Death in a Serene City Read Online Free PDF Page A

caused.”
    Two things about the Contessa that Urbino had never doubted were her intelligence and her morality. If her morality sometimes seemed inflexible, it wasn’t reserved only for others. She conducted herself in accordance with the strictest principles. Urbino would have been shocked to learn otherwise. He never listened to any of the gossip that circulated within the insular, suspicious society of long-established Venetians who still considered her an interloper after thirty years.
    â€œBut surely you aren’t implying that Clifford Voyd—the great Clifford Voyd—did anything that could have led that poor woman to throw herself from her window in the middle of the night? From what I understand they were great friends.”
    â€œMy dear Urbino, how much longer will you have to live before you realize that it isn’t the things we do that cause the real sorrows of our life but the many, many things we don’t?” Then, as if he might have missed her point, “Sins of omission, you know.”
    Yes, he knew. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I accuse myself of not … The list was by now too long to contemplate.
    â€œWhat is it that the great Clifford Voyd didn’t do?”
    â€œHe didn’t see what he should have, that she was in love with him, that she felt encouraged, that she hoped.”
    â€œThey were friends.”
    She took a sip of tea before she said with emphasis, the cup still in her hand, “In that kind of friendship it’s always the woman who suffers. Such men should know themselves better. They should curb their charm.”
    It was as if she were talking about such men getting their hair cut or dressing down for certain social occasions.
    â€œVoyd does have a great charm—and a great talent.”
    â€œIs it so great, his talent?” she asked, echoing what she had asked earlier about Margaret Quinton.
    â€œYou know it is, Barbara. You’ve read his books. He’s one of the best. He’s won all the prizes except the big one and his name is on the list every year.”
    â€œAll that isn’t good enough for me. It wasn’t good enough for Margaret Quinton either.”
    Once again she stared out at the Piazza. It had started to rain and people were taking shelter under the arcades. Something seemed to catch her attention.
    â€œDon’t be upset, Urbino,” she said, turning back to him, “but it’s Stefano.”
    He had no idea why she thought he might be upset. He looked out the window to see Stefano Bellorini hurrying across the Piazza from the Mercerie, his head with its fringe of fading Venetian-red hair angled against the rain.
    The Contessa must have realized he was puzzled by her comment.
    â€œI mean about being interrupted,” she clarified.
    From the slight frown that worried her face, however, it seemed that she was the one upset by the entrance of the craftsman. She had just time to tell him that Bellorini wanted to show her the sketches for the frames he was making for some small family photographs of hers before the man hurried into the room and came up to their table.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Barbara, but I can’t find them,” he said before even saying hello.
    The fiftyish Bellorini looked crestfallen. He took out a handkerchief to dab at the top of his head. Droplets of water glistened in his full beard and moustache that had most likely been grown to compensate for the almost complete absence of hair above. Bellorini had the understandable vanity of a man whose youthful good looks had been cruelly treated by time. One of the few remnants was his deep blue eyes that hadn’t faded with age. They were troubled now.
    â€œI told you there wasn’t any need to bring them here. They can wait until this evening. You’ll find them.”
    â€œBut to bring business to your celebration, Barbara!”
    He took off his glasses and wiped them.
    â€œI was just trying