‘There may be reasons,’ she said stubbornly. Perhaps because of Leo’s condescension, the theory she’d dismissed last night as foolish began to take on more solid form.
He laughed again. ‘Do you think Dino put on a mask and climbed through windows with his swag bag? That would be a sight to see.’
‘What I think is that someone did, or something like it. Maybe even Salvatore. And now the Andiamo is being used to transport the goods to Albania. Remember, Dino mentioned the traffic in illegal art to you?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but when he mentioned Albania, wasn’t it because the paintings stolen from his own house had been shipped there, or so he believed?’
Leo’s tone was no longer light-hearted and she drew slightly apart, a tight little knot in her stomach. ‘It was. But it’s possible, isn’t it, that it gave him the notion—to use his yacht to transport stolen artwork to thieves in Albania?’
‘You’ve been reading too many novels, Nancy! It’s an absolutely crazy idea.’ Leo jumped up from the sofa and poured himself coffee from the pot Concetta had left for them.
‘You can mock,’ she said, ‘but there’s a stack of paintings at the bottom of his yacht that can’t be explained—and an employee who uses brute force to stop anyone investigating.’
Her husband made no response and maintained a cold silence. But Nancy would not give up. ‘I think you need to be careful,’ she repeated. ‘That’s all I’m saying. You’re going to Rome to authenticate a painting that was stolen and possibly ended up in Albania. Isn’t that so?’
‘If the painting is the one I’m expecting to see, yes, I’ll confirm it belongs to Dino,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m not sure where that leaves your fantastical claim.’
‘In the same place as it was before. An unexplained crate. Who do those paintings belong to? Have there been any thefts of artwork recently? I think we should at least consider going to the police. They could search the yacht—maybe give it a clean bill of health—but if not, you won’t be linked to it in any way.’
Leo had remained standing. ‘It just gets crazier. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. But you can be sure I’ve no intention of going anywhere near the police with a story like that. What can you be thinking?’
Nancy had waded deep and now was not the time to stop. She would tell him the full extent of her suspicions and wait for the likely explosion. Archie had told her she was mad, but the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed she had hit on a motive for Marta’s murder.
She looked up at him from the sofa. ‘What I’m thinking, Leo, is that stolen paintings may be the reason for Signora Moretto’s death. If she discovered a scam and threatened to expose Dino, he might have taken drastic action to make sure she never spoke to the police.’
‘Enough of this.’ He sounded furious. ‘It’s not only mad, it’s deeply insulting to Dino and I’ll hear no more. Don’t mention it again, and certainly don’t repeat what you’ve just said beyond these four walls. I trust you haven’t?’
‘Not yet. But—’
‘No buts, Nancy. There is widespread corruption in Italy, everyone knows that. And I don’t doubt Dino has his fingers in all kinds of unsavoury pies, but your suggestion is frankly bonkers. As for my visit to Rome, I’m going there for a specific purpose—to authenticate one particular canvas. Once I’ve done that, I’ll come straight back with no harm done. Then we’ll make tracks for home, and by the sound of it that won’t be a minute too soon.’
She could feel her mouth tighten and her teeth bite into her lips. She had no real evidence of Dino’s wrongdoing and she knew her suspicions must sound wild, but she was disappointed that her husband had dismissed them without a second thought.
After a few tense minutes when neither of them spoke, he seemed to relent slightly. ‘I appreciate your concern for me, my dear, but I’m in no danger and you can forget any fears you have.’
She wouldn’t forget, she vowed to herself. And she wouldn’t forget Leo’s indifference, even disdain. She bristled at the way her husband had made no attempt to hide it. He believed he had reason, of course. He considered her mind blown to pieces by the trauma she had suffered and it was easy for him to dismiss her suspicions as an aberration to be ignored.
She could have carried on arguing. There was more she could have added—what, for instance, had been behind the agitated conversation between Luca and Salvatore at San Michele? But to continue would only alienate Leo further and it was not worth the risk.
Her silence made him put down his cup and walk over to the sofa. He pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her, holding her close. ‘We must forget this conversation,’ he said into her ear. ‘And forget whatever you mistakenly think you’ve found. We leave Italy in a few days and we have a bright future ahead of us. We can’t let this nonsense spoil it, Nancy. You do understand, don’t you? Now how about that kiss?’
‘I understand,’ she said, and gave him the kiss he asked for. But understanding wouldn’t stop her from digging deeper. Marta, newly laid to rest, was depending on her. Now more than ever.
Chapter Seventeen
Leo was awake very early, intent on catching one of the first trains out of Santa Lucia, and Nancy tumbled out of bed soon afterwards. Neither of them wanted more than strong coffee at this hour of the morning and in a very short while Leo was at the studded wooden door that led down to the courtyard, his bags by his side, waiting to say goodbye.
He had not mentioned Dino again since his insistence Nancy say no more of her suspicions, and she was glad. It would have led to a new coolness between them and would, in any case, have been futile: it was clear Leo would dismiss her fears as something to be expected from a woman who, for months, had lived in terror.
And it was true that she still found herself looking over her shoulder or hesitating as she rounded a corner, not so often here in Venice—it was unfamiliar territory—but certainly in London.
