She retraced her steps a short way and saw on her left a calle she hadn’t noticed before. Should she take this or keep returning to the square? It was narrower and darker than the others, but it seemed to be going in the right direction—east towards San Trovaso—and as far as she could make out, stretched into the distance without a dead end or a canal in sight. She picked up her pace, feeling more cheerful, the small dread she constantly carried with her of being alone and pursued—by a man who looked very much like Philip March—was for the moment dismissed.
Halfway along the calle, she had to stop. A small stone from one of the lanes—its surface had been roughly finished—had become wedged in her left shoe, and she had to bend down to shake it free. As she did so, she thought she heard footsteps that stopped abruptly. She stood stock still, listening, but there was only silence. It was her imagination. It had to be. It was the small dread that never quite left her..
The rattle of a shutter further down the alleyway sounded loudly. Venice was a closeted city and the houses on either side of her were shuttered tight. She looked behind her, but the calle was empty. Ahead, an archway spanned the lane. In a sudden burst of light, the sun broke through the lowering cloud, and the shadow cast by the arch’s corbelling looked for all the world like three figures lying in wait. She could feel her heart racing, but told herself not to be foolish. She must not allow her fears to get the better of her.
She walked on, her ears now sharp and attuned. A few seconds later, the echo of a heavy tread on the rough ground came clearly to her. She quickened her pace, but the echo quickened, too. She was desperate to get to the end of this interminable calle, looking either side of her for possible escape: a door ajar, a window open, someone, anyone, she could ask for help. But the street remained shuttered and silent.
By now she was almost running and whoever was behind her was running, too. She would turn and confront the man, she thought. Then realised how stupid that would be. Her breath was coming fast and she had no idea how long she could keep up this pace. Her legs were beginning to tremble violently in the way they had so often in the past. Frantically, she broke into a full run, her breath now coming in sobs.
And then, praise be, there was the boatyard. She must have walked or ran exactly parallel to the lagoon and arrived a little further up the San Trovaso canal. There were men still in the yard, men who would come to her rescue if necessary. She slowed her pace and tried to breathe normally. Passing the workers on her way to the bridge, she managed a cheerful wave, though it took an heroic effort.
At the vaporetto stop, she continued to look around her, fearful that at any moment her would-be attacker might burst from one of the narrow alleyways running off the Zattere. Her eyes darted back and forth, but there was only the odd workman going about his business, a woman with a pushchair making her way along the Fondamente and an older lady clutching a shopping basket. In a few minutes, shaken and weak, she had climbed aboard a number two vaporetto. Now all she had to do was to get home.
*
The small craft bulldozed a path through choppy waters while Nancy sat staring through the window at the grey world beyond. Ordinarily she would have delighted in the toss and swell of the boat, but she felt no pleasure in the ride. Her limbs had gradually quietened, but her pulse was still tumbling. It was stupid, stupid. It had been only footsteps and once she had reached the boatyard, the footsteps had stopped. It was the reminder of past terror that haunted her. She had thought herself safe in Venice from the constant fear, but it still burned bright. And the unfamiliar city and unknown assailant had given it greater strength.
Alighting from the vaporetto, she was met by a torrential downpour. The storm had well and truly broken. She should run for shelter, but it was as much as she could do to force her legs to walk forward into the thick curtain of water. The teeming rain gathered in deep puddles on the hollows of flagstones, stirring the mud at the bottom of the canals, and streaming off the marble statues as she passed. Pigeons clustered dejectedly in whatever crannies they could find. A dank and desolate landscape that she hardly noticed.
It was only a short distance to the palazzo, but she arrived at its gates with cheeks burning, yet her body cold and sodden. A sick flush had taken the place of breathless fear and her legs were once again trembling. She barely had the strength to push open the wooden gates and almost fell into the courtyard beyond.
Archie was in the garden, sheltering beneath an umbrella. It was a strange sight, but to her confused mind, a part of the nightmare through which she was moving. He followed her when she stumbled towards the palazzo door.
‘Mrs Tremayne, Nancy. Are you all right?’
She didn’t answer but twisted the handle uselessly. Why wouldn’t it open?
‘Here, let me.’
Archie brushed past her and opened the door, stepping back to allow her to escape from the rain. He threw the umbrella into a corner of the lobby, then turned to her, a deep crease in his forehead. ‘What’s happened to you?’ He must have seen the shaking she still couldn’t control. ‘Apart from coming home like a drenched scarecrow, I mean.’
‘I’ve had a fright, that’s all,’ she managed to say, trying to keep her voice steady, but failing. ‘I’ll be fine in a short while.’
‘Hmm,’ he muttered, and waited for her to climb the stairs.
Desperate to keep some dignity, she made it to the first step, but she had spent her last ounce of strength and could go no further. Archie came up behind her and, without a word, linked his arm through hers and helped her tread a faltering path up the stairs and into the salon. None too gently he pushed her into one of the armchairs.
Then he went back to the staircase and called down to Concetta. The urgency in his voice had the maid bustle up from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she did. One look at what awaited her in the salon had her rush to Nancy’s side, clucking reprovingly.
