The Waters of Eternal Youth by Donna Leon

left arm hanging loose in front of her, the ends of the reins woven around her fingers, her right arm draped over the shoulder of a dark horse whose head was lowered and pressed into her stomach, showing only one eye and ear. The horse’s mouth was open, and it appeared to be nibbling at one of the buttons on her shirt.
    The girl’s hair, long and dark, was brushed back from a broad forehead. She smiled happily at the camera, fresh-­faced, caught just at the point in her life when she would begin the change from a pretty girl to a beautiful woman. Her expression asked the person taking the photo if this weren’t perhaps the most wonderful day of their lives? She wore riding boots and stood on tiptoe the better to embrace her horse.
    â€˜Pretty girl,’ Brunetti comented, only then realizing this was the first time he had seen a photo of her.
    â€˜Yes, she was, wasn’t she?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
    â€˜ “Was?” ’ Brunetti inquired.
    â€˜It was a long time ago; maybe she’s changed,’ Signorina Elettra said, then, ‘Read the articles.’
    The first, which was dated two days after the previous one, gave the name of Pietro Cavanis, Venetian, as the man who had saved the girl’s life, and named her parents, both of whom were at the girl’s bedside, waiting for her to emerge from the coma in which she had been since being pulled from the water.
    The next had appeared the same day in the other local paper and described the girl as a promising ­ equestrian – which explained the photo with the horse. Manuela was well known at her riding club near Treviso, although for some time she had not participated in competitions.
    â€˜That’s all?’ Brunetti asked as he looked away from the screen.
    â€˜Yes,’ Signorina Elettra answered. ‘What do you make of it?’
    He couldn’t let this go on any longer. ‘I’ve spoken to her grandmother.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I was at dinner with her – she’s a friend of my ­mother-­in-­law – and she said she wanted to talk to me.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘About her.’
    â€˜When did you see her?’
    â€˜Yesterday. I came up to tell you about it.’ It seemed strange to Brunetti to be sitting at her computer, she at his usual place, but he didn’t want to break the mood of their conversation by suggesting they move.
    â€˜What did she tell you?’
    â€˜About the accident,’ he said, waving at the screen, where the barest facts of the story were given. ‘The girl’s never been the same. She was under the water so long the oxygen to her brain was cut off.’ Brunetti let her consider that and then added, ‘The word she used was “damaged”.’
    â€˜Poor girl,’ Signorina Elettra whispered.
    â€˜Poor everyone,’ Brunetti added and then went on with his story. ‘The man who dived into the canal and pulled her out was drunk when he did it. Didn’t think about it, just went in after her.’ He remembered what the Contessa had told him and added, ‘It sounds like he was the local drunk.’
    â€˜The article didn’t say he was drunk,’ she said. ‘But I suppose they wouldn’t.’
    â€˜She said the police told her about him. She also said that when the police arrived, he reported that he’d seen a man throw Manuela into the water, but he was so drunk they paid no attention to him. And they were probably right because the next morning, when he woke up, he had no memory of it.’
    Signorina Elettra hopped down from the windowsill and came over to her desk. She picked up a notebook and pencil and immediately went back to where she had been sitting and asked, ‘What’s his name? I saw it in the article, but I don’t remember it.’
    â€˜Pietro Cavanis.’
    She nodded and wrote it down. ‘Did she say