The Malcontenta

21

Brock was right about the spring. The sun was blazing down over Rome and sparkling on the aircraft bodies on the tarmac. The sense of unreality, of not knowing what she was doing there, whether on a treasure hunt or a wild-goose chase, was heightened by the sight of Brock waiting for her beyond the barrier, beaming in shirt-sleeves and a pair of dark glasses like one of the Blues Brothers or a mafioso.

‘Any bags?’

‘No, just this. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying.’

He gave her a big smile and led her out to the short-stay car park, where he fished out the keys for a Polo convertible and threw her bag in the boot. She noticed his cases were in there too. From the airport they drove out towards the autostrada and on to the Ai, heading north.

‘We’re not staying in Rome, then?’ she shouted.

He shook his head. The open top discouraged conversation, so she settled back in her seat to enjoy the unfamiliar countryside sliding past in the bright sunlight, happy to substitute the Autostrada del Sol for the usual Motorways of Murk.

After less than an hour he signalled right and took the exit for Orvieto, and she sat up and watched as the little city, perched on the flat top of its volcanic plug, came into view. They wound their way up the surrounding cliff and parked behind the cathedral.

‘I thought you might be ready for some lunch before we go any further. Let’s stretch our legs.’

They walked through the cathedral with its blue-and-white candystripe nave, and then down a narrow lane until they reached the main street in the city centre, and finally found a table outside a small restaurant, overlooking the stream of people passing by.

Brock rubbed his hands. ‘We must try the local wine.’

He ordered a bottle while they examined a menu. Kathy settled for lasca, a speciality from nearby Lake Trasimeno, and Brock chose cannelloni. He asked her about her flight, her flatmates and half a dozen other unimportant things until the wine arrived. Then he raised his glass in a toast: ‘To absent friends.’

He didn’t offer an explanation, and she sipped at the wine, cool and fragrant.

He set down his glass and sighed. ‘Well, you’d better tell me what’s been going on,’ and she told him what she knew.

He shook his head when she had finished. ‘You can never be sure, I suppose, but I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it. Not like that. Dear God, it was savage, Kathy, the way her throat was cut. One single stroke, hard, decisive, absolutely unflinching. Her head was almost off. That’s not Geoffrey Parsons in a month of Sundays.’

She nodded agreement, and they sat in silence for a while until the waiter approached.

‘How did your paper go down, anyway?’ Kathy asked, brightening with the appearance of the food.

‘Oh, quite well. I’d been dreading the whole thing actually, but it was quite fun, as it turned out.’

‘Fun? A conference on catching serial killers?’

He managed a laugh, even though his mouth was full of pasta.

‘There was a good paper from a young American on chance and coincidence. I suppose somebody had to work chaos theory into it somehow, but he did it very well. He went back to Jung and Koestler and so on, and he had the most fascinating case-studies from America in which completely convincing but quite inexplicable coincidences appeared, which either misled or guided the police. With a long series of murders, of course, you get more opportunities for random things to creep in. But some of them were extraordinary, almost as if a third hand were at work. That’s the thing about life, I suppose, as against fiction. Quite strange but innocent coincidences do happen. You’re trying to construct a logic to lead you along the hidden thread, and you have to remember that sometimes the most beautiful alignment of events may actually be quite meaningless.’

Brock paused for another sip of the Orvieto wine, then continued.

‘Like the fact that the translation of Alex Petrou’s physiotherapy certificate was authenticated by the British embassy in Rome, not Athens — do you remember that? I thought at the time, What a coincidence, that’s where I’m going in a few weeks. Of course that was a meaningless coincidence, except that it did mean I could ask one of the Italian people I got to know here to try to find out what Petrou had been doing in Rome a year ago, just before he came to England. It wasn’t likely to be important, except that, when he came back with the answer, it suggested all sorts of other coincidences that were so beautiful, just like in the young American bloke’s paper, that I couldn’t resist finding out more.’

And finally Kathy realized that Brock wasn’t just wasting time, and with an enormous sense of relief she put down her knife and fork and stared at him. ‘You’ve found something out.’

‘Well, now, try this one. Petrou had been in Italy for six months. He had come from Greece and before that from the Lebanon, where his family had businesses. They finally quit Beirut about four years ago and moved back to Athens, where Alex trained as a physio. I don’t know why he came to Italy originally, but he got a job at a clinic, not in Rome but in Vicenza, up in the north. Now that is a rather promising coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

Kathy shook her head, ‘Not off-hand.’

