The Venetian Sanctuary

by Philip Gwynne Jones

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

'I devoured all Philip's novels and felt transported to Venice with a new intimacy' Val McDermid

'An unputdownable thriller' Gregory Dowling

'It is no surprise to find that Philip Gwynne Jones lives in Venice... art and architecture interweave into a story that builds to an almost surreal climax' Daily Mail

'Gwynne Jones's talent for evoking place and atmosphere is clear as ever' Literary Review

What lies beneath?


Venice, June 2020. The city has returned to the Venetians during a merciful pause in the Covis pandemic, and few overseas visitors are to be seen. Yet Dominic Vicari, a British private investigator haunted by loss, has travelled across Europe to the tiny island of San Francesco del Deserto. The ancient monastery there, it is said, was founded by St Francis himself in the 13th century. Its population now consists of five Franciscan brothers and three pilgrims on retreat. Or, rather, two pilgrims and a dead man.
Nathan Sutherland is called in when Vicari's broken body is found at the base of the campanile, his death seemingly nothing more than a terrible accident. But Nathan isn't so sure and sets out on an investigation that will reunite him with an old friend and an old adversary, and the discovery of a terrible secret hidden at the heart of the lagoon.

Praise for Philip Gwynne Jones

'Superb - always gripping, beautifully constructed and vivid' Stephen Glover

'Clever and great fun' The Times

'Sinister and shimmering, The Venetian Game is as haunting and darkly elegant as Venice itself' L.S. Hilton, bestselling author of Maestra

'The Venetian setting is vividly described... good, fluid writing makes for easy reading' Literary Review

'Un-put-downable . . . If you love Venice, you'll love this because you'll be transported there in an instant. If you've not been to Venice, read this book and then go. If you like intrigue, and a clever plot, you'll love this book' Amazon reviewer, 5*****

'The lively, colourful narrative scuds along as briskly as a water taxi...you'll enjoy the ride' Italia Magazine

Release date: July 4, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

It was so blue.

That’s what I remember the most, when I think back on it now. It was so blue.

Sometimes, when I needed to get out from under Federica’s feet, or if Gramsci had become more than usually insufferable, I would fill out the papers explaining exactly why I was leaving my place of residence, and where I was going; and would head off to the Rialto Market to buy fish.

I would make my way downstairs, and look over to Gabriele’s bookshop. It was closed, of course. Books, unlike fish, were deemed non-essential. Then I would look in the windows of the Magical Brazilians in the hope that something, anything might have changed. Some sign of normality returning. And then I would start to fret about Eduardo. I hoped he was doing okay.

I walked onwards past the empty shops that lined the Calle della Mandola, and over the bridge past Daniele Manin, who gazed down impassively upon his deserted city. There might even be people there, actual people. Perhaps bored-looking cops who may or may not ask to check your papers, but more likely shoppers, each of them with a carrello in order to demonstrate that they were abroad for a good reason; or simply those on a passeggiata with the best-exercised dogs in the city on a lead. Occasionally I might even see someone I knew and we would perform the awkward dance of the casual acquaintance as we wondered whether to bump elbows or merely to nod and smile behind our masks. Difficult in a country where a hug and a kiss would be the normal way of greeting somebody you’d seen only ten minutes previously.

I turned into Campo San Luca, where the Black Jack bar advertised a jazz festival that would never take place. Marchini Time, a fine pasticceria in a city not short on fine pasticcerias, was closed up. The Bar I Didn’t Go To looked sad and empty and, for a moment, I wished I could just stop by for a coffee. Even if I would be overcharged.

I stood in the middle of the campo, and slowly turned around, seeing nothing but closed-up shops that the government had decreed non-essential. Then I saw two cops enter the square and I scurried off in the direction of Rialto, eager to look as if I were a man going about his permitted business, and not just wandering aimlessly.

On, then past the Teatro Goldoni. Would it, I wondered, ever open its doors again? On down the narrow Calle Bembo, where I pressed myself into the wall in order to distance myself from an elderly signora as best I could. And then I emerged on to the Riva del Carbon and, in spite of myself, I smiled.

