Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘The American dropout you mean?’

  ‘He is American, but I wouldn’t say he was a dropout. Concetta called him a painter.’

  ‘She can call him what she likes, but in my book he’s a dropout.’

  Archie was never going to overflow with the spirit of goodwill, but she tried not to let it deflect her. ‘He wanted something from Dino.’

  ‘Money, that’s what he would’ve wanted.’

  ‘Leo said it might be work he was after, a commission.’

  ‘Sounds right. Why don’t you listen to your husband?’

  Nancy felt a burst of anger. Listen to the man in your life. Defer to his decisions. He knows best. They were horribly familiar phrases.

  ‘I would listen if I believed that all Renzo was after was a commission,’ she said irately. ‘But if it had been only that, Dino would have shrugged the boy off and done it gently. He’s a polished enough character and he had Francesca Moretto waiting for him. He’d want to disentangle himself as smoothly as possible. But he didn’t. He became really agitated and almost flung the boy to one side. Renzo is obviously very poor and he would not have gone all the way to San Michele if he hadn’t had a very good reason. I’d like to know what that reason was.’

  Archie turned to leave once more, a determined look on his face. ‘I have to go. I’ve work to do. But a word of advice… drop this, Nancy. It’s getting out of hand. Find something to do while Leo is away. Or just enjoy the sun.’

  She couldn’t blame him for the advice. He was right, the whole thing was getting bigger and bigger. And it frightened her. But she’d had enough of being frightened. She hadn’t fought back in London, but it would be different here. She would confront head-on whatever wrongdoing there had been. Keep digging until Marta’s killer revealed himself.

  Out of the blue, she was struck by a sickening thought. If Marta had died because she knew too much, what of her daughter? Vague suspicions, servants’ gossip, were unlikely to have kept Angelica from her brother—not on a day when they were burying their mother. So did the girl know for sure that Luca was involved in wrongdoing? Had Marta told her daughter what she knew… showed her proof even… and was Angelica now in danger, too?

  Chapter Eighteen

  She must find Angelica. She would go to the street Marta had mentioned—calle dei Morti, the street of the dead—and look for the Moretto house. It was in Dorsoduro but shouldn’t be too difficult to find. People were bound to know it, particularly after Marta’s well-publicised death. And while Archie was absent sending telegrams, it was easy enough to slip away from the palazzo.

  Once outside, Nancy wound her way through the streets towards San Zaccaria. She could make the journey there almost blindfolded now. A boat was pulling into the landing stage as she arrived and she was quick to buy a ticket. The route would take her to the Giudecca first, a little out of her way, but from the island to the Zattere was only minutes across the canal. In just a few days, her confidence in navigating Venice had grown immeasurably.

  A quarter of an hour later, she disembarked and began the walk along the Zattere, the promenade that edged the lagoon. There was a bridge to cross, spanning a wide canal—the San Trovaso, the sign told her—and a boatyard below. A gondola yard, in fact. She was tempted to stop a while and watch the boat makers at work, intrigued by how intricate the construction. A hundred different pieces and seven types of wood for each gondola, Concetta had told her.

  But she was on a mission this morning and she walked on. It was a fair distance to calle dei Morti and when she got there it seemed to Nancy an odd street. On the left, large impressive houses marched solidly into the distance, but on the opposite side of the calle was a terrace of small and largely unkempt buildings.

  A house that had stood on the corner had disappeared altogether, leaving a yawning gap. Makeshift fencing had been erected around it and Nancy walked over to look. It seemed as though the earth had subsided and taken the house with it. She leant over the fence and peered down into a deep pit of fallen masonry, but quickly took a step back. The left-hand side of the calle felt a great deal safer. A few houses along, she found the Moretto building. It was easily identified, a very old and very imposing palazzo, with the family name clearly written on the gate pull.

  She hesitated, her mind working hard to order the story she had to tell. She must warn Angelica though she had no firm evidence to offer. And it was difficult to know who best to warn her against—Mario, Dino, her own brother? All she could do, Nancy decided, was to alert the woman to a possible threat and do it as credibly as she could. It would have to be believable. From her brief glimpse of Angelica, she was fairly certain the woman would be quick to spot pretence. At the funeral, Nancy had sensed Angelica’s quiet strength, a conviction that she was beholden to no one and judged the world on her own terms. She had judged her brother, it seemed, and found him lacking.

