The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “I think we should keep going that way,” Claire said, pointing to a corner lit by an ornate iron lamp hanging from a wall. Beyond was a wide stretch of water that shimmered gold and blue from decorative lights strung along the far bank. I gripped the paddles again and Claire resumed her captain role. “Turn left when you get there and keep to the side. The bigger boats have priority.”

  A minute later, we turned left into the Grand Canal where several motorboats raced past, tossing our little wooden craft up and down in their wake. Over Claire’s shoulder, the first strands of pink sunlight threaded their way across the black dome of the night. I let the boat drift for a minute while I rubbed at a blister on the palm of one hand.

  “The fish market is open,” Claire said. “That’ll be a good place for us to get off. Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, I grabbed the oars and waited for a break in the traffic before edging out into the middle of the waterway. A klaxon blared as a delivery launch sped by, pitching us around so hard that I lost hold of one oar and watched it float away. With twenty meters still to go to reach the other bank, I rowed single-handed, alternating strokes to stop us from going in circles. We glided up against a stone jetty a short distance from the Campo della Pescharia. Heart thudding from a toxic combination of fear and exertion, I grabbed hold of an iron ring to steady us while Claire climbed out. I clambered after her and we stood for a few moments, scanning the area for any sign of our pursuers. A few seconds later, I caught a glimpse of a man walking fast towards us.

  Claire saw him too. “Run into the mercato,” she said.

  We turned and dashed to the edge of the piazza. White awnings sheltered tables laden with fish of every size and color, brightly illuminated by bare bulbs that hung low over the stalls. Shouting and laughing, the fishermen filled the huge cold space with warmth and energy, haggling with the early morning buyers out to buy the best catch for their restaurant tables that day. We ran into the midst of the market, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man carrying several plastic crates of ice balanced one on top of the other.

  “Watch where you are going, idiota,” he growled at me.

  With more care, we wove through the crowds for several minutes, sidestepping buyers carrying bags and boxes of fish until we emerged out the other side of the piazza, on the Fondamenta Riva Olio. Ahead of us, a vaporetto was about to push off. Claire shouted at the conductor to wait, and we ran forward as he clanged the gate closed.

  “Per favore!” Claire entreated. The conductor smiled and opened the gate for us, causing a group of Italian teenagers on board to let out a cheer, nudging each other and shouting “bellissima” at Claire. Hanging out with her was denting my self-esteem more than a little.

  The vaporetto pulled out into the centre of the canal, and I turned to see the two pursuers appear on the Fondamenta at the corner of the fish market. One of them threw his hands up in frustration. It felt good to have got away from them, but I was certain it wouldn’t take them long to pick up our trail again.

  12

  The damp warmth of the vaporetto cabin was welcome after the raw chill of the early morning. I slumped into a seat next to a window, trying to catch my breath. Who needs a gym membership, I thought, when you can run and row your way to health for free? My pounding heart gradually slowed as we rode a few stops east towards San Marco. Outside the window, the water sparkled under the pink and gold rays of the rising sun, looking a lot less threatening now that we weren’t in a leaky boat with one oar.

  Claire suggested we disembark at the Sant’Angelo stop because our pursuers wouldn’t expect us to get off there, and we’d be able to take a short cut to the police station. We moved through the cabin to the exit, the only people to leave the boat there. Keeping a wary eye out, we strode along deserted streets, trying to get our bearings. While Claire checked the map on her mobile, we walked past a pink-colored palazzo into a small square fronted by a church with white walls and a pretty bell tower.

  “That way.” Claire led us up a narrow calle, after which we were embroiled in a tangle of alleys and picturesque footbridges before finally emerging into another square dominated by a church, this one with a brick facade. As the sun appeared over its caramel-tiled roof, throwing long shadows across the piazza, I wondered how many churches there were in Venice. I’d have to look it up when this was all over.

  “Let’s get on to some busier streets,” I said, noting that the church doors were closed and padlocked. The silence was unsettling. “Can you find a direct route to the police station from here?”

  Claire checked the map. “I think I got us a bit lost. But it’s not far. Maybe fifteen minutes. Let’s go this way.”

  We set off in the direction she thought we should take, and soon reached a busy street thronged with people and lined with shops and cafes. I felt better among the crowds, more protected from the risk of our pursuers doing us harm.

  “We need a breather,” I told Claire. I was worried about her. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her face was white. Worse, her aura was moving faster. “Let’s sit for a minute,” I said, pointing to a cafe.

  Inside, we ordered espressos and golden, flaky cornetti. Next to our small marble-topped table, an Italian couple held hands while drinking their coffee, a group of tourists peered at a guidebook, and several men argued about an upcoming football match.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked her.

  “What do you think? I’m being pursued by strange men, Ethan’s missing, and we don’t seem to have a clue how to find him. No, I’m not all right.”

  Claire’s mobile trilled, which saved me the trouble of responding. She looked at the screen and stood up. “I’ll take this outside,” she said.

  When she came back, her cheeks were pink. The boyfriend I guessed, correctly. “It was Dante,” she said. “He’s worried about me. He offered to come get us.”

