Free The Lying Tongue by Andrew Wilson

beautiful relationship?”
    I clicked back to the five thousand hits and scanned down the list for clues. More bibliographies, more potted outlines of Crace’s life, but nothing deeper, nothing more detailed. What about that woman, Mrs. M. Shaw? A surge of adrenaline flowed through me as I tapped in her name and Crace’s in the search engine. I bit into my left thumbnail as I waited for the results. I was sure I was onto something. The tiny circular computer icon whizzed around the screen for what seemed like several seconds too long before it flashed up the message, “No search results.” I repeated the process using the surnames only but just got some useless genealogical information about a family in Fort Worth that happened to have the two names in their conjoined history. I was about to tap in Lavinia Maddon’s name when I looked at the clock at the top right-hand corner of the screen. It read 10:14 AM . I only had three-quarters of an hour to do the shopping and get back to the palazzo.
    Just before I was about to end my session, I clicked back to my initial search results and scrolled down one more time. Buried amidst all the extraneous material—the duplicate entries, the posted discussions about the merits of the film versus the book, and gossip about various cast members of the movie—was one entry that began with the words, “Writer Gordon Crace finds tenant dead—suicide.” I double-clicked on it, my heart beginning to beat faster. The details were sketchy, but it was obvious someone had posted the information culled from a newspaper report back in August 1967. I scanned the story for a name of the dead person, but nothing came up. I terminated my internet session, paid at reception and rushed out. Thankfully, Billa, one of the few proper supermarkets in the whole of Venice, was nearby in Zattere.
    I shopped manically, throwing groceries—fresh fruit and vegetables, bread, olive oil, coffee, cold meats and cheese—and more cleaning materials into the trolley as I steered my way through the supermarket. After queuing up and paying for the shopping, I realized that I still had enough money left to get a water taxi back to the palazzo—I would have to as it was already 10:45. Using my mobile, I called the central water taxi office, but I was told they didn’t have one free for another half hour, which was far too late for me. The longer I waited at Zattere, gazing across the waters at the Mulino Stucky building on Giudecca, the more anxious I became. Every one of the little speedboats that motored past was full, and my attempts to hail one were dismissed by their drivers with arrogant turns of the hand and supercilious expressions. Just as I was about to give up hope, a vaporetto surrounded by clouds of fumes chugged down the Canale di Fusina and stopped. It was an 82, which would take me to San Zaccaria. I didn’t have time to get a ticket, but would have to risk it. The journey down the canal, between the two islands and past the baroque splendor of Santa Maria della Salute, was probably one of the most sublime experiences in the world, yet I paid no attention to the famous sights; I was too worried about what I would say to Crace when I got back. It was as if traces of guilt were smeared across my face and I was sure he would see them.
    At San Zaccaria I found—just as it was too late to really make a difference, of course—a free water taxi. After negotiating the price, the driver, a handsome muscular man with a tanned face, took hold of the shopping and helped me into the boat. It was clear he was friendly and wanted to chat; as he guided the taxi through the narrow canals toward Castello, he kept turning around and smiling, but I wasn’t in the mood. No matter how much I told myself not to worry, that I had done nothing wrong, the more uneasy I became. As we approached the side canal that led to Crace’s palazzo, I saw a flotilla of gondolas bobbing up and down in the dark water. What was it