‘Why would he think that?’
‘Like I said, he’s Italian. He put two and two together and made five. He thought I must have known her before they married. So I was an old lover and I’d come back for some repeat action. I tried to tell him I’d no interest in Luisa, that I was asking for someone else, but he’d got this fixed idea in his head and he wouldn’t let it go. He’d also been drinking.’
‘So had you.’
‘True.’ His mouth gave another small twist. ‘Anyway, I had to land him one to quieten him down.’
Before she realised, Archie was off again, weaving a path through the crowd and she had to rush to catch him up. ‘It certainly quietened him down,’ she said. ‘But how do you know Luisa will be at the fish market?’
‘Because Salvatore wants to eat fish tonight.’
‘But how do you know?’ The man was infuriating.
‘Simple. He told me.’
Nancy grabbed his arm again and pulled him to a halt. ‘You’re going to tell me exactly what happened. Why did he tell you where his wife would be, when he was fighting you over her? And when did you speak to him?’
‘I went to his favourite bar last night and made him listen. I told him that personally I had no interest in his wife, but my boss’s wife did and she was driving me crazy. I told him Mrs Tremayne wanted to speak to Luisa about a man she’d known when she was young. A Mario Bozzato. The name acted like a charm. Oh him, Salvatore said. Mario, it seems, is a bit of a loser. The upshot is that I’m allowed to find his wife and then hand over to you.’
She supposed she should be grateful that Archie had deigned to tell her this much and she let go of his arm. They walked on, zigzagging a path through the crowds that packed the vegetable market to reach the side of the Grand Canal. She had not previously seen the famous waterway at such close quarters and it seemed to her more like a river than a canal. It was as busy as any grand boulevard, hosting a churn of gondolas, water taxis, vaporetti and delivery boats.
They were soon at the fish market, though Nancy had smelt it long before it came into sight. In the dawn hours fleets of barges had brought the day’s supplies and now the stalls were filled to brimming with creatures of the lagoon: wriggling eels, fine red mullets, crabs, small flat fish, all lying damp and cool on stalls lined with green fronds.
‘Does Luisa know we’re looking for her?’ she asked.
‘She should, and with a bit of luck she’ll be looking for us, too.’
Most of the women busily inspecting the fish were middle-aged, a number elderly. Very few were young women, since at this time of the day the market was no place for small children. Presumably Luisa and Salvatore had not yet become parents.
At a stall a little to the left Nancy saw a tall young woman wearing a sleeveless blouse and full skirt, her bare arms and legs tanned and golden. A bright red lipstick defied tradition and no doubt scandalised her family. But women’s lives seemed to be changing, even in Italy. They wanted more, Nancy thought – greater independence, wider opportunity.
Luisa was waiting her turn to be served, but looking around expectantly.
‘I bet that’s her,’ Nancy said.
‘Probably. Nice legs. Salvatore has taste.’
‘You can go now.’ She would have liked to hit him but settled for sounding severe.
He saluted, making her feel stupid. ‘Right away, Mrs Tremayne. Sorry… Nancy. I’ll be back at the vegetable market.’
Without another word to him, she walked over to the young woman. ‘Luisa?’
The girl smiled brightly back. ‘You are Mrs Tremayne?’
‘Yes. Nancy.’ She held out her hand. ‘Can you spare me a minute? After you’ve done your shopping, of course.’
The man behind the stall clicked his fingers impatiently and Luisa hurried to choose a pair of grey mullets, reaching into her basket for money to pay for them.
‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ Nancy asked, when the fish were safely stowed. She had noticed a shabby café close by. It was unlikely anyone would take much notice of them there.
Luisa nodded agreement and they were soon ensconced at a small table tucked to one side of the café’s frayed awning. From here the noise of the market reached them clearly, but it suited Nancy. She had no wish to be overheard.
‘I’m sorry if Mr Jago’s enquiry has made things difficult,’ she began, ‘between you and your husband.’
‘Pff. Salvatore is idiota. But he is a man, what can you expect? And you want to ask me about another man?’
