Last Seen in Santorini, page 1
LAST SEEN IN SANTORINI
Miss Ashford Investigates
VIVIAN CONROY
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2023
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Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2023
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023
Cover illustration © Gary Redford / Meiklejohn
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Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008549275
Ebook Edition © January 2023 ISBN: 9780008549268
Version: 2022-11-07
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
About the Author
Also by Vivian Conroy
One More Chapter...
About the Publisher
Chapter One
AUGUST 1930
Miss Atalanta Ashford couldn’t quite believe she was casting her eye across the laguna of Venice. The water moved in countless shades of blue and green and the sun made everything sparkle: the bright colours of the boats that took tourists across to Murano, the famous glass island; the spires of Venice’s many churches in the distance and closer to her, the lemons in twined baskets on the dock waiting to be transported.
There was an air of expectancy, with everyone bustling to do some task, make the best use of this beautiful day. New arrivals discussed where to go first: to a workshop or the museum. A man with a hat askew on his rich dark curls carried a large canvas that he wanted to place in the best possible spot to paint the sights. And local women offered flowers and freshly baked sweet treats. From where she stood, Atalanta could smell the butter and sugar worked into them. It seemed as if she was the only one standing still, not pushing to the nearby café to occupy the table with the best laguna view, or going to explore Murano’s first-rate glassware created by true artists with the blowpipe. She was like a statue in the midst of a crowd rushing to and fro, caught in the moment, unable to move away from a sense of disbelief that this could actually be her life now.
It was so hard to grasp that only a few weeks ago her daily routine had consisted of giving lessons to pupils at an exclusive Swiss boarding school. A strict schedule of teaching French and music, having meals and correcting essays and tests, with barely half an hour to herself to take a little walk down into the picturesque village with its wooden houses and decorated balconies, or further up the mountain to the ruins of the old burg overlooking the lush valley where the river wound its way between the snow-capped mountains.
It had been her favourite leisure-time activity: to walk and fantasize that she was elsewhere, in some remote, possibly exotic destination, seeing the wonders of the world. She knew the sights only from books and postcards her students sent her during summer holidays. But they had come alive in her imagination: the Parthenon rising above her in white marble columns or the sleepy sunlit villages of the Italian countryside amongst vineyards and olive groves. She had pretended to hear other languages and bitten into her simple bread-and-cheese sandwich lunch as if it were calzone. But with all the mental power in the world, she had never been able to guess that her dreams were about to come true, far beyond what she had imagined.
All because of her dear grandfather.
His death had left her with a fortune, houses in various places, cars and stocks, more money than she could ever spend. And a rare vocation: to follow in his footsteps and do his life’s work: sleuth discreetly in the highest circles. Her very first case had taken her to a lush estate in the glorious lavender fields of Provence where a company of rich and famous people had gathered for the wedding of the Comte de Surmonne. The sights had been breath-taking – the whitewashed manor house with sleek turrets, the rich gardens full of roses, dahlias and an amazing shell grotto – but she had not been able to fully enjoy them with the strain of unravelling clues and facing a cunning killer who stopped at nothing to keep their secret safe. So, after a successful conclusion of the case, she had decided it was time for a little holiday. Some days spent far away from crime and the complicated thought process that came with assessing if perfectly normal-looking people might be cold-blooded murderers.
With her unlimited funds Atalanta could go wherever her heart desired, and she had retrieved her box of cut-out magazine articles and postcards that students had sent her. Her box of places she had wanted to go to, long before she had come into money. The box of her hopes and dreams that had carried her through the most difficult times after her father had died and she had been all alone in the world, with a load of debts on her shoulders. Now that everything was so much better, that box was still like an old friend and opening it made her heart flutter.
She had closed her eyes and rummaged through it and pulled out a postcard. She had waited a few moments, fingering the card, and then opened her eyes to see where she was travelling to for her holiday.
Venice.
The mere name on the card, printed in a dark yellow almost like gold, had taken her breath away. It had to be a magical city with canals instead of streets, with countless elegant bridges across the ever-present water, with so much romantic history attached. A city of gondolas, delicious food, a language that sounded like poetry and memories to be made.
