not a tall man, but she felt menaced and took a step back.
‘Let me spell it out for you,’ he said. ‘The old lady didn’t like Mario B, but she didn’t stop her daughter from seeing him. So what possible motive did he have? He had absolutely no reason to kill her, quite apart from the somewhat crucial fact that he lacked the opportunity.’
Nancy steadied herself. She had thought it through. ‘It’s not true that Mario lacked the opportunity. He could have got into the theatre in some way. He could have bought a ticket or sneaked past an usher when the man’s back was turned. And as for motive, it’s enough that he thought that Marta was working against him. He has this fantasy in his mind and he can’t accept the truth, even now. Luisa laughed when I asked her if Angelica would be interested in him all these years later. She wouldn’t be, but that’s not what Mario wants to hear, so he tells himself a different story. The truth is too difficult for him. It’s easier to accuse the signora of destroying his dream—and then destroy her.’
Archie shook his head pityingly. ‘You are barmy. You’ve made him a killer without any evidence, other than a few minutes’ angry exchange which you barely overheard, and his remark that he was pleased the woman was dead.’
She lowered her gaze, aware that the case against Bozzato was thin. ‘I’m convinced Marta was killed. And Mario is the only possible suspect,’ she muttered.
‘Is he? I could have news for you. There just might be others in the frame.’
Was he playing with her? If so, it might explain his new-found interest. ‘There is no one else and you know that,’ she responded angrily.
‘What about anyone who benefits from Marta Moretto’s death. Does Mario?’
‘He thinks he will.’
‘His fantasy—yes, I get it. But who will really benefit? I’m talking worldly goods here, not some sick dream.’
She plumped herself down into one of the shabby armchairs that dotted every floor of the palazzo. Whenever she spoke to Archie, it felt like war. And it was exhausting. ‘Her children, I imagine.’
‘
Precisely.’ He strolled across to the sofa opposite and sank back into its brocaded depths, completely at ease. ‘And who are her children? The girl is a nun or an ex-nun. Is she likely to be interested in running an antiques business? I think not. But the son is a different matter.’
‘I met him at the Cipriani. Dino Di Maio introduced us.’
‘And?’
‘And I didn’t greatly care for him.’
‘Neither does his wife by all accounts.’
‘You’re being cryptic again. Tell me what you mean.’
He leaned forward, evidently pleased with what he had to say. ‘Francesca Moretto is a very pampered lady, I understand. Wants only the best for her home, for her life. She’s a gold-taps-in-the-bathroom kind of woman—oh, and has two sons who have to be sent abroad to very expensive boarding schools. It means that poor old Luca is in debt. And according to my drinking mates last night, badly in debt.’
‘Are you saying that Marta’s death will help him?’
‘It has to, doesn’t it? He gets control of the business.’
‘He must already have a share. Would you kill your own mother simply for a bigger one?’
‘You might if you’re so far in debt. But according to my fellow drinkers, he doesn’t in fact have a stake in the business. It’s common knowledge that his mother kept a very tight reign. Luca was on a salary. He was probably paid extra on occasions, if the firm was doing well. But lately, word is that it wasn’t. So… worth thinking about?’
Amazingly, Archie’s interest appeared genuine, though it had little to do with her, she thought. But something had sparked his curiosity.
‘Luca could have been at the theatre that night,’ Nancy said slowly. ‘But could he really have flung his mother to her death? I didn’t like him, but I can’t believe that.’
‘Yet you’re prepared to believe Bozzato did. Did you know there’s talk that Moretto is to be sold?’
Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 7