Nancy found she could follow the girl’s Italian quite comfortably and was grateful Luisa was willing to go straight to the point. ‘Yes. Mario Bozzato – I believe you knew him when you were younger. Were you at school with him? And Angelica Moretto?’
Luisa shook her head. ‘I was at school with Angelica but not Mario. He was older. That is why Angelica liked him. At first. She was lusingata. He was twenty and she was a schoolgirl still.’
So Angelica had been flattered by Mario’s attention. ‘How old was she at the time?’ Nancy asked.
Luisa put her head on one side while she thought. ‘Sixteen, no maybe seventeen.’
‘How did she meet Mario if it wasn’t at school?’ It seemed strange to Nancy that these two could have become friends, and more, if Marta Moretto were such a controlling person.
‘At church. Angelica was very religious. She went to mass every day. And then Mario started going. I think he saw her in the street and decided to go to church so he could meet her.’
‘And her mother, Signora Moretto? Did she know Mario?’
Luisa waggled her head. ‘A little. But he was not important to her.’
This ran contrary to everything Bozzato had said in the square yesterday. ‘She didn’t mind Angelica being friends with him then?’
Luisa thought again. ‘I remember Angelica telling me her mother said he was too old for her.’
‘So that’s why the signora broke them up?’
Luisa stared and Nancy tried again. ‘That’s why her mother stopped Angelica seeing him?’
‘Signora Moretto did nothing. It was Angelica who said goodbye.’
Nancy’s eyes widened. ‘She dumped him?’ she said in English.
‘What is this “dumped”?’
‘Sorry.’ Nancy reverted to Italian once more. ‘She told him to go away?’
‘Certo. He was always – do this, do that, you wear this, you must come. Angelica was a strong girl. She did not like orders. And he made a big fuss. He did not like she went to church so much. It was God or him, I think. And she chose God.’
‘Is that why she escaped to a convent? To get rid of him?’
‘A little it was to escape, but she wanted to go. I don’t understand it, but she said the life was right for her.’
‘And her mother. Did Marta want her daughter to become a nun?’
‘I think not, but it was Angelica’s life, her choice.’
‘I heard – somewhere or other – that Angelica left the convent a while ago. I wonder if you’ve seen her?’
Luisa shook her head.
‘Do you think Mario has?’
‘Not if Angelica saw him first.’ Luisa leant back in her chair, a wide grin on her face.
Nancy was puzzled. ‘He seems to think she will marry him in the next few weeks.’
The girl put down her empty coffee cup, her hand shaking from a fit of giggles. ‘I must go.’ She looked down at her almost empty basket. ‘I must shop more.’
‘And I’m holding you up.’
‘No matter. I have told you what you wanted to know?’
‘Oh yes, more than I could have hoped. Thank you so much.’
The girl’s large brown eyes glinted. ‘That Mario. He is a jerk, no?’
Nancy was taken aback that this lovely girl should use such an insult, but she couldn’t help laughing. ‘I think so,’ she agreed.
* * *
She found Archie looking morosely at a pile of aubergi
nes. ‘Can’t stand them,’ he said. ‘And they’re in everything you eat here.’
‘Never mind the aubergines, I must tell you what Luisa said.’
‘Do I need to know?’
‘Yes, you’re helping me.’ She said it decidedly. The only way to deal with Archie Jago, she’d decided, was to confront him head on. ‘I’ll tell you as we walk back.’
This time the walk was more like a saunter and she was grateful for it. ‘Apparently Marta Moretto had nothing to do with her daughter going into the convent. She didn’t much like Mario, but then no one seems to have liked him very much – but she didn’t forbid her daughter to see him. It was Angelica who decided to dump him.’
‘Who could blame her? But why a convent?’
‘Mario turned out to be controlling. He wanted to organise her life.’
‘Becoming a nun seems a pretty drastic solution.’
‘Well… she was very religious and she must have felt a calling. But I think it was probably a way to escape, too – sometimes people do the most extreme things if they feel trapped.’