  But it was not Angelica who answered Nancy’s ring, but a portinaio.

  ‘Sì?’ She was taken aback by his abruptness. It hardly made for a good beginning.

  ‘I would like to see Signorina Moretto,’ she said in her best Italian.

  ‘The signorina is in mourning. She sees no one.’

  ‘I understand. I was at Signora Moretto’s funeral yesterday and saw the signorina there. I have something I wish very much to speak to her about.’

  ‘No, signora. It is not possible.’

  ‘Can you take a message for me then?’

  He looked blank. ‘A message?’

  ‘Can you tell your mistress that I wish to speak to her about Mario Bozzato?’ Nancy hoped the mention of Mario’s name might provoke a reaction. And it did.

  ‘I am Angelica Moretto.’ The tall, statuesque woman of yesterday appeared at the portinaio’s shoulder. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I will take only a few minutes of your time, signorina. I am worried for you and wish to tell you something that may be important.’

  For several seconds Nancy felt herself appraised before Angelica reluctantly nodded and murmured a few words into the portinaio’s ear. He stepped aside, suspicion still writ large on his face, but allowed Nancy to walk through the door into the white and black marble of a magnificent hall.

  ‘Come.’

  Angelica motioned her visitor to follow her, up a flight of red carpeted stairs and into a large square-shaped room, its walls filled with paintings of every shape and size—water colours, oils, pastel landscapes, pencil sketches. The display was stunning and at the same time bewildering. A circle of soft-cushioned chairs filled the centre of the room, surrounded by several small tables, each covered with an array of porcelain bowls and figurines, and overshadowed by a huge sculpture that stood to one side. It was a copy of a figure Nancy knew well, Antonio Bregno’s Virgin Annunciate, and one she had never greatly admired. From its commanding position, it seemed to suck light and air from the room.

  Angelica motioned her to one of the chairs, but instead of sitting, Nancy walked to the long windows that overlooked a large square. It was an instinctive gesture, a desire to shake off the sheer weight of so many objects and rid herself of the statue’s oppressive presence.

  ‘You have a very attractive view,’ she said. The square below possessed a mellow beauty.

  ‘That is Campo Sant’Agnese. Have you visited its church?’

  Nancy was relieved the woman spoke in English. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation in any language. She looked across the square at the red brick building at its far end, badly out of harmony with its surroundings.

  ‘No. Perhaps I should,’ she said diplomatically.

  ‘It has a very plain façade, but inside it is wonderful. It was almost destroyed by Napoleon, all its beautiful art stolen. Such desecration! But God is merciful, God is good. His bounty has allowed the friars to restore a hallowed place to its former glory.’

  Angelica’s religious fervour was obvious and her decision to become a nun easy to understand. But it made her
sudden departure from the convent much less explicable.

  ‘Please sit.’

  The sharp tone cut through Nancy’s thoughts and this time she did sit, sinking down into a sumptuous velvet seat, and thinking how nice it would be if their own palazzo possessed a chair half as comfortable.

  ‘You would like coffee?’

  Feeling extremely nervous, she would rather not have to drink in this woman’s presence, but it was politic to accept and she nodded. Angelica walked to the doorway and called down to an unseen pair of hands.

  ‘Now what is it you want with me?’

  It was clear there was to be no polite small talk. Nancy wasn’t sorry. ‘I met your mother the day she died,’ she began. It was better, she judged, to come straight to the point. This woman would not want to hear protestations of sorrow. ‘We were sitting at adjoining tables at a café on the Zattere.’

  ‘At Nico’s? I know it.’

  ‘Before your mother joined me, she was stopped by a young man whom I later learned was Mario Bozzato. He was very angry about something, haranguing Signora Moretto violently. Then quite by chance, I saw him the next day—I think he must have been on his way to work—and I mentioned the tragedy at La Fenice. His response was not pleasant.’ Mario’s actual words were not something Nancy would repeat.