The night she had found her room destroyed, the walls smeared with ruined food, her china and chairs smashed—everything broken that could be broken—and the final horror, her bed despoiled, she had stumbled blindly from the wreckage, her legs no more substantial than a rag doll’s. Then Leo had appeared. He’d called at the house, concerned for her safety, and found her shaking on the small landing. He’d been calm and reassuring, guiding her down the stairs and into the waiting cab. Back to Cavendish Street.
But even there, within the safety of his home, she had continued to see shadows. Every slam of a door, every squeak of a window hinge had her body stiffen and her soul freeze. Leo had been kindness itself, talking to her gently, comforting her, making tea in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep for dark dreams. It was no wonder he assumed her concerns over Dino were fantasy, another token of the deep trouble she was battling.
There was something else, though, that made her hesitate to say more: a discomfort with Leo’s association with Dino and with the Morettos. A small discomfort, it was true, but it felt to Nancy as though something were being hidden, though what that was and how important it might be, she had no idea.
‘I’ve something for you,’ Leo announced, as she arrived beside him in the lobby. ‘Yesterday’s local paper.’ He handed her a copy of Il Gazzetino. ‘Old news but good practice for your Italian. I’ll test you when I get back!’
Good for her Italian and also a way of keeping her busy, she thought. Keeping her mind from the madness in which she’d indulged.
She gave him a small smile. ‘I’ll try to make sense of it, but I’m not promising.’
‘Do your best—but make sure you get out, too, and enjoy the sun while it’s shining. There’s a storm on the horizon but this morning the weather’s beautiful. Why don’t you take a walk along the Riva to the Arsenale? You could visit the Giardini at the same time.’
She remembered the vaporetto to San Michele had stopped there and she had thought then that the gardens looked interesting.
�
�It’s where the Biennale Art Exhibitions are held.’ Leo was warming to his theme. ‘There must be around thirty pavilions now from different countries, some of them designed by big names in architecture. Even if you don’t do the sightseeing stuff, the gardens are delightful, and there’s a café, too. You could get lunch there—a tramezzino perhaps.’
It was a lovely suggestion despite being an obvious way of keeping her occupied. A prosciutto and mozzarella toast would make the perfect snack and maybe a glass of fresh orange or even a sparkling wine. And once beyond the confines of the palazzo, the walk would give her the space she needed. Space and time to think what her next move should be.
‘You forgot these, boss.’ It was Archie with Leo’s reading glasses. Archie kept his employer’s office in strict order but Leo’s personal possessions were another matter. Nancy had soon learned that her husband was utterly unable to keep hold of pens, keys, glasses, all of which went missing on a regular basis.
‘Thank you. I’d be stymied without those.’ Leo tucked the glasses into the pocket of his linen jacket, then picked up his bags. ‘I’d better be off or I’ll be cutting it too fine. It’s a scenic trip up the Grand Canal, but it will take me a good forty minutes to reach Santa Lucia and I need to be on that train.’
She had expected Archie to accompany his employer to the busy station, but apparently there had been an agreement between them that her husband was to go alone. Nancy wondered if that was because he’d asked his assistant to keep a close watch on her.
‘Don’t forget.’ Leo gave him a clap on the back. ‘If you get bad news today, Archie, you’re to buy a ticket for home immediately.’
He turned to say goodbye to her. ‘Enjoy your day, Nancy. With any luck, I’ll be home for dinner.’
A swift kiss and he was out of the door, down the steps, and walking to the palazzo gates. She had hoped for more, an embrace, a kiss that said I love you, but he seemed wary, a little distant. Her heart felt dull when she turned to climb the stairs to the salon. She had been stupid last night to voice her suspicions.
Archie was already half way up the staircase and continued on his way to the fourth floor. With both of them gone, Nancy felt curiously listless. Idly, she drifted into the salon. If Archie had been detailed to keep an eye on her, she had the chance now to escape. But she was unsure of where to go or what to do, so instead she sank into one of the stubby armchairs and spread out the newspaper Leo had given her. She would try her hand at translating yesterday’s Il Gazzettino.
It proved hard, more than hard, and she felt her mind wander and her eyelids close, unsurprisingly since she had slept badly. The crackle of the newspaper, as it slipped from her lap and brushed against her bare legs, had her start awake. She must find something to read in it that would grab her attention.
She flicked through the pages, searching for this precious nugget, and then she saw it. A small paragraph at the bottom of page six. It began with a brief mention of Marta Moretto’s funeral, but it was the lines that followed that riveted Nancy. Marta’s lawyer had registered her will with the authorities—by English standards that was early—and its details seemed already to have leaked out. She wasn’t surprised that rumours had spread. This was Italy, and in particular Venice, where everyone knew everything about their neighbour. It was only a rumour at the moment, and the reporter had been careful to frame his article as speculation rather than fact, but it was unlikely such an extraordinary story was false. Who would have thought of making it up?