‘Vicenza was the home of Palladio, the sixteenth-century architect of the Malcontenta, the house which was the model for Stanhope House, the place where Alex was next going to show up.’

Kathy frowned doubtfully.

‘Too thin?’ Brock asked. ‘Well, let’s go on. The reason why Stephen Beamish-Newell established his clinic in the English Malcontenta was that his first wife found the place for him and was attracted to it because she recognized its source. And she recognized its source because she herself came from …’

‘Vicenza,’ Kathy whispered, feeling a prickling along her spine.

‘Right, Vicenza. Her family has lived in the city for generations. When she was eighteen they sent her to polish up her English at one of the language schools in Cambridge, and there she fell in love with a charismatic medical student. They married and eventually her family, being well off, provided the funds for them to set up their clinic. When her marriage fell apart, Gabriele returned to her family home and reverted to her maiden name, Montanari.’

‘And she was there when Alex Petrou was there?’

Brock nodded. ‘She still is.’ He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and spread it on the table. It was a photocopy of a newspaper photograph of an attractive middle-aged woman in evening dress climbing the front steps of a building, accompanied by an older man in black tie. ‘Gabriele Montanari and her father, at their last public appearance, for a charity ball in Padua last Christmas.’

‘Do we know if she met Petrou?’

Brock shook his head. ‘No, we don’t know that. But, there’s a final coincidence: Papa Montanari turns out to be a shareholder of the clinic where Petrou was working.’

Kathy smiled. ‘They must have met.’

‘We do know that Petrou was getting himself into trouble in Vicenza. There were complaints to the authorities, suggestions of extortion. He lost his job at the clinic and would probably have been picked up by the local police if he hadn’t suddenly left Italy of his own accord. So what do you think of those coincidences?’

‘Compelling.’

‘I made a call home to Immigration and discovered that Petrou entered England at Dover, on a cross-Channel ferry from Calais. I’m also told that he bought the ticket at Calais, which suggests he didn’t have a through ticket on a train. In other words, someone might have driven him up from Vicenza and put him on the boat.’

‘What date was that?’

Brock consulted his notebook. ‘April Fool’s Day, last year. He started at Stanhope Clinic two days later.’

‘Quick work, if he didn’t have any contacts.’

‘Quite. And Stanhope isn’t exactly just off Piccadilly. It’s not the sort of place you’d run into by chance.’

They finished their meal and prepared to make a move.

‘Was she the absent friend you toasted?’ Kathy asked suddenly.

‘Who?’ Brock looked startled.

‘Gabriele Beamish-Newell’

‘Oh no. Someone else.’

‘Someone you’d like to be sharing a bottle of Orvieto with in some Italian hill-town.’

Brock gave a little nod and turned to go.

They reached Vicenza in the late afternoon. Brock had some scribbled notes by means of which he got them to the west gate of the old city, the Porta del Castello, and into the Piazza del Castello just beyond. There Kathy was introduced to her first Palladian building, the unfinished Palazzo Giulio Porto, in front of which they left the car and went in search of their hotel on foot. The owner of the Albergo Tre Re, when they eventually found it, advised them of a more suitable parking spot, and by dusk Kathy was unpacking her small bag in a tiny but charming room with a partial view of the dome of the cathedral. She thought of the elegant woman in the photograph and wished that she had brought more clothes.

The following morning they strolled down the main street, the Corso Andrea Palladio, until Brock, consulting his notes, led them down a side-street to a small square. There they established themselves at a table outside a small cafe and ordered breakfast. Brock pointed to a dark-brown building on the far side of the square. The Palazzo Trissino-Montanari. The family home.’

‘A palazzo?’ Kathy was impressed, although the dour mass of the building didn’t stand out from its neighbours. ‘What do we do?’

‘We wait, I think. I’m rather afraid,’ he added regretfully, ‘that I’m going to have to tell lies again, Kathy. I didn’t realize how difficult it is pretending you’re not what you are. I thought I’d enjoy it, but it’ll be a great relief to be able to come clean with people again.’

‘Can’t you just tell her the truth?’

‘I think she’d clam up and call the old family lawyer in ten seconds flat. No, it’s got to be lies, unfortunately. And I’m afraid we’re going to have to be somewhat unfair to Dr Beamish-Newell.’