It was so blue. So blue, and so quiet.

The vaporetto service had been cut in half, there being no tourists to ferry around, and precious few locals on essential business to make use of them. Few transport boats plied their trade on the Grand Canal these days, because what was there to transport? And woe betide anyone who risked taking a private boat out along the canals or into the lagoon without good reason. Drones, and the occasional helicopter, made sure we stayed at home. Occasional news stories surfaced about local ragazzi taking a boat out late at night, to drink beer and smoke and flirt and do all the sorts of young things that daft young people are supposed to be getting up to late at night. And Federica and I, whilst disapproving, would also feel a little pang of jealousy. It had, after all, been quite some time since we’d been invited to that sort of thing.

So the waters of Venice lay as still and undisturbed as they had done in over one thousand years, perfectly reflecting a sky unmarked by vapour trails; and where the only sound was that of birdsong.

That’s what I remember the most. It was so silent. And so blue.

A banner with the crudely inked words No Mafia, Venezia è Sacra had hung from the windows of one of the apartments overlooking the Rialto Bridge for as long as I could remember. Now it had been joined by another, a rainbow flag with the words Tutto andrà bene scrawled across it.

Tutto andrà bene. Everything will be all right. And as I crossed an empty Rialto Bridge and made my way to a near-silent market, I thought that – in spite of everything – perhaps it just might.

On March 8th, 2020 Venice was finally returned to the Venetians, and silence fell upon the city.

Federica had spotted the way the wind was blowing long before I did, and moved her mother in before we locked down. There was little I could say. In my heart of hearts, I knew she was right. Marta was in good health, and fiercely independent. But she also lived in Chioggia; a place we were unlikely to be visiting any time soon.

Marta was against the idea from the start. It was ridiculous, she added, as well as being impractical. Moving in with a newly-married couple and their unfriendly cat, she told us, was the last thing she should be doing. Besides, she told us, she had friends back in Chioggia who’d look after her.

So we explained that we weren’t quite as newly-married as all that and that it would only be for a couple of months, and that – even though she was quite right about the cat – the flat was spacious enough for the four of us. Which is how Fede and I came to spend the period between early March and mid-May sleeping on the sofa and in danger of developing permanent cricks in our backs.

I grew a beard for about a week until Fede, probably correctly, made me shave it off. We may or may not be facing the apocalypse, she told me, but that was no reason to descend into barbarism.

I worried about Sergio and Lorenzo. I hoped they were being sensible and not organising clandestine meetings in the Communist Bar. I fretted about Eduardo and the ultimate fate of the Magical Brazilians. He ran a cocktail-making masterclass every Friday night on Zoom, but it wasn’t quite the same. Similarly, Dario and I would meet up for virtual drinks once a week, when we would have given almost anything to be sat outside Toni’s in Mestre, chilled to the bone and choking on traffic fumes.

Work was never a problem. All of a sudden, I was hit with a rush of emergency notices and documents to be translated. Similarly, consular work had never been so busy and the day was typically filled by fending off requests from those desperate expats who had suddenly realised the place they called home really wasn’t, and wanted to get back to a country where – if things, perhaps, seemed even more chaotic – they could at least speak the language. And my response to them was the same every time: nobody, but nobody, is travelling anywhere. This, like it or not, is where you live now. I was more diplomatic than that, of course. Or at least I hope I was.

Ambassador Maxwell gathered all the consuls together every Monday afternoon, in order to tell us – as best he knew it – the most up to date news. He even organised the occasional quiz night, in the hope of keeping our spirits up. I don’t think any of us particularly enjoyed it but he, like everyone else, was trying his best and so that was enough.

Across town in Dorsoduro, Father Michael Rayner held online services from his kitchen every Sunday morning, and distributed virtual communion to the faithful. Michael, I knew, was on his own and so I worried about him the more. Then I realised I had no idea about the domestic arrangements of Sergio, Lorenzo, Eduardo – so many of my friends. When this was all over, I told myself, I’d take more of an interest. Perhaps everybody would do the same? We’d become kinder, less self-obsessed people; and after having been apart for so long we’d find better ways of being together.

