She slipped the photo back into the pocket where it belonged, not wanting to see any more. It was foolish to try to read so much into a single image.
Then she picked up the sheaf of letters and went through them, slowly, carefully. They were, in the beginning at least, brief, intelligent and articulate. Every one was from Daniel Forster, written in a sweeping, legible hand, the kind a student would use to get good marks in an essay. None of them was longer than two pages. Most were confined to a single sheet. They spanned almost two years, the dates matching, as far as she recalled, the period in which Hugo had launched his legal campaign to clear his name, one that resulted in Forster and his mistress fleeing Venice like thieves.
Dear Hugo, Forster wrote in the first. Laura said you would re-emerge and, as usual, she was right. It may surprise you to know that I’m glad you’re still alive. That said, it’s important you understand the position we find ourselves in. It’s impossible for you to return to Italy. If you do that, you surely know the consequences. I’ve made depositions to the authorities. I will testify in court if need be. This is, as far as the locals are concerned, a closed case. Don’t try to reopen it, please. Enjoy New York. Venice is behind you. Daniel.
A benign though firm warning, then. Forster portrayed himself as a reasonable man, but one who would not demur at involving the Italian judicial system if necessary. And—this seemed important—no mention of where Laura stood on matters.
“‘I’ve made depositions,’” Emily murmured. But surely, to be convincing, Forster would need Laura to back up his case.
Some eight months later, however, his tone was changing.
American lawyers? Do you place your faith in them, Hugo? Surely not. I’d have thought that beneath you. Besides, we have lawyers too these days. Money to employ the best too, thanks to the book. You have seen the book, haven’t you? If not, I’ll send you a copy. Inscribed. My version’s down there now. Black and white and, as the old saw goes, read all over. Take a look and ask yourself: do I really want this to go on?
Emily sifted through five more messages, noting the tone growing more bitter. Or more frightened, perhaps? Then she flicked through to the last, began to read, and felt ashamed to be engrossed by what she found.
Forster was now desperate. His handwriting was erratic. Words were scrawled in block capitals, the way a child did when he was anxious to make a point.
Is this a VICTORY? Burning my book? Freezing our bank accounts? What did we do to deserve this, Hugo? Prick your vanity? Any more than that? Let me say it again. Let me SCREAM it till you understand. SHE’S NOT YOURS. She never was. She never will be. I’d die before I allowed that to happen. If you think about that—if you can remember who I am, what I’m like—you’ll know that’s true.
You can’t win. Not even if you bribe every last judge in Italy. If you insist on returning, I will, I swear, do what I should have done all those years ago. Make an end to your miserable existence, once and for all. STAY OUT OF OUR LIVES. D.
Emily Deacon drew a deep breath, placed the paper on her lap, and hated herself, loathed this prying into matters that were none of her business.
She’s not yours. She never was. She never will be.
Was this really the true source of Hugo Massiter’s grief? That Laura Conti, hiding away from the light of day like a frightened deer, was the woman he loved? That Daniel Forster didn’t just steal Hugo’s reputation? That the young Englishman removed something much more precious, an item Hugo could never recover, not with all the money in the world?
Emily put away the album and the documents, ensuring they went back in the right places. Then she sat on the small stool she’d brought in from the apartment, feeling miserable, wondering what she’d tell Falcone. Wondering, too, what gave her the right to meddle with Massiter’s affairs.
Two people had been murdered on Murano. Their relationship with Hugo Massiter was distant, financial only. Their deaths caused him significant inconvenience.
“Poor—” she started to say, when she felt a hand fall lightly on her shoulder.
Emily stifled a gasp, and knew at that moment what the miserable old bastard of an instructor in Langley would have said. Then she turned and looked up at Hugo Massiter.
He didn’t even seem angry.
“The palazzo looks wonderful, but I don’t recall asking you to do anything to this room,” he said softly. “Kind as it is of you to offer.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist looking around. I wanted to . . . try to understand something.”
“You could have just asked. It’s easier.”
“I wouldn’t have known the right questions.”
“True.”
He took his hand away and cast his eyes around the room. “Was this Falcone’s idea?”
“No,” she lied, wishing she had the courage to be truthful. “I was just being nosy. Really. There was something about you that didn’t add up. I’m the curious type, unfortunately.”
“And you found . . . ?”
“A photo of Laura Conti,” she answered without hesitation. “She’s very beautiful.”
“She was very beautiful,” he corrected her. “I’ve no idea what she’s like now. I haven’t seen her in a very long time. I don’t even know if she’s alive. With . . .”—his face grew old just saying the name—“ . . . Daniel around, who knows?”
“I don’t want to be in here,” she muttered, brushing past him to go out into the light, airy living room, striding to the balcony, bright in the lagoon sun, craving fresh air. The smell of paint and fresh plaster rose up from below. The main doors were open. The temporary stands, with some real pieces from Massiter’s collection, would now be in place. Soon the musicians would arrive, looking for their podium, which was still probably in pieces. At seven there would be guests. The palazzo would be ready for them by then. Even so, she didn’t want to see it.
Emily took a deep breath, aware of his presence behind her. “I can only apologise. I don’t know what came over me.”
And all for Nic’s boss, she thought. Which was as good as saying for Nic himself, given how close the three men were these days.
“Well, it’s out now. A burden shared, they say. I don’t . . .” He was trying to convince himself of the right words. “I don’t miss her anymore. It wasn’t a rational relationship. She was different. Not just beautiful, but perfectly untouched by the world somehow, in a way I never saw in anyone else. Which is why Daniel fooled her so easily, I imagine. I just wanted to know she was safe. That’s all. I didn’t—I don’t—harbour any illusions about rekindling old fires.”
“Do you think she was guilty?” Emily asked him. “In the deaths of these people?”
“No,” he replied, as if the question were irrelevant now. “Not for a minute. But she went with Daniel and that’s what counts, in most people’s eyes anyway. It’s not what you do, it’s appearances. That’s all it was with me. If I’d stayed here and fought instead of running away . . .”