‘Play the “hell hath no fury” angle, you reckon?’

‘Very possibly.’

They spent the whole day, singly and together, in and around the cafe, without catching sight of anyone leaving the Palazzo Trissino-Montanari.

‘She could be anywhere,’ Kathy said, as the puzzled cafe proprietor finally presented their bill.

‘Yes. But it’s Sunday today. Maybe tomorrow will be different.’

‘If we’re doing this again, I’m going to bring a cushion. These metal chairs are all right for half an hour — no more.’

Brock nodded. ‘They design them that way on purpose.’

By the following mid-morning they had finished the previous day’s Sunday Times which Kathy had found on sale at a kiosk nearby, and were beginning to have doubts. Not a single person or vehicle had passed through the stone archway into the palazzo. And then, suddenly, she was there, stepping out into the sun.

She looked elegant and poised — a simple skirt and silk blouse, cashmere jumper loose over her shoulders, to which her auburn hair just reached. She paused and felt for the dark glasses resting on the crown of her head and brought them down on to her aristocratic nose.

‘I knew I should have brought more clothes,’ Kathy muttered.

‘Keep on her tail while I settle up with Gregorio,’ Brock said, and disappeared into the cafe.

A couple of minutes later he was hurrying along in the direction he had seen them take. At last he spotted Kathy standing at a shop window, staring at the clothes inside.

‘They’re lovely,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t afford a single thing.’

‘Where is she?’ he puffed.

‘Other side of the street, in the hairdresser’s.’

‘Oh no, she could be hours.’

They found another cafe and resumed their watch, this time insisting on paying as soon as they were served. Towards one o’clock Gabriele reappeared, her hair not noticeably shorter, and they set off again, following her into the great Piazza dei Signori, through the colonnades of Palladio’s Basilica and into a small piazza on the other side. Here, outside the Ristorante del Capitanio, she found an empty table with a white linen tablecloth, inside an area enclosed by neatly clipped, boxed hedges. It was the last free table.

‘What now?’ Kathy joined Brock at a postcard stand beneath the colonnade.

‘Follow me,’ he said, and set off towards the restaurant.

At the door the proprietor vaguely indicated that he might be willing to attend to them in due course. Brock began to speak, then paused. ‘Momento; he said, and approached Gabriele’s table. With a little bow he said, ‘Scusi … excuse me. It isn’t Mrs Beamish-Newell, is it? Gabriele Beamish-Newell?’

She looked up, surprised at first, then doubtful.

‘Brock,’ he beamed, ‘David Brock. You remember? I was one of your patients, years ago, at Stanhope! Must have been ‘80 or’81.’

She removed her sunglasses slowly and looked at him coolly. Her eyebrows were fixed in that half-way position when you’re not sure but don’t necessarily want to give offence-yet.

He laughed. ‘Of course, I didn’t have the beard then.’

‘Ah.’ Her face lightened a little, but not much.

‘You look wonderful, if you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Beamish-Newell. What an amazing surprise to see you like this! But then this is your part of the world, isn’t it? I’ve often thought of you, you know, and what a wonderful job you did for us all at Stanhope. I was thinking that only last week in fact, when I was there, and considering how much things had changed since your day.’ He shook his head a little sadly.

‘You were there last week?’ Some genuine interest registered.

‘Indeed. I go back from time to time. But …’ He frowned. ‘Oh dear. Have you been back at all recently?’

She shook her head slightly, her immaculately shaped hair brushing across the collar of her blouse. ‘No. There have been many changes?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. And especially in the past year, since … well.’ He shrugged and smiled vaguely.

‘Since what?’

‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t comment.’ Then, apparently changing the subject, ‘You know, I could say that you’re responsible for my being here. I became quite interested in the architecture of Stanhope, and through that in the work of Palladio. That’s the reason my niece’ — he indicated Kathy still standing at the doorway of the restaurant — ‘and I are here. To see it in the flesh.’

‘Your niece?’ Gabriele looked politely in the direction of his hand.

‘Yes. I’ll introduce you. Do you mind?’

He called Kathy over. ‘Isn’t that a marvellous coincidence, us looking for a restaurant for lunch, and who should I spot but Mrs Beamish-Newell, whom I’ve spoken of many times. Do you remember, Kathy?’