She had asked her butler Renard to book her passage and a hotel. Of course he had managed to get her a room in one of the most illustrious hotels which had received famous writers and artists from all over the world. Their photographs hung on the walls of the high lobby with its stuccoed ceiling full of lions, the iconic animal ever present in the floating city.
The very efficient and resourceful Renard was a treasure with global contacts that came in very useful when she was investigating. But the trip to Venice would be about pleasure only, about spending time in a beautiful place, far away from intrigue and murder.
Ah yes. With a sigh of satisfaction Atalanta turned her back on the dazzling laguna view and started to walk, slowly, savouring every step, every sight around her. She inhaled the scents of a hot summer day deep into her lungs: citrus fruit, sun-drenched cobbles, flowery perfumes…
Her gaze brushed past ladies in colourful dresses and large sunhats, one with a small, white lapdog on her arm that barked ferociously at everyone in sight. The buildings had fronts full of white stone arches and pillars. At first glance they were all alike but when one looked closer, there were details on all of them: some round like beads, others carved like flowers.
On the corner of a tall apricot-coloured house a man stood in a light suit. A Panama hat was pulled over his eyes, hiding his face. But for a moment, when she caught sight of him, her breathing stopped and she involuntarily started forward.
Raoul!
Raoul Lemont, the race car driver she had met on Bellevue in Provence, during her first case. He had been a guest at the wedding of Eugénie Frontenac and the Comte de Surmonne, the grand feast where Atalanta had discreetly conducted her investigation into the question whether the Comte had murdered his first wife, Mathilde. Raoul had been an old friend of Mathilde and at one point even a suspect, to her mind. But she had realized later she had never wanted him to be a suspect because…
Stop it. She shook her head with an impatient movement. That man wasn’t Raoul. He only bore a superficial likeness to him. She had to stop thinking about him. He was far away from here, preparing for some race.
As a driver of fast sports cars in those daring races that had gained popularity all across Europe, he risked his life on a daily basis, something Atalanta couldn’t understand or
She smiled at her own inner dialogue with Raoul, as if he was indeed here by her side, and she needed to defend herself, and her opinions, against him. But he was leading his life full of adventure and risk, and she was on Murano enjoying a well-earned holiday.
And if she didn’t want to think of murder, she shouldn’t think of Raoul as well, as he had been so closely tied to her case and its dangerous resolution. She had to fully focus on the enchanting views and living the dream of actually walking here, instead of merely imagining it and having to return to her duties at the school. She did miss her students, their eagerness when they learned French by listening to chansons, their sulks when there was a test forthcoming. Moments where they confided in her and she felt more like an older sister to them than a teacher. But the strict director had made sure she could never get close to any of them. For the better, perhaps, but it had been a lonely life.
“Buy flowers?” An old woman touched her arm and held out a large twined basket holding several single roses in bright colours: red, pink, yellow. Their stems had been wrapped with cloth and a pin was attached so the flower could be worn like a brooch.
Atalanta’s gaze travelled the flowers, admiring the silky smoothness of the petals. They had been grown with loving care. But she shook her head at the woman and walked on. It felt odd buying a rose for herself. It was something adoring fiancés or husbands should do. There were plenty of couples around among the tourists, and many more coming later today. The old woman wouldn’t have trouble finding takers for her floral offerings.
I’m here for glass. Atalanta halted at a table bending under the weight of vases, vessels and jugs. The sun conjured rainbows in the facets and made the pieces look even more magnificent than they were because of the craftsmanship put into them, skills handed down the generations for as long as Murano had existed. She wanted to buy something, but she had to think carefully about what to get. She’d have to take it home with her and it shouldn’t get broken on the journey.
Perhaps a large solid piece is better than those smaller delicate champagne glasses?
But the four-piece set did look lovely, and she could see herself drinking from such a glass at home and remembering this beautiful sun-soaked day and tasting the unlimited freedom her grandfather’s inheritance had brought her.
