Deep and Silent Waters

by Charlotte Lamb

  For a moment Vittoria thought she was a stranger. Then it hit her.

  ‘Gina?’ she whispered.

  She had not seen her since their schooldays, but the more she stared the more certain she was that it was Gina, a woman not a girl now, the promise of bud-like beauty she had shown at thirteen now in full, ripe perfection.

  Offhandedly, Domenico said, ‘Yes. Didn’t I tell you? I must have forgotten in all the flurry over the wedding. After she left art school she needed a job where she could work at her paintings part-time, so I asked her to be my housekeeper. She runs Ca’ d’Angeli for me.’

  She stared at him and then at Gina, and knew, understood, at last. They were lovers, Gina and Domenico. She watched the glance flash between them, the intimacy and passion, secret, hidden, yet burning like wildfire on the Venetian night air.

  Everything was clear to her now: her marriage was a farce, a mockery, a lie. Domenico wanted her money but he did not want her. She hadn’t imagined the reluctance in their bed. He had forced himself to make love to her because he wanted to get her pregnant, to make sure that his child would be the heir to everything she had inherited from Carlo, but he had hated every second of it. He hated her.

  His eyes slid away from hers. There was a stain of dark red along his cheekbones. ‘You must be tired. I’ll show you to your room, send up a light supper on a tray.’

  Did they think they could fool her? Now that she had seen them together. Were they hoping to go on lying, cheating, deceiving?

  She walked towards the open front door without replying. In the Caribbean the people talked of zombies, the dead who walk again, brought back by voodoo, yet who feel nothing, their bodies empty of everything but the power of the snake god. Vittoria moved in that lifeless, dead fashion, a blank, fixed, empty smile on her face.

  ‘Welcome home,’ Gina murmured to her, in a throaty voice, but she was looking at Domenico, her slanting green eyes shining in the lamplight.

  Antonio came out of the house and took her luggage. He had moved to Ca’ d’Angeli a week ago. As their eyes met Vittoria saw he already knew the truth about her marriage. His face was angry, protective, full of pity for her, and that woke her out of her dead spell.

  His pity hurt. She had thought she was making a brilliant marriage, envied by everyone she knew. Now she saw what she could expect: humiliation, secret mockery, furtive whispers everywhere she went in this beautiful, sly, stealthy city, where what you saw was only the sunlit surface dancing over dark, secret waters where death, decay and corruption hid.

  ‘I’ll show you the way, Contessa,’ Antonio said, and she followed him into the house and up the wide, marble stairs, listening to the echo of her own footsteps, the echo of all that had perplexed her these last years but which was now so crystal clear.

  Domenico had put off marrying her as long as he could. How long had Gina been his lover? All this time, in America?

  Far below the front door closed with a heavy clang. Were they in each other’s arms, kissing? They had been apart all this time, while Domenico was with her in Milan before the wedding and afterwards in the West Indies. She had felt the desire between them as they stood there, waiting to touch each other again, hunger written on their faces.

  Agony tore at her. Domenico. She had thought he was hers at last, but he wasn’t, would never be. Gina possessed him.

  She followed Antonio up to the second floor and into a large room hung with dark red velvet curtains at the windows and around the four-poster bed. A fire burned in the great hearth, logs from which bluish flames leapt, crackling, but it couldn’t warm the room, which was chilly yet at the same time stuffy from centuries of dust and cobwebs.

  Antonio put down her luggage and looked searchingly at her.

  She met his glance without showing her pain, jealousy and rage.

  ‘Tell me everything you’ve found out,’ she said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Venice, 1998

  After four days in hospital Laura was allowed to leave. ‘You’re lucky. You have healthy young flesh and you’re healing quickly,’ the surgeon told her, his black Italian eyes caressing her face, the curve of her breast, her body under the cotton robe, not offensively, merely with admiration. ‘But you must rest that shoulder. Don’t start work yet, and lie down as much as possible. I’m afraid we need the room or I would have you here longer.’

  ‘That’s okay, I feel fine.’ She smiled at him. It was partly true: she was feeling much better, although it still hurt at times as she shifted in bed, and she was taking pain-killers three times a day. She hated being in pain: it made it hard to relax or think clearly. You were always on edge for the next hot stab in your flesh.