‘Of course.’ They shook hands.

‘I use my family name now — Montanari, Gabriele Montanari. Perhaps — ’ she looked undecided ‘- perhaps you would care to join me?’

‘Are you sure? How marvellous! We’d love that. Just for a bit. We don’t want to be in the way.’

‘Not at all. My life is very boring these days. It will be interesting to hear of Stanhope. I am expecting a friend, but …’ She shrugged.

‘Well, you just let us know when you want us to go, Gabriele. May I call you that?’

She tilted her head gracefully. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall your — ’

‘David. And this is Kathy.’

‘Your niece, yes. How nice.’

She looked carefully at Kathy, who tried not to show her surprise.

‘So, what is the latest gossip from Stanhope?’

‘It isn’t the same, Gabriele. I always believed it was you who brought the humanity to the place. These things are intangible, I know, but so important. And when you left, I was proved right. It seemed to have less … soul. More like a business. But perhaps I shouldn’t speak out of turn about your former husband.’

‘Oh, speak out of turn as much as you like, David. And his wife, what do you make of her?’

‘Mmm.’ Brock appeared to struggle to find an appropriate word. ‘What would one say? Efficient?’

‘Yes, one might say that.’

‘A trifle … cold?’

‘Efficient and cold. Yes. A bitch, in other words.’

Brock gave a little splutter and looked down, nodding his head vigorously.

‘You are smiling, Kathy. Have you met her?’

‘Yes, I have. I thought she was a bitch, too.’

‘Good, we are getting somewhere. Now, I see my friend coming. Before she arrives, tell me what happened a year ago.’

‘Oh well, there were some new staff changes. One in particular. Quite a disruptive influence, one would have to say. Charming, but …’ Brock raised his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, perhaps you would rather we left you to have lunch with your friend in peace, Gabriele. In any case, I don’t really like to speak ill of the dead.’

Her face drained of colour and she froze in her seat. At that moment a dark-haired woman in an expensive but overworked costume with gold accessories arrived at the table.

‘Gabriele, cara!’

‘Ciao, Violetta.’ Gabriele half rose, still looking shocked, brushed checks with her friend and murmured introductions.

‘You are most hospitable, signora,’ Brock said, ‘but we don’t want to intrude. We should leave you in peace.’

‘Please sit down, David. I insist.’

‘Well, in that case I insist on buying us a bottle of champagne to celebrate our fortunate meeting. Would that be in order?’

‘As you wish.’ She sat back and explained in a low stream of Italian to Violetta, who evidently spoke no English.

Violetta did enjoy champagne, however, and by the time they opened the third bottle, and the waiter had still not appeared with any food, her enjoyment of the company wasn’t in the least inhibited by the fact that Kathy spoke no Italian and Brock’s stock of phrases was pretty well exhausted. Gabriele maintained her poise, rather distant, joining in only when her friend demanded a translation of something. Kathy watched Gabriele out of the corner of her eye. She was smoking American cigarettes and building a small pile of white stubs smeared with her brown lipstick in the ashtray in front of her. Only her fingers were restless, the long nails perfectly manicured and coloured to match her lipstick.

At one point, while Brock and Violetta were deep in confused conversation, she turned suddenly to Kathy as if she knew she was being studied and said, ‘I don’t remember your uncle at all, you know.’

‘He’s usually a very quiet man,’ Kathy replied. ‘Self-effacing.’

‘Have you ever been to Stanhope?’ Gabriele asked. ‘Yes, I was there last October.’

‘Do you know what he was talking about just now? A death?’

Kathy wasn’t sure how Brock wanted to play it. ‘It was very strange,’ she replied. ‘Shocking.’

Gabriele fixed her with her dark eyes, letting Kathy see that she was used to having her way. ‘He said a staff member. Who was it?’

‘His name was Alex Petrou.’

Gabriele continued staring at Kathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kathy said sympathetically. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘Know him? Why do you say that?’

‘I could tell from your reaction it was a shock. I’m sorry.’ Gabriele shook her head, momentarily uncertain. ‘How did he die?’ she said quietly. ‘He was hanged.’

The gleaming brown finger-nails no longer moved.

The waiter’s arrival broke the silence which had suddenly descended on their table. ‘Food at last,’ said Brock.