Slowly, but surely, the figures began to turn. Every night, at 18.00, we would check the latest online figures and see the curve flattening ever so slightly.

Slowly, but surely, Italy climbed its mountain. And relentlessly, inexorably, Italy buried its dead.

And then the day came. The day for haircuts and for coffee with friends, and of the simple pleasures of a spritz with the sun upon your face. All the things we used to call ‘normal’.

We knew it couldn’t last forever, of course. We wondered just how much of this ‘new normal’ we might be allowed, and for how long.

In my case, it lasted about a week.

‘So how are things out there?’

Fede smiled. ‘I love the way you say that. It makes it sound like I’ve been testing the atmosphere on an alien planet, instead of going out to the shops.’

‘Seriously, though. What’s it like out there?’ I yawned and stretched. Last night had been stormy and I’d slept badly. ‘And what’s the weather like?’

‘Gorgeous. And the streets are full of Italians.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The streets are full of Italians. And that’s it. Not a French, German or Russian voice to be heard.’

‘Brits? Americans?’

‘A few. You probably know them. But otherwise,’ she put the shopping bag down on the table, ‘all Italians. More Veneziano being spoken on the street than I’ve ever heard before.’

‘Still nobody travelling, I guess? Despite them lifting the restrictions.’

‘Not a sign of it. I suppose if you live in the Veneto and there’s no chance of getting away to Croatia for the summer, then why not head to Venice? Face it, it’s never going to look better than it does now. So it’s busy, yes, but manageable. It’s kind of nice.’ She looked around. ‘How’s your cat?’

‘Our cat, I think you’ll find.’

‘Okay then, our cat. Where’s he got to? And that question is not to be misinterpreted as me missing him.’

I raised my eyes to the top of the bookcase. ‘The usual place.’

‘He’s still there?’

‘In his strange kitty brain, he thinks it’s cooler up there. Hence, the top of the bookcase is his equivalent of going to the mountains for the summer. Oh, and I think he’s worked out that when we can’t stand the heat any more and turn on the air conditioning, he’ll be in the direct line of the blast.’ I grinned. ‘See, I told you he was a smart cat.’

Fede yawned and stretched. ‘It’s starting to get hot. Maybe I’ll join him up there. So, what’s for lunch? Is that bread still viable?’

‘Maybe for panzanella or pappa al pomodoro. Or hitting people.’

‘The Brazilians then?’

‘I think it has to be. Ed needs the money.’

‘So we can tell ourselves it’s for a socially positive reason.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s still quite early. But we can call it brunch.’

‘Breakfast spritz?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Okay, then. Is it a jackets day?’

She shook her head. ‘That moment has passed, caro. Shirt sleeves only until September.’

‘Oh hell.’ I looked up at Gramsci. ‘I don’t suppose you could fit three of us up there, could you?’

Gramsci miaowed, and spread himself flatter, as if to suggest that this was not an option.

‘Okay. Well then, lunch it is.’ I reached for my jacket on the back of the door, only for Fede to take it from me and replace it. She shook her head. ‘The moment’s passed, remember?’

Ed smiled at me. ‘Good to see you again, Nathan.’

‘Good to be here, Ed. It still feels like a novelty, just being able to go downstairs and have a drink.’

‘You weren’t here yesterday, though.’

‘That was a mistake. I promise. I’ll never leave you alone again.’

He grinned. ‘What are you having?’

I looked over at Federica. ‘What are we having?’

‘Spritz Bitter? Too early in the day for a Negroni without very good reason, I think.’

‘Two spritzes then, Ed. And some random things on sticks.’

Eduardo looked pained. ‘Look, do you have any idea how much time and effort and, well, love goes into making cicchetti? And then you reduce them to “random things on sticks”?’

‘Sorry. In that case can I have a small octopus on a stick. Some olive ascolane on a stick. And some fried calamari rings on a—’

‘On a stick, yes, I get it.’ He turned to Federica. ‘Fede?’ he asked, with hope in his eyes.

‘Baccala mantecato, a couple of sarde fritte and perhaps one half-egg with truffle?’