‘Can you help Mrs Tremayne to her bedroom, Concetta, and see she has a warm bath and dry clothes?’ Archie asked.
Still clucking, the maid guided Nancy out of the salon and climbed with her up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty
Nancy had only just shuffled into the silk dressing gown when there was a knock on the door. Archie stood outside, a tray in his hands.
‘This is what you need,’ he said decidedly, and without waiting for an invitation, walked into the room and put the tray down on to the marble console table: two mugs, a pot of steaming coffee and in the centre, a tall, thin bottle.
He poured the coffee, then a small amount from the bottle into each mug. ‘Caffé corretto,’ he said. ‘Try it.’
She hesitated. The bath had stopped her shaking, but despite the hot water and a fierce towelling, her body remained intensely cold. Archie was probably right. She took a sip from the mug he handed her, and her face puckered.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t drink this. Whatever it is, it’s too strong.’
‘It’s meant to be strong. It’s grappa. But keep going—it will be worth it.’
Nancy resigned herself to trying again and took another small mouthful. The second sip tasted marginally better and very slowly she was able to finish the mug. Archie went to pour her another coffee, but she held up her hand. ‘No more, thank you. I’m fine.’
That was a trifle optimistic, but she was warm now, feeling the liquid coursing through her veins, hot and fiery. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw her cheeks were looking a more normal colour. Archie must have seen it, too. He put his mug down and fixed her with a stare.
‘Now, what the hell has been going on?’
She took a while before she replied. ‘I went to see Angelica Moretto and on the way back I was followed.’
‘That’s it?’
It sounded so tame when she said the words, but how frightened she’d been. ‘I thought I was trapped.’ She struggled to explain. ‘I don’t know Dorsoduro—I’d never ventured that far into the district before, and when
I turned to go home, I got lost. It was the maze of alleyways—I couldn’t find my way out. Then the footsteps started. Someone was following me. I began to run and whoever was behind me ran, too.’
‘Were they trying to catch you up?’ he asked prosaically. ‘You may have dropped something.’
‘It wasn’t like that. And if you’re going to patronise, I’m saying no more.’
‘I was just stating the obvious.’
‘It wasn’t obvious—not to me. When I stopped, the footsteps stopped. Someone was definitely following me.’
‘A purse snatcher perhaps? But you evidently got away.’
‘The calle I was running down suddenly opened out and I found I’d reached the canal by the gondola yard. There were men working there and whoever was chasing me must have seen them and turned away.’
‘So no harm done.’
‘No.’ She spoke quietly, but was keenly aware of the harm that no one could see.
There was a long silence and then Archie said thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t say you were a woman to be frightened by a few footsteps. What else is there?’
‘It reminded me of something.’ Nancy faltered. She didn’t want to talk about it; she never wanted to talk about it. But the grappa had eased the tension she always felt, and instead of closing down the conversation, she said, ‘It was too reminiscent of what happened to me before… when I was in real danger.’
‘This was the man you spoke of, the man who was your Mario?’
Archie was acute, she had to hand it to him. ‘Yes, my Mario. I was engaged to him and when I decided I no longer wanted to be, he didn’t like it.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He started following me. He’d appear at odd moments when I least expected it. I never knew when, and I was always looking over my shoulder or round corners. I got scared of even leaving the house.’
Archie stirred his coffee and spoke without looking at her. ‘Did he hurt you—I mean, physically?’
‘He never actually got to that point, but he was working his way up the scale.’
And he would have got there in the end—she was convinced—but she wouldn’t say that. Archie seemed determined to play down her recent fright, and she must, too.
‘In what way?’ Archie asked bluntly.
‘He started with the stalking. Then there were anonymous calls in the middle of the night—they nearly got me evicted. And when I refused to be intimidated, he spread a rumour around Abingers—that’s where I worked—a rumour that I was…’ She hesitated, finding it difficult to continue. ‘That I was no better than I should be, if you understand me. He picked the girl who was the biggest gossip in the building and told her a vile story. I’d introduced him to some of the staff at the Christmas lunch, so Brenda Layton was happy to believe him, and happy to spread the untruth. It wasn’t long before all of Abingers was whispering. Until Leo put a stop to it.’
Archie appeared to be thinking hard. After a long pause, he said, ‘Is that why you were crying, that time in the street? When Leo got me to drive him to Paddington?’
Nancy shook her head. ‘That was something else, though Brenda Layton certainly made me cry that day. I’d been buying lunch at the cafeteria and I remember that when I heard what was being said, I dropped my tray on the table and ran. Leo found me tucked away in a dark corner and went to the Managing Director. Leo had influence at Abingers—he was always being called in to value a painting or sit on a committee, that sort of thing. He told the MD what had been going on and then spoke to Brenda Layton himself. Very severely, I imagine, because the gossip stopped immediately.’
Archie poured himself another mug and laced it with a generous splash of grappa. ‘Are you sure?’ He pointed to the bottle.