Violetta ate energetically, apparently now concerned about the time, and finished her saltimbocca while Gabriele was still toying with hers. They exchanged words, Violetta urging, Gabriele irritated. Finally Gabriele pushed her plate away and said to Brock, ‘I am sorry, I must go. I will speak to the waiter.’

‘I’ll take care of it.’ Brock looked carefully at her.

‘Will you remain in Vicenza long?’ She was staring across the square, apparently more interested in the teenage boys on their scooters.

‘Probably not. We had thought of driving out to see the Malcontenta tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d be able to join us? Perhaps in the afternoon?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said coolly, ‘I am occupied.’

She got to her feet, ignoring Violetta’s fulsome goodbyes to Brock and Kathy. Then she lifted her cigarette packet from the table and said, ‘In the morning I am free.’

As they watched the two of them walk away, Kathy said, ‘You seem to be quite good at picking up strange women, Uncle.’

Gabriele appeared precisely ten minutes later than the time arranged. She smiled as she watched Brock try to explain to a pair of uniformed policemen why he was parked illegally within the old city walls. Then she stepped forward and came to his assistance, dismissing the officers with a couple of phrases. ‘Is this your little car? How sweet,’ she remarked to Brock. She settled herself elegantly in the passenger seat in front of Kathy and they set off.

‘It is a beautiful day for a drive,’ she said. And it was a beautiful day, the spring sun starting to dissolve the silver morning mist over the fields as they sped eastward along the autostrada towards Padua and then Venice. Gabriele waved for him to take the Dolo exit, and he slowed and followed her instructions as she directed him along quiet roads across the flat countryside. The mist became heavier and more persistent as they neared the coast, and several times Brock was forced to slow to a crawl as they came upon a particularly thick patch.

Finally they turned on to a gravel drive and, with dramatic effect, the stone bulk of the Malcontenta loomed before them. Whether it was the quality of the light or the rugged character of the stonework and pantiles, it seemed more archaic, more powerful, than its English offspring at Stanhope, which by comparison appeared fastidious and neat, a polite copy without the brooding presence of the original. Brock stopped the car and they approached on foot. The place was quite silent and deserted; no sound of a dog, voice or motor disturbed the morning quiet. They walked all round the house, seeing no sign of anyone, and returned to the car, where Brock opened the boot and took out a bag and a rug.

‘Let’s sit over by the willows and have our picnic,’ he said.

‘A picnic?’ Gabriele smiled.

‘I try to think of everything,’ he replied.

‘Yes, I rather think you do. Are you a tax inspector, Mr Brock? Or a policeman?’

Brock looked at her in surprise.

‘I am sure you were never a patient at Stanhope when I was there. I have an excellent memory.’

‘Ah.’

‘I much prefer people to be honest with me.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Brock said.

They walked over to the willows and found a stone bench, and the two women sat down. While Brock was unpacking his bag on the rug and offering them rolls and coffee from a vacuum flask, he explained to Gabriele something of who they were and what they were doing there. He outlined the circumstances of Petrou’s death but didn’t mention Rose’s murder.

After a lengthy silence Gabriele finally said, ‘This coffee tastes strange.’

‘I added some fortification,’ Brock admitted. ‘Brandy.’

‘My former husband would not approve of your drinking habits.’

He smiled. ‘Nor of your cigarettes.’

She shrugged. ‘I still have dreams about him. It took him only, oh, I don’t know, a few months, to control me. I was young, I was in love with him. I let him take control. It took me many years to recover myself again. In my dreams he still comes to claim my obedience. Every cigarette I smoke is a message to him.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘A smoke signal of disobedience.’ She opened her packet and lit up.

Kathy, sitting by her side, asked quietly, ‘How did you break away?’

‘I didn’t — he did. He had an affair with one of the nurses. I knew about it but did nothing. I thought, how banal, the doctor and his nurse, it would blow over. But she was greedy to have him and she became pregnant. We had no children — it was the one thing I hadn’t been able to give him. And when he discovered that she was having his baby, he decided that was the most important thing for him.’

She sucked in a deep lungful of smoke before going on. ‘He was very ruthless. That is the way he is when he has made up Ins mind about something. He made things impossible for me until I agreed to return to Italy and let him get a divorce. My father was very angry but he could do nothing — Stephen had found a new business partner to give him money to keep the clinic going. The irony was that they lost the baby at birth.’

