Deep and Silent Waters by Charlotte Lamb

his childhood to find him. If anywhere, she would find in this place whatever had made him the man he was: innocent or guilty.
    As they turned towards it, the dark shadow of the house fell on them and Laura shivered. If she had been superstitious she might have thought she was getting a warning, a premonition of danger, but she had a basic common sense, in spite of her sensitivity to atmosphere, that told her she was imagining things.
    She was tired: she had flown from London that morning, had not slept well last night, and she had had the emotional shock of seeing Sebastian again. This had been a long, punishing day. The colours of sunset would soon be draining out of the sky and the August heat of Venice would evaporate in dew.
    ‘Who lives here now?’ she asked, in a whisper. ‘Is it your family?’ There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but he had a way of evading answers, which she remembered all too well.
    He laughed, in a strange, angry way. ‘Good God, no. I’m not one of them. My father worked for them.’
    Eyes opening wide, she said, ‘Oh, I see. What did he do?’
    Sebastian’s face was dark with pride and defiance. ‘He was the gardener.’ The answer was curt, harsh.
    Her breath caught in comprehension. Was that why he had been so reluctant to talk about his childhood? Was he ashamed because his father had been a gardener here? The way he had talked about Venice, about Ca’ d’Angeli, had left her with the distinct impression that he had been one of this aristocratic family with roots going back into medieval Venice.
    A grating sound made them both start and swing round to face the house. The heavy wooden front door, studded with iron nails whose heads were shaped in the sign of the Cross, slowly opened and a woman in black appeared, exactly dead centre below the round stone arch above the door.
    There was something archetypal about her: the black clothes of widowhood and bereavement, the hands folded at her waist – you saw women like this all over Europe. Black for death. The hair rose on the rape of Laura’s neck. In spite of the heat she was icy with fear, but fear of what? Of this woman? Of Sebastian? Of memories of Clea?
    Beyond the woman was a shadowy vista of cracked marble walls and floors, pale pink and grey, high plastered ceilings, a great empty, echoing space, with no furniture whatever, only a flight of wide marble stairs going upwards.
    Glancing nervously at Sebastian, Laura saw that he had turned back into a figure of stone, like the angels above them, eyes hooded, features rigid. His fingers tightened on Laura’s until she caught her breath in pain.
    ‘Sebastian!’ she gasped, and he looked down as if he had only then remembered she was with him. ‘You’re hurting me!’
    ‘Sorry.’ He let go of her and looked back at the other woman.
    ‘Who is she?’ Laura whispered.
    ‘La Contessa herself. Contessa d’Angeli.’
    The Contessa had a regal air, an enormous sense of her own importance, yet physically she was far from beautiful. A short woman, plump, with big dark eyes, lids purpled with eyeshadow, she wore her thick, lustrous hair, once obviously jet black but now streaked with silver, pinned up at the nape of her neck, showing the fullness of her throat and faintly sagging jaw.
    Her hands were weighed down with rings: a ruby, in an elaborate gold setting; a big, square-cut emerald. A brooch on her dress blazed with gold and rubies. She were ruby earrings, a cascade of small blood-red drops, which swayed as she moved her head. Laura was no expert, but she felt sure that everything the Contessa wore was genuine and very valuable: it had a depth and fire that was unmistakable and must mean that the family were still very wealthy, because when rich people lose their money the first thing to go is jewellery. It is so easy to sell without anyone noticing: you just make excuses, say, ‘Oh, my pearls? They’re in the bank, the insurance people insist,’ or, ‘They’re