Marta Moretto had left her entire estate—business, money, the house in calle dei Morti—to the convent of Madonna del Carmine. Was that what Marta had meant when she’d said she intended to do great things in the future? If so, she must already have known what those great things were when she’d spoken to Nancy. She must have discussed with the convent exactly how she wished the money spent. And there would be a considerable amount to spend once the Moretto business and palazzo were sold and the bank account emptied. Was it perhaps her daughter’s convent she had decided to endow in this way? That would make sense.
‘I’m going out for an hour. I have to send telegrams.’ Archie had appeared in the salon doorway. She had been so intent on the newspaper article, she hadn’t heard him come downstairs.
She twisted round to face him. ‘That’s fine. I’ll be okay here.’
He nodded but said nothing. When he began to walk away, though, she called out to him. ‘Archie, there’s something in the paper you might find interesting.’
He reappeared in the doorway. ‘I doubt it, if it’s Italian. Their footballers are the only thing worth reading about.’
‘It’s not about football. It’s about the Moretto will. Take a look.’
He took a few steps into the room. ‘I don’t read Italian.’
‘Don’t be difficult. You know the language as well as I do. I’ve heard you speak.’
He walked over to her and reluctantly took the paper she handed him. ‘There.’ She half rose to tap the paragraph she’d been reading.
‘So Marta has left her money to a convent,’ he said, after he’d read a few lines.
‘The writer of the article says the will is likely to cause shock waves. Does that sound right?’
His brow furrowed. ‘Probably. She’s disinherited her children. I would imagine that’s a no-no in Italy.’
‘I know you can do it in England, but here?’
Archie slumped down onto the sofa opposite, and tipped to one side as the springs readjusted. His eyes were blank and it was evident his mind was miles away.
‘There was an Italian chap in the war,’ he said at last. ‘One of the prisoners we took at Monte Cassino, and I got talking to him. He spoke good English—he’d been a school teacher. We were talking about how we’d both ended up where we were and I remember what he said. His father had gone a bit doolally towards the end of his life, started going on pilgrimages to holy sites, giving money to neighbours when they asked, that sort of thing. Anyway this chap owned a house and several shops in Florence, so he had a bob or two, but when he died, he left everything to the woman who lived next door. The prisoner, Luigi was his name, was so pissed off he joined up there and then, and then wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to fight, he hated the army.’
‘So where does that get us?’ Luigi’s story seemed to have only minimal connection to Marta’s.
‘The point is while Luigi was away he heard from one of his sisters—he had a host of them—and they told him they were going to court. There’s a law in Italy that says you can’t leave your money how you like. Or not all of it. You have to leave a certain portion to your spouse, and your children.’
‘So you think Marta’s will is likely to be contested?’
‘Almost certainly. We’re not talking a small portion here. If I’m remembering rightly, Luigi said it was two-thirds of the estate that had to be divided equally between him and his sisters. Two-thirds of the Moretto estate is big money.’
‘You’re saying that Marta would legally have had to leave two-thirds of her estate to her son and daughter, and only then could she decide who else would benefit.’
‘Exactly.’ Archie stretched his legs and locked his hands behind his head.
‘So she acted illegally?’
‘Which is why, no doubt, Luca’s lawyer will be on the case.’
‘The article makes no mention of that, but I’m sure you’re right.’
Archie jumped up and stretched again. ‘I’d be very surprised if the bloke isn’t working on filing some kind of claw-back action right now.’
Nancy rescued the newspaper from the sofa where Archie had abandoned it. She trawled down the article again. ‘I think they actually mention that possibility—it’s called an azione di riduzione. Marta must have known that would happen. Why did she do it?’
‘To send a message? To tie Luca up in a legal morass for years? The Italian system works very, very slowly.’
‘Meanwhile, he’s likely to go out of b
usiness. It’s almost like a punishment. But what was she punishing him for?’
‘Unless you can bring her back from the dead, you’ll probably never know.’ He started towards the door.
It was probable, Nancy thought, she would never know, but someone else might. Angelica, for instance. And what of Luca himself—what had he known?
‘There’s definitely something odd about Luca,’ Nancy said slowly, following her train of thought. ‘At the funeral yesterday, he was engaged in this strange conversation with Salvatore. They were in a kind of secret huddle and talking almost frantically.’
Archie stopped in the doorway and swivelled round. ‘So Luca is your villain again? What happened to Dino? Or even Mario?’
‘I still have them in mind,’ she said firmly. ‘But there was something else going on yesterday. Angelica was at the funeral, yet she didn’t sit with her brother and his wife. She refused even to stand near them when everyone gathered at the graveside.’
His smile was laconic. ‘Families have feuds all the time. You should come to Cornwall—we can show you a few.’
‘I think Angelica’s refusal to speak to her brother, even to acknowledge his existence, might be because she suspects he is involved in something bad. She left the convent weeks ago and has been living all this while in calle dei Morti. She could have heard rumours.’ There was a small pause before she continued decidedly, ‘You’re right, though. I mustn’t forget those other names, particularly Dino.’
Archie gave a groan, but she took no notice. ‘Just as we were getting on the vaporetto to leave San Michele, Dino was making for the motoscafo he’d hired, but he was accosted by a young man. Concetta said the boy’s name was Renzo Hastings.’
Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 13