‘Coming right up.’ He turned to me. ‘You see? That’s how you do it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So how has your morning been?’ said Fede, as Ed made his way back inside.

‘Same as it has been for much of the past four or five months. A mixture of boredom and fire-fighting. Mainly people asking if it’s possible for them to come back. And I tell them that, yes, if they can find a way of getting here. And then some of them ask if it’s safe to come back and, well, that’s a different question altogether.’

‘So what do you tell them?’

‘I tell them it’s as safe as anywhere. And it’s up to them what they do with that.’ I yawned and stretched. ‘I’ll never complain about bloody lawnmower manuals again, I tell you.’

‘Well, when you do, I guess that’ll be a sign that things really are back to normal. I called mamma earlier. She sends her love.’

‘How’s she doing?’

‘Settling into her home again. She sounds happy to be back.’ She took my hand. ‘It was kind of you, you know? Letting her stay.’

I shrugged. ‘We were the lucky ones, really, weren’t we? The worst thing that happened to us was having to spend ten weeks on a sofa bed. So many people had it so much worse.’ I nodded over at Gabriele’s bookshop, and then back at the Brazilians. ‘Haven’t got to look far.’

Ed arrived with our drinks and snacks. ‘There we go. A plate of lovingly designed and prepared cicchetti for Federica. And for you,’ he glared, ‘we have some things on sticks.’

‘I’m sure they’re lovely, Ed. Thank you.’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve missed eating?’

It was a voice I hadn’t heard in over three months, and I smiled up at the familiar moustachioed figure.

‘Vanni!’

‘The very same.’

I got to my feet and made to shake hands. And then I made to hug him. And in the end we settled for a bump of the elbows.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said.

‘Of course. We’re helping rebuild the economy, one spritz at a time.’

‘It’s your patriotic duty, Nathan.’ He smiled and nodded at Federica. ‘Dottoressa.’ Then he turned to Ed. ‘Signor Eduardo, isn’t it?’

Ed nodded, suspicion in his eyes.

Vanni, I noticed, was eyeing up the space between the tables, as if trying to determine that they were suitably distanced.

‘Everything in order?’ said Ed, with a note of challenge in his voice.

Vanni nodded. ‘Absolutely. You’ve done a very good job indeed. If all the bar and restaurant owners in town were such good citizens my job would be very much easier.’

Ed smiled, but the suspicion did not leave his eyes.

‘You do know,’ Vanni continued, ‘that under the emergency regulations your plateatico might be expanded by a further fifty per cent for the duration of the emergency?’

‘I know.’ Ed shrugged. ‘But where would it go? Another fifty per cent,’ he gestured across the street, ‘and people are practically sitting in Gabriele’s bookshop.’

Vanni nodded. ‘I appreciate it’s difficult. All we can hope is that it’s not for too much longer.’

Ed turned and walked back inside, muttering under his breath.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ said Vanni.

‘He’s had three cops around since reopening. Each of them measuring the distance between tables. He’s pissed off.’

‘We’re all pissed off, Nathan. We’re just trying to do the best we can. Anyway, I’m glad to see you.’

‘Do you not think, Vanni, that it might just be easier to phone me?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, Nathan, am I likely to find you anywhere else?’

‘That’s a little harsh. But not entirely inaccurate.’

‘Besides, if I meet you here it’s an excuse to have lunch.’ He checked his watch. ‘Or breakfast, or brunch, or whatever we’re calling it.’ He sat down, patted his stomach, and smiled. ‘So, what’s good?’

‘All of it.’

‘Okay. Thank you, Nathan. Narrows it down.’

‘Things on sticks are even better.’

‘Narrows it down even further.’

Fede groaned. ‘We’re not going to start that again, are we?’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Vanni changed the subject. ‘And so, what might you be working on at the moment, dottoressa?’

‘Still at the church of San Polo. Or better to say I’m back there. Working on the ceiling wasn’t classed as essential work. Surprisingly so, given that being on a platform ten metres up is as good a form of social distancing as I can imagine. But I’m back there now. At least for the time being.’

‘And how about you, Nathan?’

‘Oh, I’m fine. Consular work is keeping me busy. I even got some translation work the other day that wasn’t pandemic related. That was a change, at least.’