‘I don’t think so. My head already feels as though it’s not my own.’
‘That’s grappa for you. Seventy per cent proof—does the trick beautifully. So when I drove Leo to find you, what was that about?’
Nancy took a deep breath. This was the most difficult part and she knew she had not yet coped with the terror Philip had unleashed. ‘That was later, after the stalking and the calls and the gossip mongering. My life just disintegrated then.’
‘Jesus. What kind of man was this fiancé?’
‘On the surface, very pleasant. He had a good job, he worked as a journalist on a national newspaper. And he wasn’t what you might expect of a newspaper man. He had an old-fashioned courtesy about him. I met him on Coronation Day. We were both in the crowd outside Westminster Abbey and he accidentally bumped into me and knocked some art magazines I was carrying out of my hands. There were lots of apologies and then he asked me about my connection with art. It turned out he’d published an article on auction houses, Abingers included, a few months previously. He was very easy to talk to.’
‘He sounds a paragon,’ Archie said drily.
‘He was, until I wore his engagement ring. Then he changed.’
It was difficult to remember back, to those words, deeds, interventions, that had gradually altered their relationship. Small and unimportant at first, but over the weeks increasing in number and strength.
‘He wanted to control who I met. Who my friends were,’ Nancy continued. ‘Told me what clothes I should wear. He even started buying them for me. Then he planned our wedding and my parents went along with it. I wasn’t allowed to choose my own flowers, not even my own dress.’
Now she had started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘The crunch came when I found him reading a letter a friend had sent me. When I asked him about it, he said I shouldn’t mind if I had nothing to be ashamed of, and that once we were married, nothing would be private. It was then I knew I had to break it off. He couldn’t believe I was serious and when he realised I was, he was angry. Very angry. He told me he’d rescued me from spinsterhood and I should be grateful. Then he started following me.’
‘And after that? You said he was moving up the scale.’
‘He started breaking into my bedsit. At first, it was just things being moved around the room—shoes where I hadn’t left them, a sugar bowl missing. I thought I was getting forgetful, perhaps the stress of his not leaving me alone. But then I came home one day and my favourite dress had been cut up and my underwear ripped to pieces.’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention the scrawled Jezebel. ‘I knew it was him and that he’d been getting into my room for weeks. That’s when I phoned Leo and you drove him to Paddington.’
Archie leaned forward, his hands in his lap, but his expression intent. ‘Did you report the break-ins to the police?’
She bowed her head. ‘Leo said I should. But the police couldn’t put a watch on me twenty-four hours a day. I thought if I reported Philip it would make matters worse—if I could just weather the threats, he might get tired and go away. After he ruined my clothes, I promised Leo I’d get the locks changed the following day, but I never had the chance. There was a big exhibition I was helping to set up and I was busy the whole time. When I got back that evening, all my belongings had been smashed—china, ornaments, furniture. The door to my room even. And there was a dead crow bleeding on my bed.’
‘Jesus,’ Archie said again.
‘I was trying to run when Leo arrived. He was worried after what had happened the previous day and decided to check on me. He had a cab waiting and I went back with him to Cavendish Street… you know the rest.’
As she told her sorry tale, she had begun once more to shake, unable to control her juddering limbs. She hoped Archie hadn’t seen.
‘Here,’ he said, and reached out for her hand, giving it a tight clasp. His fingers were smooth and that surprised her. When her eyes met his, he let go.
‘So what did Angelica Moretto have to say?’ he said quickly, leaning back and drinking his second mug of coffee.
‘I didn’t learn much,’ Nancy confessed. ‘Except that Luisa was spot on when she said Angelica had no interest in Mario Bozzato and would never marry him. In fact, she’s u
nlikely to marry anyone. I’m fairly sure she’ll go back to the convent soon, if they permit it. And I imagine they will, particularly as the Madonna del Carmine has inherited the Moretto fortune.’
‘She didn’t mention it?’
‘She wouldn’t. She is one very composed woman. Tight-lipped and quite formidable. Not someone who gives information away lightly. It was evident she didn’t want to talk about her brother—I’ve learned nothing new. From what I saw at the funeral, I’d already guessed she was estranged from him.’
Nancy got up from her chair and began a slow walk back and forth to the long windows that overlooked the canal, despondent at the way the day had turned out. ‘I had hopes for this visit,’ she said dolefully. ‘That Angelica would tell me something, anything, to help me find out how or why her mother died. But it’s been a miserable failure.’
‘Maybe not. Not entirely.’
She stopped walking and looked at him in surprise.
‘The fact that you were followed proves someone is worried. Can you remember when you first heard the footsteps?’
‘It was when I turned to come home. I’d been hoping to get to San Sebastiano, but it was much further than I’d anticipated and the weather had started to change, so I turned back. That’s when I first heard someone.’
‘Is it possible you were followed from the time you left the Moretto house?’
‘I suppose it is. I was on fairly wide roads until I turned to walk back to the vaporetto stop, and I might not have noticed anyone following. It was only when I found myself in that labyrinth of alleyways, I realised I had company.’
Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 15