  “Did you tell him where we are?”

  “Only that we’re in Venice. I told him that I had a family emergency and would be back in Florence soon. He was concerned. We were supposed to have dinner together yesterday evening, and there’s a fund-raiser tonight that we have tickets to. He sounded upset that we’d miss the event, but said he understood. He’ll drive up to get us any time we want.”

  She stirred a packet of sugar into her coffee, but didn’t drink it. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” she said. “He has every right to be worried. Why don’t we accept his offer?”

  I did my best to change my expression from skeptical to neutral, and drained the last few drops of my espresso, wishing we could just sit here all morning, drinking coffee, and planning some sightseeing. As that wasn’t an option, enlisting support seemed like an excellent idea.

  “I’m not averse to accepting Dante’s assistance,” I said. “But I still think we need to get to the Questura and ask for help from the police. It’ll be a safe place. And while we’re there, we can look at those pages and your dad’s notebook in more detail. There has to be something that will lead us to Ethan.”

  Claire crumbled a piece of her pastry into tiny crumbs on her plate. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Okay. Finish your coffee and then we’ll go.”

  The clock on the cafe wall showed that it was almost eight a.m., only seven in England. I thought of calling Leo. I’d promised to stay in touch with him and had done a terrible job of that so far. But as I reached for my mobile, it rang. It was Detective Lake.

  With no good morning or happy Monday greetings, he launched right in.

  “Kate, do you know someone called Ben Shepherd?”

  “Yes, he’s Ethan’s assistant. Why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Feeling dizzy, I leaned my elbows on the table for support.

  “What is it?” Claire demanded. I held up my hand to stop her so I could listen to what Lake was saying.

  “His body was found late on Friday evening,” Lake said. “In the alleyway outside Ethan’s
office. Looks as though he was strangled, stabbed, and then pushed out of the window. The window you found open when you got there.”

  “Stabbed? But there was no blood anywhere in the office. I would have noticed.”

  “Strangled first. The stab wound appears to be post-mortem. The coroner puts time of death between six thirty and seven thirty on Friday evening.”

  I’d seen Ethan flag down a taxi outside his office just after seven.

  “Between you and me, Kate, things aren’t looking good for your friend. The stab wound was inflicted with a letter opener that was still in the body. Hamilton’s name was inscribed on the handle.”

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. Of course, now, I recalled wondering where the letter opener was. Ethan always kept it on his desk. His father had given it to him when he graduated from Cambridge.

  “Hamilton’s fingerprints were all over it. In fact, there were no other prints on it.”

  “Why do the police have Ethan’s prints on file?” I asked, confused.

  “Maybe he applied for a visa at some point, or his company runs security checks on employees. That’s quite standard nowadays.”

  “But the killer would almost certainly have worn gloves. So a lack of prints doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Perhaps not. Even so, with no evidence of a third party being present and Hamilton’s reported disappearance, he remains the only suspect for now.” Lake blew out a noisy breath. “Kate, I’d like you to be completely honest with me. Do you know where Ethan Hamilton is?”

  “No, no I don’t. I wish I did. But he didn’t kill Ben.”

  Claire gasped and grabbed at my hand. “What? What’s going on?”

  I shook my head at her. I needed to focus. “He didn’t do it,” I said again. “There’s no way.”

  “I’ll be assisting with the investigation,” Lake said. “I only found out about it this morning because the Institute is outside my usual geographical area of operations. But when I filed the missing person report, Ethan’s name popped up in connection with Mr. Shepherd’s murder.”

  “What about Ethan’s flat?” I asked. “Remember I told you I thought someone was there? If there was an intruder, that would be good news for Ethan wouldn’t it? Proof that someone else is involved?”

  “It might,” Lake said. “But it might also indicate that Ethan’s got himself mixed up with some bad people.” He paused for so long that I checked my mobile screen to see if we’d been disconnected. “I need to talk with you in person, Kate. The janitor saw you in Ethan’s office at about the time of death.”

  “Of course he did, but it was later, after half past seven, when I went back to the cupboard to retrieve the book.” Lake’s words hit me. “You can’t believe I’m involved? Why would I have come to your police station an hour after murdering someone and put myself on your radar? You saw me. Did I look as though I’d just strangled and stabbed a man?”

  “Calm down,” Lake said. “I have to follow certain procedures. You are a person of interest in this case.” He paused, and I heard paper rustling. “You left a message telling me you’re in Italy?”

  “Yes, with Ethan’s sister.”

  “I need to see you, both of you, in my office. When will you be back in London?”

  “I have a flight this evening,” I said. Claire grabbed my hand again, shaking her head.

  “Call me when you’re back, and we’ll arrange a time to meet. Meanwhile, be careful. I know you want to protect Ethan Hamilton, but the evidence points to his being involved in something unsavory. He may or may not have killed Ben Shepherd, but he has disappeared.”

  When he finished the call, I sat motionless. My brain seemed frozen in place. It was eerily quiet, and I couldn’t find any words. I’d only met Ben once or twice, but his death was a shock. Ethan thought highly of him and the two of them had worked closely together. And the idea of Ethan being a killer was absurd.