She took several items into her hands, turned them over, ran her finger round the perfectly smooth rim. The seller behind the table tried to explain how good it was in broken English, falling back on Italian every third word. Atalanta tried to follow along as best she could. The exclusive school where she had worked had often housed Italian girls from elite families and she knew a fair bit of the language. But it was special to hear it now on soil where it had been spoken for many centuries. At times she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
She said she’d be back later and wanted to look around more first. He kept shouting after her how good his wares were while she walked to the next table and the next seller eager to impress upon her that he sold the best wares of the entire island.
The tourists that had been on the boat with her had filed out and were standing at various stalls or ducking through low doors into the buildings to see more inside. It had to be deliciously cool in there, away from the summer sun that burned down mercilessly on everything around. Atalanta felt sweat drip across her neck and slip down under her light dress. On the boat she had already put her white lace gloves in her purse. They might be elegant, and a lady should aspire to dress her best on any occasion, but under the Mediterranean sun they were a burden sooner. Perhaps she should have sat down for a cool drink? There was no rush to buy anything right away. She could take the entire day to explore, returning to Venice on the last boat.
Again she caught a glimpse of the man in the light suit with the Panama hat. He seemed to be alone. Perhaps that wasn’t odd, as she herself was here without a companion. But most people had come either as couples or with friends, and his lone figure drew her attention. He wasn’t haggling to get a good deal on glass or admiring the architecture. It felt almost as if…
He was watching her?
A cold shiver crept across her spine. Her grandfather had made it clear when he had explained his work to her in a letter written before his death that it was not without risks. That, in the pursuit of justice, one might also make enemies.
And Renard had told her on several occasions to be wary of everyone, not to take things at face value, not to trust even the stories of her own clients. Perhaps all this mention of having to be careful and expect dangers lurking had made her a touch overcautious?
Even paranoid?
She was on holiday here, there was really nothing to fear.
Still, a sense of unease accompanied her as she continued her search for the perfect glass souvenir, and she caught herself looking over her shoulder at various occasions. The man in the light suit was nowhere to be seen. Happy voices rang out around her, laughter and the tinkle of glass exchanging hands. One couple had bought a man-sized mirror and watched as the seller put it in a crate filled with straw for safe transportation.
Three boys balanced on the stone railing of a bridge, singing an aria from The Merchant of Venice at tourists in a gondola which approached the bridge. The gondolier shouted abuse at them and warnings that they might fall and land on his boat. Some of the tourists laughed at the antics but a lady in a pink dress ducked and covered her head as if to ward off a boy avalanche.
The three suddenly jumped down the railing and fled when a man in a dark suit pursued them for a few yards, then leaned into the wall of a blue house, gasping for breath and pulling out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his brow. A disgruntled father? A private teacher landed with the task of guarding these unruly charges on an outing?
Atalanta smiled to herself. Those were the kind of innocent deductions she had to focus on. Why ruin a beautiful day with worries about her safety?
She fell into a conversation with an English lady who explained to her that she had visited Murano every summer when her husband had still been alive, and this was her first time here without him. “It’s like he’s still here,” she confided. “I can hear his voice and I can see him walk beside me. My children were afraid the trip here would make me sad, but it only makes me happy. We’ve spent so many wonderful years here which I will cherish forever.”
“I'm glad for you.” Atalanta adjusted her sun hat. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a woman in black with a veil over her face. Her dark clothes stood out among the colourfully dressed tourists and Atalanta wondered if she was a local widow. But her dress looked too expensive and the veil was attached to an elegant little hat that could have come straight from a Parisian boutique. Who was she, what was she doing here?
Questions you will most likely never get an answer to, she chided herself.
“There’s a special place here,” the English woman by her side explained, “a little courtyard down that street. You can freely enter it, no one will stop you. You can walk to a waist-high white fence on the other side of that courtyard and you have a lovely view of the water with Venice in the distance. My husband and I used to stand there for quite some time and admire it. There’s always something new to see. It’s a perfect day for it too, sunny and bright. We have also been here when it rained and it’s not quite so cheery then.” She touched Atalanta’s arm a moment. “Enjoy your stay here, my dear.”