‘Like getting married, you mean?’
She kept walking but froze inside. It was as though he had looked into her soul. But then she gave herself a mental shake and went into battle. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’m not stupid. You meet Leo a couple of times, he brings you back to the house crying fit to bust, and the next thing while I’m away is that you’re married. I can put two and two together, but in my case I make four.’
‘I doubt it. You know nothing about my marriage and your assumptions are insulting. l love Leo.’
‘Yeah, of course you do.’
Their walk to the palazzo gates was completed in silence.
Chapter Eight
Nancy was still furious from the spat with Archie Jago when she went downstairs to find Concetta. The domesticity of the kitchen was comforting. The long wooden table had been scrubbed, the range black-leaded, and the terracotta floor shone with new polish. How one small woman could make this rambling pile sparkle – their living quarters were immaculate – was a miracle.
Archie had disappeared almost immediately on an errand for Leo, and Nancy felt huge relief to be alone except for the maid. Leo had said his assistant was a complicated man and she had to agree. Archie never lost the opportunity to mock the marriage she’d made, yet he had gone out of his way to find Luisa for her and organise a meeting. Had that been to save Leo embarrassment or had Archie genuinely wanted to help? Why would he though? He’d shown her nothing but hostility since he’d returned from Cornwall and found Leo married. Archie was certainly complicated.
‘Any chance of a late brioche and coffee?’ she asked from the doorway. Concetta was preparing their lunchtime salad and singing quietly to herself. ‘You sound happy.’ Nancy took a seat at the table. ‘Did you get a bargain this morning?’
The maid waged an unending war with the local fruttivendolo over his prices, but she still continued to shop in the square. If she couldn’t buy what she wanted locally, she didn’t buy it.
‘The salad was too much money.’ Concetta dropped the knife she was wielding and waved her hands in the air. ‘But fresh this morning – from Sant’Erasmo.’ She pointed to the lettuce waiting to be washed. ‘And I have olives, a good cheese, tomatoes to cook.’
‘I love your roasted tomatoes.’
Concetta nodded. ‘Mr Leo, too. Here – some brioche still in the oven.’
She tipped several into a basket and took the coffee pot from the stove. ‘But I sing because of good news.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and came over to the table with the brioche and coffee, sitting down opposite Nancy. ‘This morning I hear from my friend in the panetteria when I buy the bread. She hears from another friend who has a cugino—’
‘A cousin?’
‘Sì, a cousin in the hospital.’ Concetta got up to retrieve the knife from the draining board and made a slicing movement. ‘Where they do this. To dead people.’
Nancy blenched. ‘A post-mortem.’
The maid nodded. ‘And it is decided: Signora Moretto has an accident. She takes too much medicine.’
‘I see.’ But Nancy’s mind was already rejecting the verdict. ‘Do you know what kind of medicine?’
‘Pills. Too many pills for the pain. I have same pain.’ And she thrust her hand forward for Nancy to see. The fingers on her right hand had begun to curl inwards, and the knuckles were raised and distorted. Arthritis? That would certainly tally with the bad limp Nancy had noticed when the signora had backed away from a furious Bozzato.
‘Do you know the type of pills the signora took? Do you take them, too?’
‘No, no.’ Concetta shook her head violently and waggled the knife. ‘No pills. But the signora has a new one – something like zona? The cousin say it comes from America.’ She tutted. ‘America is wonderful, but this pill dangerous, I think.’
Nancy finished her brioche and dusted off the crumbs. A second strong cup of coffee was making her head buzz. ‘Why dangerous?’
The maid turned her head in circles to demonstrate. ‘Confusa.’
‘I understand. You think Signora Moretto took pills that made her dizzy and that’s why she fell from the balcony?’
‘Sì. Too many pills. A mistake. But happy for the family. She was good Catholic and now they bury the poor lady.’
‘You were fond of the signora?’