  ‘He boasted to me that now your mother had passed away, he would marry you within weeks. He felt threatening and it worried me. I imagined you must live alone except for servants, and I was concerned. I know you have a brother, but it might be difficult for him to help you, if you were ever in trouble. I thought I should warn you of Mario’s intentions.’

  A maid had brought in coffee and a plate of small, inedible biscuits while Nancy was talking. She had hoped her comment might elicit a hint, at least, of any fear Angelica had—of Mario, of her brother—but her companion simply stared at her, then picked up a silver spoon and slowly stirred her coffee.

  She took a while before she spoke. ‘Thank you for coming, Signora…?’

  ‘Tremayne.’

  ‘Signora Tremayne. But you need not worry. I have no fear. Neither have I the intention of marrying—Mario, or anyone else.’

  ‘He seemed to think you were promised to him,’ Nancy ventured. ‘He seemed almost crazed in his belief.’

  Angelica gave a short laugh that grated on Nancy’s ears. ‘Once, many years ago, I wanted to marry him, but now he is simply a nuisance. I was a different person then. A girl, a child. My years as a nun have changed me forever.’

  ‘Naturally, I can see they would.’

  Nancy wanted very much to ask this woman about her life in the convent. She needed to hear from her that she had suffered no false imprisonment as Mario claimed, that Signora Moretto was completely innocent of such a dreadful deed. But the question seemed too personal. Nevertheless she ventured it.

  ‘And you were happy in the convent?’

  ‘I could not have been happier. A daily routine of work and prayer in tranquil surroundings. What more could I ask?’

  ‘So you were not forced to enter the convent?’

  ‘Forced?’ The woman gave another short laugh, broken before it began. ‘Who can force a woman to enter a convent? We are no longer living in the Middle Ages. No doubt it is Mario’s nonsense you speak.’

  ‘I didn’t believe him,’ Nancy said quickly. ‘I was sure Signora Moretto would never have acted in such a fashion.’

  Angelica unbent a little. ‘My mother did not wish to lose me. What mother would? And I was her only daughter. But she knew I had a vocation and would not go against God’s will.’

  ‘It must be a sadness then for you to have left the convent.’

  ‘Duty takes many different forms and this was mine.’ Angelica gathered the folds of her gown across her knees. ‘My mother’s health was poor and she needed me. She had become very frail in recent months.’

  That did not accord with Nancy’s impression of Marta. But perhaps she had been frailer than she looked. She had been taking serious medicine after all.

  ‘Do you think she was ill the night… the night she had the accident?’ Nancy held her breath, wondering if this might prove a question too far, but Angelica answered calmly.

  ‘Without a doubt. She had been taking strong pills for severe pain and it blurred her mind.’ The woman passed her hand over her face. ‘I am sorry. This is extremely painful for me.’

  Nancy felt instant guilt at having intruded so badly, and what in fact had she found out? Only that Luisa Mancini had been right.

  ‘I’m sorry to have mentioned such a painful subject,’ she said, putting her cup back on the tray. ‘But happy that I can dismiss Mario from my mind.’

  ‘I dismissed him from mine years ago,’ the woman said, rising regally from her chair and walking towards the salon door. ‘The portinaio will see you out, Signora Tremayne.’

  At the door, Nancy turned to shake hands and, as she did so, caught sight of a small, gold statuette. It appeared to be the image of a female saint and sat high on a pedestal tucked into a corner of the room. It was exquisite and Nancy moved towards it without realising she was doing so, drawn by its elemental power. The figure glistened, smooth and glowing, every small detail—the folds of the woman’s clothing, her hair, her halo—had been crafted by a master goldsmith.

  ‘That is one of the most beautiful pieces I have ever seen,’ she said. And meant it.

  ‘You appreciate art?’

  ‘Very much. Who does it depict and who made it?’

  ‘It is an image of Santa Susanna. She is the patron saint of people forced into exile.’ Angelica gave the phrase a curious emphasis. ‘She was born in Rome at the beginning of Diocletian’s reign and made a vow of virginity. When she refused to marry, she was accused of being a Christian and suffered a martyr’s death. She is close to all our hearts at Madonna del Carmine. As for who made her? That is lost in time.’