  She could bear that, though, now that she knew Sebastian had not attacked her.

  And, of course, he hadn’t sent those letters. She was convinced, and could see that the police agreed with her, that the letter-writer and the would-be killer were one and the same person. So who had sent the letters?

  When Sebastian was allowed to see her, on her second day there, she had smiled at him, eyes feverishly happy, and held out a hand that shook. He had knelt by the bed and kissed it with an intensity that made her light-headed. ‘It wasn’t me who attacked you. You thought it was, didn’t you? I saw that look you gave me, just before they put you in the ambulance. But it wasn’t me, Laura. I love you – how could you think I’d do that? I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head.’

  Tears welled up, one splashed down her cheek. ‘I know. Sebastian, I know it wasn’t you.’

  He leant over her and brushed his mouth over her wet eyelids, slowly, gently. ‘Cara, carissima, it hurt like hell to know you were scared of me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she half sobbed. ‘I was so scared, in so much pain, just after it happened. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘If I get my hands on the guy—’

  ‘I think it was a woman.’

  ‘A woman?’ He did a double-take. ‘A woman? What makes you think that?’

  ‘It came to me gradually. I remembered little details in flashes. It was her hands mostly … I must have noticed them subconsciously. Very small thin hands, with red nail varnish.’

  ‘Doesn’t necessarily follow. I know guys with tiny delicate hands who wear nail varnish.’

  ‘And I smelt perfume. I knew it. Givenchy.’

  ‘Guys wear Givenchy, too, honey.’ He was deliberately trying to lighten the atmosphere. She was so pale, desperately vulnerable, without makeup and her hair like spilt amber against the white pillow. The beauty was still there, glowing and untouchable, but the assurance had been wiped out: she looked very young.

  ‘I know it was a woman, I’m certain it was, there was something … Oh, I can’t put my finger on it, I just know, instinctively.’

  ‘Female intuition?’ He saw her frown and kissed her palm softly, in apology for teasing her. ‘Okay, I believe you. If your intuition tells you it was a woman, it probably was. You’ve told Bertelli?’

  ‘Yes, although I’m not sure he believed me. The police forensic team have gone over that cape they found floating in the canal and it seems they got some DNA evidence from that. Hairs, flakes of skin – he said we leave that sort of debris on everything we wear. Horrible idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘If it can prove who did it, it’s terrific. They’ll be testing the whole crew for a match, then. Damn it. That will take a day or two out of my shooting schedule, and we’re running late enough as it is.’

  ‘You think it’s one of the crew?’

  ‘Don’t you? And the police suspect it is. They’re bound to test them first. Who else do you know in Venice?’

  Two days later, as she waited for him to come and collect her to take her back to Ca’ d’Angeli, she remembered what he had said. Yes, of course, it had to be someone working on the film. Then a name came into her head. Of a woman she knew, who had reason to hate her.

  She shivered. Had it occurred to Sebastian?

&nbs
p; Sebastian was in a ferocious rage because they were having problems filming a vital scene inside Ca’ d’Angeli. The great arc-lights kept burning out and they were running low on power packs; a bitter winter wind was blowing through Venice, making the electricity surge and howling through the high-ceilinged rooms, interfering with the sound recording.

  The sound man threw up his hands in despair. ‘It’s worse than aircraft noises – at least they fade into the distance after a while, but this stops and starts again without warning.’

  Count Niccolo, in a heavy black leather coat, appeared at the top of the stairs and picked his way through the cables and equipment towards Sebastian, who gave him a heavy nod.

  ‘Looking for me?’

  ‘A water-taxi just arrived for you.’

  Sebastian groaned, ran a hand through his hair. ‘Damn it to hell! I’d forgotten I ordered it.’

  ‘If you cancel now he’ll still want paying,’ Niccolo told him drily, and went through a door into the private wing of the palazzo.

  ‘Shall I go down and give him some money?’ asked Valerie, as always at Sebastian’s side, notepad in hand, her audio recorder and a mike clipped to her leather belt.

  ‘No, hang on, let me think. I promised Laura I’d pick her up, but I must finish shooting this scene. We can’t afford to get any further behind schedule.’