Concetta’s face broke into a sad smile. ‘I work many years for her. When I am young maid, you understand. I look after little girl when the signora at work. This is very shocking for people, but what can she do? Her husband dead, her children too young. Luca is at school but Angelica only—’ and she indicated a height with her hand. ‘A lovely bambina. Accident is good. Good for family.’ She gave a long sigh, closing the conversation.
The post-mortem was over and the death certificate would register an accident. It would mean the police could strike the incident at La Fenice from their list of enquiries. And perhaps it had been accidental, Nancy thought, perhaps she had been making something out of nothing. It was what the portinaio at the theatre had suggested yesterday. But deep down, she remained unconvinced. How could a small woman topple over a waist-high barrier, no matter how confused? She must either have jumped or been pushed and from what little she knew of the woman, Marta Moretto would not have jumped.
But who was the assassin? Mario Bozzato had proved a dead end. According to Luisa, Marta had not been responsible for ending her daughter’s relationship with him, and he had nothing for which to blame the woman. Yet he had blamed her, and angrily. Could he really be such a fantasist that he believed the only thing keeping him from the woman he loved was her mother?
Nancy took her cup and plate to the sink, deep in thought. Without realising, she turned the tap on hard and water gushed forth, drenching her arms. She hardly noticed. Those tablets – the maid had called them dangerous – but then for a woman such as Concetta, modern medicine could well seem dangerous. Could they be that risky?
Nancy had to find out. She needed to be on the move, to be doing something, and if her instincts were wrong and the tablets were indeed to blame, she could put this whole business out of her mind and finally enjoy the rest of her stay.
She must look for a library, but the only one she knew was at the Instituto Superiore, to all intents and purposes the university of Venice. She would go there, take one of Leo’s business cards and hope it would smooth her passage to their reference section.
* * *
Ca’ Foscari, the university building, was in Dorsoduro and necessitated another boat ride. According to the map, it was only a few streets away from the vaporetto stop of Ca’ Rezzonico but, in the event, Nancy became hopelessly lost. It had all seemed quite simple in her bedroom, but it was many anxious enquiries later and much wading through some impossible dialect, that she finally walked through its main entrance on the widest bend of the Grand Canal. The courtyard of Ca’ Foscari wa
s the biggest she had ever seen and it was astonishing to think it had once been a private home. She turned full circle, looking up and around at the magnificent palace, its Gothic arches and carved window heads one immense rhythmic sequence.
Once inside, she headed for the biblioteca. The university, she knew, specialised in the arts along with classics and languages, so it was unlikely she would find a medical reference section. But there would be encyclopaedias and, if they were up to date, they might contain information on any new treatments for arthritis.
No one asked her for identification and she tucked Leo’s card into her handbag and walked as confidently as she could towards the biblioteca. A number of students were at the small desks when she arrived, heads bent, pens in hand, and she chose a seat a little way away from them. The reference section was enormous and general encyclopaedias in English not easily located. It took her a good thirty minutes of wandering up and down the aisles to find the several volumes she wanted.
Her search for ‘arthritis’ produced long descriptions of the painful condition and several illustrations confirmed that arthritis was indeed Concetta’s problem. From the maid’s personal knowledge of her former mistress, it must have been Marta’s problem, too. But doctors seemed to agree there was little the patient could do to alleviate suffering, other than taking an analgesic.
It was only when she heaved the third and final volume into place that Nancy saw mention of any new treatments. The book had been published earlier in the year and included recent advances in rheumatology, key among them a new wonder substance developed in America. That fitted with what the maid had said, and so did its name – Cortisone was not too far from Concetta’s ‘zona’. The writer of the article seemed mesmerised by this miracle treatment. It could turn pain to nothing, transform twisted hands and feet into strong limbs again.
It was only when Nancy read to the end, she saw listed the possible side effects, the dangers Concetta had warned against. Dizziness was right there, just as the maid had suggested. But so, too, were changes in mood and behaviour, and more worryingly, depression and suicidal thoughts. Under the influence of the drug, Marta’s death could well have been the accident it was assumed to be, or the suicide of which no one would speak.
The Venice Atonement Page 6