  It was the longest speech Angelica had made and a revealing one, if Nancy could only fathom its meaning. The most obvious fact to emerge was that the convent named in Marta’s will was indeed that of her daughter’s.

  She gave a last, lingering glance at the statuette. ‘Your mother had excellent taste.’

  ‘It is not my mother’s.’ The tone of voice surprised Nancy. It was forceful, confrontational. ‘It belongs to the convent alone.’

  ‘And you…’

  ‘And I am to supervise its cleaning and then return it to its rightful place.’

  Nancy gave a smile or tried to. She found this woman stern and uncompromising. At the door, the portinaio was waiting to make sure she left the premises. He need not have worried—she was delighted to breathe fresh air, to feel the sun on her face once more. The Moretto palazzo had been strangely intimidating and not at all the kind of home she would have expected Marta to inhabit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The visit had not been a success. Nancy had learned little more than she already knew. Her mention of Luca had been brief, but she’d hoped it might have loosened Angelica’s tongue. Instead, she had been met by silence and a stare that made her stomach lurch. It seemed to confirm, at least, that the siblings were at daggers drawn and if Angelica were at risk from anyone, it was from her brother and not Mario, whom she clearly despised. Nancy’s warning had fallen on deaf ears, but she’d come away feeling that Angelica would be a match for any threat her brother might pose.

  Nancy had not previously penetrated further into Dorsoduro than the Accademia on the eastern edge of the district and the quarter was largely unknown to her, but when she began a slow walk westwards, she thought it delightful. The crowds that gathered in St Mark’s Square and the streets surrounding the Piazza were absent—instead there were picturesque calli, empty squares and ancient churches.

  At one of the many bars serving cheap cicchetti, Nancy stopped to eat a small snack and, though she had not thought herself hungry, managed to devour a large plate of crostini topped with salt cod and pistachio cream
, washing it down with a glass of red wine from the house cellar. It was one of the best lunches she had eaten in Venice and cost very little.

  Emboldened, she began walking further west, making for San Sebastiano, the parish church of Veronese, that Leo had mentioned was worth a visit. Sauntering through a series of narrow, paved streets, across one beautiful square after another, she stopped occasionally to glance into a shop window. At a florist’s, she paused for longer. Its glass was hazed with humidity, but inside tubs of yellow roses and clouds of pale jasmine created a burst of colour.

  The small shops of Dorsoduro were enchanting, a remnant of an older age. Those around St Mark’s were beginning to change—a pharmacy closing down; what was once a fruttivendolo, according to the old sign, being refurbished as a boutique. And nearer to home in Castello, Concetta complained bitterly that the cobbler who mended her boots had disappeared and, much to her disgust, a shop selling souvenirs had sprung up in his place. It was a foreshadowing of the future, Nancy thought, useful shops gradually replaced by tourist trivia.

  Concetta had told her it was possible to walk from one end of Venice to the other in less than an hour and a half, but Nancy doubted it; the journey to San Sebastiano was proving longer than she had anticipated. The sky had clouded over and an ominous grey was gathering ahead. Crossing a square, she was aware its trees had begun to rustle loudly, flipping in a wind that was increasing all the time. Leo had spoken of a coming storm and she sensed this was it. She should turn back now.

  The boatyard she’d passed on the way to the Moretto house should be easy to find. She had walked directly from the vaporetto stop, past the San Trovaso bridge and on to calle dei Morti, but later she had stopped at a bar to eat and drifted westwards to the tip of Dorsoduro. Still, she was more confident now at finding her way and she was sure it would not be difficult.

  She turned back across the square and plunged down the calle she thought had led her there, but fifty yards on she was met by a dead end. A palazzo’s locked wooden gates barred her way. She walked back towards the square and tried another turning—it was surely the only other street she could have taken. This time she found a canal at its end, and no bridge to take her over. She stood for a moment trying to orientate herself and wishing she had brought a map. Why had she thought she could manage without it? She should know by now that alleyways were unpredictable, sometimes ending abruptly in dark, deep canals or plunging into arcades or even emerging, without warning, into a breathtaking view.