David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

She skimmed through the posed photos, scores of young people on the cusp of adulthood, smiling, happy, brought together by Hugo’s generosity. The school seemed a joyous place. The city had lost something when its doors closed.

Then she felt an extra sheet inside one of the plastic leaves, held up the album and shook the pages to release it.

The face of a woman in her late twenties—dark-haired, astonishingly beautiful—slipped out. The shot was from the waist up, snatched from a distance, then greatly enlarged, judging by the grain. She was wearing what looked like a nylon housecoat, the kind of jacket a servant would choose. The picture was taken out of doors, in a garden somewhere, not in the city. What appeared to be the sea shimmered in the distance. There was a genuine inflection of fear in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want to be recognised.

“Laura Conti,” Emily murmured to herself, then cursed her own stupidity. Be silent, her instructors said. Always be silent.

Laura Conti was lovely. She had the kind of face men couldn’t stop staring at, with haunted, perfectly symmetrical features that would be difficult to disguise. And she knew it too. In this illicit image, she had the look of a wild creature fleeing something. The truth? Justice?

Emily recalled what Hugo had said to her earlier that day. In Venice it was the innocents who killed you. In this one photograph Laura Conti’s features seemed to shine with innocence. Emily tried to recall the details of the case. Forster was the killer, not Laura. Was it possible she was entrapped against her will? Nic’s report suggested that she’d hidden herself away on the Lido while Forster was in jail, never visiting him, never making herself known in public. Yet somehow he had, when released, found her again, re-establishing the relationship. Perhaps Laura wasn’t trying to hide from the police or Hugo Massiter’s wrath at all, but the man who regarded her as his own, Daniel Forster.

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.