Murder in Venice

Murder in Venice A LOTTIE SPRIGG MYSTERY BOOK 1 MARTHA BOND Copyright © 2023 by Martha Bond All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. marthabond.com Contents Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35The EndThank youA free Lottie Sprigg mysteryMurder in Paris Chapter One ‘I’ve never been so humiliated,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘Or wet! If the rest of our stay in Venice is this bad, then get me back on the train this minute!’ Lottie Sprigg chewed her lip and wondered what she could say to improve her employer’s mood. Nothing came to mind. Instead, the puddle on the marble floor grew larger as water dripped from Mrs Moore’s turquoise coat, handbag and hat. The fox fur around her shoulders resembled an oversized, drowned rat. Two maids hurried into the hotel room, each carrying a pile of towels. One set about mopping up the water while another dabbed at Mrs Moore. ‘I should think I’ve caught typhoid now,’ she continued. ‘Or dysentery or some other awful disease you get from filthy water.’ ‘Hopefully not, you were only in the canal for a few seconds,’ said Lottie. ‘The gondolier pulled you out very quickly.’ ‘He’s the reason I fell overboard in the first place! He wobbled his boat just as I was stepping out.’ ‘It was an accident.’ ‘It may have been an accident, but he wobbled it all the same. Gondoliers shouldn’t wobble!’ The tumble into the canal had dampened their arrival in more ways than one. Until that point, Lottie had been marvelling at their surroundings. Stepping out of the railway station and being greeted by the Grand Canal had been like entering a painting of Venice she’d seen in a picture book. She’d sat in the gondola staring open-mouthed at the beauty of the cream and terracotta buildings. A domed church and ornate windows, pointed arches and little balconies and balustrades all gleaming in the sunshine. Everything looked like it had stood there for centuries, completely unchanged by the passage of time. Their gondola journey had taken them along the busy thoroughfare of the Grand Canal, where other gondolas, water buses and delivery boats had battled for space. Then they’d turned into a narrow, quiet canal and moored at the Grand Hotel Splendore, where the water lapped at stone steps leading up to a little arched doorway. Lottie had been too captivated by the surroundings to pay much attention to the boat rocking. The splash had broken the spell. ‘Help!’ Mrs Moore had spluttered, arms and handbag thrashing. The gondolier had stood astride the boat and steps and hauled her out. Mrs Moore - a wealthy American heiress - had been reduced to a sodden, bedraggled heap. As sorrowful as a limp fly which had just been fished out of someone’s drink. ‘I need to get out of these wet things before I catch my death,’ said Mrs Moore. The maids began to bundle together all the wet towels. ‘Would you like me to run you a bath?’ asked Lottie. ‘Yes please, although you could argue that I’m wet enough already.’ Lottie went into the bathroom and put the plug in the bathtub which stood in the centre of the room on four feet shaped like lion paws. Steam rose as she turned on the taps and hot water gushed into the tub. She found a pack of lavender bathing salts on a shelf by the sink and poured them into the water. The calming scent of lavender rose and tickled her nose. She wanted to get into the bath herself, but her employer’s needs had to be seen to first. Until a month ago, Lottie had been a maid at Fortescue Manor in the rolling hills of Shropshire, England. Her employer had been Lord Buckley-Phipps along with his wife and twelve children. During Lottie’s five years at Fortescue Manor, Mrs Moore - sister of Lady Buckley-Phipps - had been a regular visitor. When she’d announced her plans for travel and the need for an assistant, Lady Buckley-Phipps had suggested Lottie. Lottie had been elated at the prospect. Although she’d enjoyed her time at Fortescue Manor, it had been a fairly humdrum existence. She’d longed to explore the world she’d read about in books, and now - at nineteen years old - she had the opportunity. Mrs Moore had spent a few weeks in London preparing for departure, and Lottie had joined her. In her free time, Lottie had hopped onto London’s buses and trams and explored the city’s busy streets, museums, galleries and parks. She’d also accompanied her employer to restaurants, shops and the theatre. London was noisy, smoky and grimy but Lottie had loved it. Once the bath was ready, Lottie returned to Mrs Moore’s bedroom and found a bellboy unloading countless suitcases from a luggage trolley. They had been brought to the hotel in a separate gondola. The bellboy greeted Lottie in English. He was about the same age as her and wore a fitted red jacket with three columns of gold buttons. His flat red cap was secured beneath his chin with a strap, and his entire uniform was smartly trimmed in gold. Lottie told Mrs Moore her bath was ready and began moving the cases into the simple maid’s room. It was separated from her employer’s brocade furnished boudoir by a little hallway. The bellboy followed her. ‘Just a moment,’ she said, pointing at a battered case in his hand. ‘I don’t recognise that one.’ ‘It’s not yours?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Is there a luggage label on it?’ ‘I can’t see one.’ His English impressed Lottie. Presumably he