  Gradually, sounds filtered through, voices and clinking cutlery, the replay of a football match on the television over the bar. And Claire begging me to tell her what was going on.

  I related everything Lake had told me as I watched her shred a paper napkin into tiny pieces.

  “Ethan isn’t capable of killing anyone,” she said when I’d finished. “He’s the type who’d carry a spider outside rather than hurt it.”

  “We need to find him,” I said. “We have to tell him about Ben and get him to go to the police to clear his name.”

  I searched in my bag for a packet of tissues. Claire was sniffling, and I felt like crying myself. When I looked up again, I caught sight of a man coming into the cafe. He was gazing in our direction as he settled in at a table near the window. Very tall with a remarkable hooked nose, he had round, dark eyes that made him look like a bird of prey. He wore a black overcoat and a black scarf although the day wasn’t really that cold, and even if he hadn’t been looking at us, I would have noticed him. He had an aura spinning slowly over his glossy black hair.

  “Don’t look around yet, but I think someone is watching us,” I whispered to Claire.

  Claire dropped her spoon and splashed coffee across the tabletop. “Is it one of the men who was chasing us?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

  “So what makes you think he’s got anything to do with us?” she asked, using another paper napkin to mop up the coffee.

  “He hasn’t stopped looking this way since he came in,” I said. “It may be nothing, but let’s not make things easy for him. We should go.”

  I dropped a few euros on the table and picked up my bag, guiding Claire away from the bar. The din of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine receded as we turned a corner on to a narrow calle that led away from the main thoroughfare.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Claire.

  “We keep moving,” I said. “We’ll go to the Questura.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Claire asked. “Now that we know Ethan’s a suspect for murder?”

  I thought for a minute. Our priority was still to find Ethan. If we needed to enlist the assistance of the police to do that, so be it. “Yes, it’s still the safest place for us,” I said. “And if we see a policeman on the way, we’ll stop him and ask for help.”

  As we got closer to San Marco, more and more people crowded the streets and the shops that sold carnival masks and colored glass jewelry. I stopped in front of one, pretending to examine the masks on display while I checked behind us. There was no sign of the man in the black coat. I sighed. Obviously, I was so on edge that I was imagining dangers where there were none. It was too bad about his aura. He was only in his forties, I guessed.

  I started off again with Claire next to me. The dense hordes of pedestrians made it impossible to move fast, but we pushed through as quickly as we could, passing the Bauer hotel, where tourists queued to board the glossy black gondolas neatly docked like a squad of London taxis. After crossing another bridge, we walked under a colonnade into the vast square. Ahead, dominating the piazza, rose the cathedral of San Marco, its golden domed roof gleaming in the morning sunshine. Masses of people strolled between flocks of pigeons or threw handfuls of bread crumbs for them. A few hardy tourists stood festooned with the intrepid birds as friends and families snapped pictures.

  “Flying vermin,” muttered Claire, beating off one that tried to land on her shoulder. “Now what?”

  “Pretend you like birds,” I said. “Give me a minute to check for any signs of pursuit.”

  Claire nodded and took her mobile out of her bag, using the camera to take pictures while I scanned the arcades around the square. My pulse rate soared when I saw the man in the black coat walking towards us. He didn’t seem to be making any attempt to be discreet. I’d grabbed hold of Claire’s arm, ready to run, when he called out to us. “Signorine, aspetta per favore.”

  I couldn’t imagine a thug politely asking us to wait so I dropped Claire’s arm and faced him.

  “Who are you?”
I asked when he reached us.

  “My name is… call me Falcone. I am a detective with a special investigative unit of the Carabinieri.”

  13

  There was something about the police officer that made me uneasy. His aura, of course, and the way his eyes reflected light so I couldn’t see any expression in them.

  “May I see your ID?” I asked.

  Falcone took his wallet from his suit pocket and flipped it open to an identity card. There was a photograph of him over-stamped with an official-looking seal, and his name was preceded with the title Colonnello. The Carabinieri were the national military police, headquartered in Rome, and I guessed a colonel must be ranked quite highly. Still, the ID could be fake.

  The officer looked around the piazza. “We must speak confidentially. I want to offer my assistance if you will accept it.”

  “What makes you think we need assistance? We—”

  “Of course,” Claire interrupted. “We’re on our way to the Questura anyway to ask for help.”

  “It isn’t necessary to go to the Questura. The local police can be of no help to you.” He pointed to an outside table at the nearest cafe. “We can sit there.”

  Claire and I exchanged glances.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a business card. “The top number is my mobile, and the second one is for the Comando Carabinieri in Rome where my office is. You can call them to verify I am who I say I am.”

  I nodded and keyed the number into my phone. Someone answered, speaking rapidly, but I caught the words Carabinieri and Roma.

  “May I speak with Colonnello Falcone please?” I asked.

  “Si, momento, per favore.”

  The line buzzed for a few seconds before a woman picked up. Again I asked for Falcone. “Detective Falcone is away from the office,” she said. “But I can take a message for him. If this is urgent, I can put you through to his assistant.”

  “Never mind. It’s okay.”