  ‘Shall I go and get her?’ Valerie offered.

  Sidney and Carmen glanced sideways at each other.

  Unaware of them, Sebastian sighed. ‘Well, maybe that would be best. Thanks, Valerie. Explain, won’t you? Tell her I’m sorry, I tried, but I just couldn’t make it. She’s a pro, she’ll understand. Oh, and pile a few cushions and blankets into the taxi to make sure she has a comfortable ride. We don’t want her wound opening again.’

  Sidney shaped words silently in Carmen’s direction and she walked over to Sebastian. ‘You’ll be needing Valerie. Why don’t I go? I’d love to.’

  ‘You’re needed here. Just do your job, will you? I’ll go,’ Valerie told her sharply, then walked off fast, a thin, energetic figure in a warm sweater and dark grey wool pants tucked into calf-high black boots.

  Carmen went back to Sidney. ‘I couldn’t very well insist,’ she whispered. ‘Should we talk to Sebastian?’

  Sidney chewed his lower lip. ‘We can’t do that with everyone listening. What if we’re wrong and it isn’t her at all? She could sue us for slander.’

  ‘What if we’re right and Sebastian just sent the murderer to get Laura?’

  He grimaced. ‘Don’t! Look, she wouldn’t dare do anything between picking Laura up and bringing her here – it would be too obvious, she’d be the only suspect.’

  Carmen crossed her fingers at him.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Sidney said, crossing his fingers back.

  Sebastian, turning towards them from an impatient dialogue with the soundman, caught the gesture and snapped, ‘What are you two playing at? Get back to your camera, Sidney, I want to check this shot again before we go for take fifteen. And give it your best! We’re running out of time.’

  ‘It isn’t my fault we’ve got problems!’

  ‘Don’t be so damn touchy. Did I say it was? Just make it good, okay?’

  On seeing Valerie walking into her room Laura felt a grinding shock and couldn’t hide her dismay. ‘Where’s Sebastian?’

  ‘He couldn’t make it – he was too busy filming. Are you ready? I’ve got a taxi waiting. I’m afraid the water’s a bit choppy, there’s a lot of wind, but I’ve told the man to take it nice and slow so don’t worry. The ride won’t be too uncomfortable.’

  The nurse, listening, wouldn’t have heard the undertone: the words sounded calm and normal and Valerie was smiling coolly, even if her eyes were full of hatred.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ the nurse said, and walked with them to the landing-stage. Earlier she had helped Laura dress in a green cotton shirt, over which she wore a thick, green wool cardigan, with chocolate brown trousers and comfortable boots. After helping her down into the cabin the nurse eyed, with some anxiety, the rough grey water, the sky, which was the same gun-metal colour, full of dark, looming clouds. ‘I hope it isn’t going to snow again,’ she said.

  ‘So do I,’ Laura agreed, as Valerie joined them.

  The nurse gave Laura a light kiss on each cheek, said goodbye, then left. The boatman cast off and the water-taxi moved away, bouncing and dancing across the waves. Pale, Laura clutched at the side of the seat. She was wrapped in warm blankets, with pillows behind her injured shoulder.

  Valerie sat opposite, watching her from hostile eyes. She took a mobile phone out of her pocket and dialled, spoke into it. ‘Carmen? Tell Sebastian we’re on our way, we should be back in twenty minutes. I told the boatman to take it slowly to make sure she doesn’t get thrown about.’

  She switched off the phone without waiting for Carmen to answer, and pushed it back into her pocket. Laura sat rigidly, watching Valerie’s small, thin fingers, the nails painted bright red.

  Neither woman spoke. Laura’s eyes slowly moved up and met Valerie’s cold stare.

  Don’t say anything, she told herself, but to her own horror the words came out. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ Valerie’s face became mask-like.

  ‘You’re wearing the same perfume today. Givenchy, isn’t it? Clea used to wear it, didn’t she? She was always drenched in it and so are you. I recognised it that day although I only realised later.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Valerie’s eyes were brilliant, dangerous, like those of a cornered animal, her lips curled back over her small, white teeth as if she might spring and bite.