‘Consular work.’ He nodded, and smiled. ‘That’s why I’m here, Nathan.’

‘Someone in trouble?’

He shook his head. ‘Not any more.’

‘Oh shit. Come on then, tell me all about it.’

‘A Mr Domenico Vicari.’

I frowned. ‘That sounds more like one of your lot.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you. But no. British passport. Apparently more commonly known as Dominic Vicari.’

‘And what’s happened?’

‘Poor man was staying on San Francesco del Deserto. On a retreat, as I understand they call it.’

‘With the Franciscans?’ said Fede.

‘Quite so, dottoressa.’

She frowned. ‘He chose one hell of a time to go on a pilgrimage. It can’t have been easy to get there.’

A thought struck me. ‘Italian name. Pilgrimage. Was he ill?’

Vanni shook his head. ‘Not as far as we know. No, complete accident it seems. Fell from the campanile last night.’

I winced. ‘Ouch.’

‘And so some of our men have been round but – pffft – it’s a monastery, Nathan. It’s a monastery on an island. It must have been an accident.’

‘I guess so. So, what exactly can I do for you? I mean, sure, it’s nice to sit down and have a drink and things on sticks,’ Fede winced, ‘after all this time, but couldn’t you just scan all the relevant stuff and email it to me?’

‘Well, I could, but Fra Vincenzo – he’s kind of the main man there – is an old friend of mine. We haven’t seen each other in quite some time. That’s down to the nature of his job, I suppose. I thought perhaps I could allow myself some time to head out there and have a chat with him.’

‘You have a friend who’s a monk?’

‘Strictly speaking, he’s a friar. And, what, you think I only have police friends?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it. It’s just that Vanni and Vincenzo, the crime-fighting monk sounds like the set-up for a TV series.’

‘I’d watch that,’ said Fede, munching on a sardine.

‘Me too. But why do you need me along?’

‘You’ll be needing to contact relatives, I assume? In which case I imagine it will be helpful for you to know about how he spent his last days.’

‘I guess so. It helps a bit when you’ve got some proper information to give them. Sure, I’ll come along.’

‘You’ll get him back by early evening, won’t you, Vanni?’ said Fede.

‘Of course, dottoressa. Do you have plans?’

‘No, I just need him to sparkle. Tonight’s the big one – pizza and beer with friends, for the first time since February.’

‘Ah, pizza e birra. How much would we have given for a simple night out with friends, and pizza and beer over the past few months?’ He beamed at us both. ‘Excellent, Nathan. Marco will be along with a boat in about twenty minutes. Which gives me plenty of time for an octopus. On a stick.’

‘Marco, just take it easy around here, eh? We don’t want to damage the crabs.’

Marco turned and nodded, a MS cigarette dangling from his lips, and throttled back.

‘Crabs?’ I said.

Vanni gestured vaguely in the direction of the island.

‘I don’t see anything?’

‘What, you think I’m imagining crabs now? Take a closer look. Just beneath the surface.’

Marco throttled back even more taking us gently in towards the jetty on the island of San Francesco del Deserto. I looked over the side of the police launch, shielding my eyes against the light that sparkled and danced on the surface of the lagoon. Then I jerked my head back in shock, as something beneath the surface formed itself into a grotesque shape. Encrusted with barnacles, spindly-legged and furnished with fearsome claws; they were undoubtedly crabs, but not the sort ever likely to find themselves on a platter of cicchetti or a plate of fritto misto.

Vanni laughed and patted me on the back.

‘What the hell are they?’

‘Crabs, Nathan.’

‘Not like any I’ve ever seen. I don’t fancy my chances of getting one of those in a pot.’

‘I don’t imagine there’s much good eating on them anyway, Nathan. No, these are art.’ He shook his head, but smiled. ‘Or, at least, that’s what they tell me.’

‘Oh. It’s a Biennale thing?’

He nodded. ‘From last year.’

‘It’s still there?’

‘Supposed to be removed back in January, they tell me. Only thing is, that was just before the virus hit us. And it seems removal of giant steel and glass crabs didn’t meet the criteria for “essential work”.’

