Brunetti turned his attention to the husband. ‘Do you have any memory of seeing this man, Doctor? Or of seeing someone who might have been the other one?’

The white-haired man shook his head. ‘No. As I told you, my only concern was my wife. When I heard her shout, everything else went out of my head, so I couldn’t even tell you which people from our group were there.’

Brunetti turned back to the woman and asked, ‘Do you remember who was there, Doctor?’

She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall the scene yet again. Finally she said, ‘There were the Petersons; they were standing to my left, and the man was behind me on the right. And I think Lydia Watts was on the other side of the Petersons.’ She kept her eyes closed. When she opened them she said, ‘No, I don’t remember anyone else. That is, I know that we were all there in a bunch, but those are the only ones I can remember seeing.’

‘How many people are in your group, Doctor?’

The husband answered, ‘Sixteen. Plus spouses, that is,’ he immediately corrected. ‘Most of us are retired or semi-retired doctors, all from the North-east.’

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

‘At the Paganelli,’ he answered. Brunetti was surprised that a group that large could find room there, and that Americans would have the good sense to choose it.

‘And this evening, for dinner? Is the group scheduled to eat somewhere in particular?’ Brunetti wondered if he could perhaps locate them all and talk to them now, while whatever memories they had would still be fresh.

The Crowleys exchanged a glance. The man said, ‘No, not really. This is our last night in Venice, and some of us decided to eat on our own, so we don’t have any plans, not really.’ He gave an embarrassed smile and added, ‘I guess we’re sort of tired of eating with the same people every night.’