  What if she had the knife on her? Laura’s mouth dried and she wished she hadn’t been such a fool: she had known she shouldn’t say anything. But she couldn’t stop. Had to answer.

  ‘And your nail varnish – I noticed that, too. You wore a mask on your face but you didn’t think of covering your hands. They’re just as much a giveaway.’ Like claws, like talons, those bony, darting little hands with their bright red nails.

  Valerie pushed them into the pockets of her anorak. ‘You’re crazy.’

  Tension beat in Laura’s ears, so fiercely that she jumped when the boatman peered in from the door, unaware of the atmosphere.

  ‘There soon, okay? I can see Ca’ d’Angeli now.’

  Laura acted as she had never acted before, smiling, nodding. ‘Good, thank you. I like your boat, it’s very comfortable.’

  The compliment brought forth a wide grin. ‘Grazie, Signorina. I like your films, bene, benissimo.’ She was glad of his presence: Valerie wouldn’t dare do anything to her while he was with them.

  The boat coughed and leapt in the water. ‘Ahhh …’ he muttered, and was gone.

  Valerie was staring at her. Laura didn’t look back, yet watched her out of the corner of her eye.

  The boat slowed: they were approaching Ca’ d’Angeli. Laura looked out through the spray-misted windows and saw the creamy, fretted stone, the flying cherubs, the rows of carved, protective archangels with their outstretched hands. Even in her state of nerves she felt sudden pleasure. It was so beautiful. Yet there was something about it: a presence, a threat, as if the building were alive and full of secret malice.

  ‘If you say anything to Sebastian he’ll laugh at you,’ Valerie burst out.

  Laura risked looking at her then. They were here now, she was safe. ‘Will he? I don’t think so. The police found traces of you on the cape, even though it had been in the water. Did you know that anything you touch or wear carries the evidence long afterwards? They’re going to test for DNA. They’ll be able to prove it was you.’

  A quiver, like a wave on those grey waters, ran over Valerie’s face. ‘That’s ridiculous! I was nowhere near the place. I was in a shop, buying cheese! The woman remembered me.’

  ‘You may have gone in earlier, but it was you who stabbed me and they’ll prove it. You love Sebastian, too, don’t
you?’ With a leap of intuition Laura accused, ‘Did you kill Clea? She didn’t kill herself, I never believed she was the type. She was a survivor. And I don’t believe Sebastian pushed her out, either. That only leaves you. It was you, wasn’t it? You thought he’d turn to you once she was gone, but he probably never even noticed you!’

  The boatman was tying up. The taxi rocked, steadied. Valerie jumped up, her hands curling as if she wanted to tear at Laura’s face. ‘We were lovers, you stupid bitch! He loved me before he ever set eyes on you. He was sick of her, disgusted by her drinking, her men, her foul mouth, couldn’t bear to look at her in the end. That day she sat on the window ledge saying she was going to jump, over and over again. Go on, then, do it! he told her. He was desperate to get rid of her.’

  ‘So you pushed her!’ Laura had made the accusation on impulse but the reality of it was sinking in. Clea had been murdered. Valerie had killed her. Not Sebastian. A terrible fascination filled her; this neat, orderly, competent woman was a killer. Who would ever guess? She looked so quiet and normal.

  Or she had. Staring at her Laura saw through the mask to the madness within. Valerie’s mind seethed with maggots; a terrible life hidden behind the eyes, inside that skull.

  ‘He wanted her dead but he didn’t have the guts to kill her. I had to do it. He would have married me once she was gone – if you hadn’t come along just at the wrong time.’ Valerie lunged at her, those small hands grabbing her throat. ‘I hate you, you bitch. You won’t get away this time.’

  Laura wasn’t taken by surprise. It had dawned on her that Valerie would make another attempt. Jack-knifing, her booted feet kicked upwards hard between the other woman’s legs. Valerie let go of her throat with a scream of pain and staggered back. The boat rocked wildly.

  From above them Sebastian’s voice yelled. ‘Laura? What’s going on?’

  The boat seesawed back and forth as the women fought. Valerie grabbed Laura’s injured shoulder. Laura screamed in pain, but fear made her violent. She hit out with her other hand, punched Valerie’s eye; felt the hard bony socket. The jar of impact travelled up her arm.