‘So they’re just going to stay there?’

He shrugged. ‘For now. The artist has offered to make them a gift to the city. The Brothers would rather they weren’t accepted. Anyway, for the moment, there they stay.’

‘As a hazard to shipping?’

‘Pretty much. You’ve got to take a bit of care when piloting in, isn’t that so, Marco?’

Marco nodded behind his aviator shades. ‘Take the wrong route and – kerrunch – one less glass crab in the world.’

‘And I guess nobody wants that?’

‘Couldn’t give a crap. Just don’t want the engine fouled up.’ He flicked his cigarette over the side of the boat and into the lagoon, drawing a reproving hiss from Vanni.

Marco shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Vanni just shook his head.

‘So tell me again about Mr Vicari,’ I said.

‘I don’t think I’ve got much more to tell, Nathan. He is – was – one of your lot, as I said. The Brothers found him dead this morning in the courtyard. I hope you don’t mind coming along?’

‘Not at all. This is the furthest I’ve been out of my house since the end of January.’

‘I don’t think it’ll take much of your time. Accidental death, as I said. So just form-filling.’

Marco piloted in, then leaped onto the jetty and tied up the boat. Vanni jumped ashore, and then Marco stretched his hand down for me. Vanni, as both a Venetian and, more importantly, his boss, could be trusted around boats. Me, as a middle-aged straniero, less so. I felt slightly patronised, but took his hand anyway.

‘Thank you.’ I looked back out at the lagoon, and sighed. ‘It’s a lovely day.’

And it was. One of those glorious early summer mornings, in those days before the sun becomes unbearably hot and the sky oppressively blue. The pretty, multicoloured houses of Burano shone in the distance, awaiting the tourists who – this year, at least – would be coming only from Italy and not from further abroad.

Denuded of tourists during the early months of the pandemic, visitors were slowly creeping back, but the difficulties of long-distance travel meant that, for the first time in decades, the majority of accents heard in the calli were Italian ones. In the early summer sun, Venice was cautiously returning to life. Restaurants, bars and shops were reopening, people were attempting to have a good time and the city felt manageably busy. Even walking through Piazza San Marco was now more of a pleasure than a contact sport.

Vanni clapped me on the back. ‘Un soldino per i tuoi pensieri, Nathan?’

I grinned. ‘They’re not worth that much. It’s just that this, ‘I spread my arms wide, ‘all feels so good, you know? Being outdoors. Wide-open spaces around us. The sun on our faces.’

He smiled back at me. ‘I know. But for how long?’

‘Don’t spoil it.’

‘I’m a cop. They pay me to have dark thoughts. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

I turned to follow him, and then stopped, shaking my head. Then I turned back, scanning the lagoon in search of giant crabs.

‘Something wrong?’

‘I don’t get it. What’s the point of an installation that you can’t even see unless your boat is practically on top of it?’

‘You can, so I believe. But only during acqua bassa, when the lagoon’s at its lowest level. They’re supposed to, you know, emerge.’ He mimed, as best he could, a crab in the act of emerging.

‘Right. Like in Attack of the Crab Monsters?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a Roger Corman film.’

‘I don’t know it. Is it any good?’

I scratched my head. ‘As good as a film called Attack of the Crab Monsters is ever going to be, I suppose.’

He shook his head. ‘I knew it was a good idea to call you, Nathan. At least, I thought, I’d be sure to learn something.’ He turned back to the pilot. ‘Marco, just stay here with the boat. We’ll be as quick as we can.’

Marco adjusted his shades, which I assumed was an acknowledgement, and sparked up another cigarette.

‘And don’t smoke too many of those. They’re not good for you.’ Quitting smoking barely six months ago had turned Vanni into something of a zealot.

He led me past the giant wooden cross at the end of the jetty and along a gravel path bordered on one side by a row of cypress trees.

The entrance to the monastery was a simple structure in marble and terracotta brickwork. A statue of St Francis was set into the wall beneath the lunette window, clutching a Bible and a cross to his chest and gazing towards heaven. Above the heavy wooden entrance door the Francis. . .