She glanced over her shoulder at the Malcontenta and frowned. ‘I sometimes felt that it was the house that made us barren for him. She has never given him a child, I think.’

‘Laura?’ Brock asked.

She nodded, ‘Laura Parsons.’

‘Parsons?’ Both Brock and Kathy echoed the name.

‘Yes. She now takes his name, according to English law. But I am Catholic. In my family’s eyes he is not divorced.’

‘Laura is related to Geoffrey Parsons?’ Brock asked. She looked blank.

‘The Estates Manager at Stanhope,’ Kathy urged.

‘I know no one of that name,’ Gabriele said. ‘That must be something else she has arranged since I left.’

They sat in silence again. Kathy thought of Laura Beamish-Newell, her brother and her lost child, and adjusted her perception of the woman in the light of these new facts. If Rose was pregnant when she died, would Laura have been aware of it? And how would she have reacted?

Brock said quietly, ‘Tell us about Alex Petrou, Gabriele.’

She shrugged. ‘He was not a nice man. He was working here in Vicenza at a private clinic in which my father holds an interest.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I had forgotten that it was Stephen who first made Papa consider investing in such a place. Anyway, my father mentioned this man who was causing difficulties for the clinic, a scandal. He said he was like a virus, contaminating everyone he came in contact with — men and women. And when he said that he must be made to leave, to go far away, before the reputation of the clinic was fatally damaged, I thought what a fitting present it would be for Stephen and Laura to receive such a person. It could be my final message to them both.’

She ground out her cigarette with her heel and lit another. ‘I met him and told him that he would be in big trouble if he remained in Italy. I said that, for the sake of my father, I could help him get a new job in England.’

‘And he agreed to that?’ Kathy asked.

‘I gave him some money and I insisted that I drive him to France to make sure he crossed over. He had to go to Rome first to get his papers from the British embassy. I told him things about Stephen. I knew that Stephen wouldn’t be able to resist him.’

‘You mean Stephen is bisexual?’ Kathy said.

Gabriele looked uncomfortable. ‘He … I knew that he found young men attractive.’ The corners of her mouth turned down with distaste. ‘I don’t think he ever … But perhaps these things become more difficult to deny, to control, as one gets older.’

‘You don’t believe it likely that Petrou could have killed himself?’ Kathy asked.

She stared at her beautiful finger-nails for a moment. ‘I think suicide was probably the only thing that he would not have been capable of.’

When Kathy mentioned on their return to the car that she had never visited Venice, Gabriele insisted she couldn’t leave without having done so, since it was so close. As they drove through Mira they found a pay-phone and Gabriele made a call to some friends and arranged to meet them for lunch.

Mists still shrouded the distance when they caught their first glimpse of the golden city, magically suspended in the lagoon, the unreality of its presence only heightened by the heavy odour of the oil refineries in the still air. They drove across the causeway and found a parking place in one of the autorimesse by the Piazzale Roma, then took the vaporetto along the Grand Canal as far as the Accademia, where the queue for the gallery waited patiently around the perimeter of the little square. They crossed back over the canal on the Accademia bridge and followed Gabriele through a labyrinth of narrow lanes until she brought them to an inconspicuous doorway in the sheer wall of a building. They entered and found themselves in a restaurant with a terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. Two people, a man and a woman, were waiting for them at a table on the terrace, greeting Gabriele and her companions with great warmth.

Gabriele came to life in their presence, her face glowing with enthusiasm and the formerly stiff movements of her fingers expanding into flowing gestures of her whole body as she talked to them. Kathy sat back, soaking up the warmth of their company and of the spring sunshine. She turned to Brock and said, ‘This is magic’

He peered at her over the top of his mafioso sunglasses and nodded, sipping contentedly at his vodka and tonic ‘Yes. Better enjoy it while we can. It’s back to the real world tomorrow.’

Later that afternoon in Vicenza, after they had parked the Polo near the West Gate and walked with Gabriele back to the piazza where they had first waited for her, she stopped at the doorway of the Palazzo Trissino-Montanari and turned to Brock, offering her hand. ‘Do you think I was very bad, sending that man to Stanhope?’ she asked.

‘I think it was fate,’ he replied.

And to Kathy, after Gabriele had shaken hands and disappeared into the shadows of the courtyard, he added, ‘A Greek tragedy.’