Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Five

PIETRO’S CAR WAS A ROLLS, naturally. I was sitting in the lobby when it arrived. I had been there for almost two hours. I had become bored with my room, and, to tell the truth, I had also become a little nervous. It had occurred to me that my complacent analysis of the situation might not be completely accurate. The invitation might have been a bluff, to get me off guard so I wouldn’t be expecting violence. If the gang wanted to put me out of the way, it would be safer for them to do it in the anonymity of a large hotel rather than wait till I was Pietro’s houseguest. I had taken precautions, of course. But until the gang knew I had taken them, they wouldn’t do me any good. So I hurried myself and my suitcases down to the lobby and sat there reading my guidebook and watching the guests come and go.

Money is a great thing. When the Count Caravaggio’s car was announced, the staff of the hotel ran around like little beetles. I marched to the door escorted by two bellboys and the doorman, feeling like the queen; everybody was bowing and scraping and smiling obsequiously. The car was incredible – about a block and a half long, painted silver. I do not jest. The chauffeur and the hotel staff dealt with my two scruffy suitcases and I climbed into what is, I believe, referred to as the tonneau.

There was room back there for a small dance band, but the only occupants were Pietro and his secretary and Helena. From Pietro’s expression – and Italians have the most expressive faces of any nationality – I deduced that he had tried to get rid of Helena, but had failed, and therefore had permitted ‘Sir John’ to ride along. I got to sit next to Sir John. Everybody except Helena kissed my hand.

Pietro was resplendent in a linen suit and silk cravat. Helena wore silk slacks and a T-shirt with the insignia of a Roman yacht club. She was not wearing a bra. Her exuberant hair, and a pair of big sunglasses, covered most of her face, but the part that was visible did not look happy.

I have never seen anything like that car. It had a bar and a colour TV and a telephone and brocade curtains that swished into place at the touch of a button. I kept expecting a topless dancer to pop out of the upholstery. By the time Pietro had finished displaying its marvels, we were out in the suburbs.

‘I hope we did not keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It was Helena’s fault. She is very slow.’

Helena glared at him and he glared back. I had to agree with Smythe’s assessment. It looked as if Helena was on her way out. A sensible woman would have seen this and modified her behaviour accordingly, but Helena didn’t have much sense.

‘That’s all right,’ I said cheerfully. ‘As long as we arrive by five o’clock. I have to make a phone call then.’

As I had hoped, this announcement created a stir. Pietro stared. Smythe, beside me, shifted position slightly.

‘Telephone call,’ he repeated. ‘Dare I hope . . .’

‘It’s my Uncle Karl,’ I said. ‘Such an old fusspot. I promised I would telephone him every day. You know how these Germans are.’

Smythe, damn him, began to chuckle. Pietro looked surprised.

‘You have a German uncle? I thought you were American.’

‘He’s only an adopted uncle,’ I explained. ‘Good old Uncle Karl Schmidt. He gets absolutely hysterical if he doesn’t hear from me every single day. I don’t know what he would do if he didn’t hear from me. I’ll pay for the calls, of course.’

‘That is not important,’ said Pietro. He looked very thoughtful.

‘Oh, I think it is,’ I said. ‘I feel the rich are apt to be imposed on, don’t you? Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you are obliged to pay for my telephone calls.’

‘Mmph,’ said Pietro.

Smythe was still shaking with amusement.

‘I suppose you’ve got some document or other in the hands of your solicitors, to be opened in case you are not heard from,’ he said.

‘I mailed it off last night.’

Smythe let out a whoop of laughter. Pietro glowered at him. Helena shifted position, wobbling like a plate of jelly.

‘You make no sense,’ she said. ‘I do not understand.’

‘That’s probably just as well,’ said Smythe. ‘All right, Vicky . . . I can call you Vicky, can’t I?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘And you must call me John. You have made your point, my dear Vicky, so let’s forget business for a while. Enjoy the scenery. We will not pass this way again, as some poet has expressed it.’

Pietro’s face had been an absolute blank during this exchange. Either he was an excellent actor, or he really had no idea what we were talking about. At least I was sure about Smythe. That man’s effrontery was unbelievable.

According to legend, the founders of Tivoli were Catallus of Arcadia, who fled from his country with Evander during the war between Eteocles and Polyneices, and his son Tibertus. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it? All those names. Smythe told me this, and more, as the big car rolled smoothly along the road. He absolutely babbled. Nobody else got a word in.

I already knew that Tivoli, not far from Rome, was a favourite location for the country villas of Roman nobles. The ancient Romans went there to escape the heat of the city; the most famous of their country estates was the one built by the emperor Hadrian, the ruins of whose palace complex still stand. The Villa d’Este is the best known of the Renaissance villas. The villa and its magnificent gardens are the property of the Italian government now, but the Villa Caravaggio is still inhabited. It is like the Villa d’Este, but on a smaller scale. That means it is only as big as a medium-sized hotel. The villa itself has the usual painted and gilded reception rooms and large, draughty bedchambers, three floors of them, built around an arcaded courtyard. But the glory of the place is its gardens. There are fountains all over the place – fountains with groups of monumental statuary, fountains set in fake grottoes, fountains flowing over rocks and down stairs, fountains that suddenly explode out of nowhere and drench the unwary pedestrian. There were long avenues of cypresses and hedges higher than my head, walled gardens and covered arcades. I got a bird’s eye survey as we drove through the grounds.

When we approached the villa, Helena, seated across from me, started squirming uneasily. I couldn’t see much of her face, and it was not, at best, the most expressive of human countenances, but I realized that she was in the grip of some strong emotion – not a pleasant emotion. There were beads of sweat on her upper lip, although the air conditioning had produced a near-Arctic temperature inside the car.

The car stopped. The chauffeur leaped out and opened the door. Pietro was the first one out. He extended his hand to help me, and Smythe followed. Helena didn’t move.

‘Hurry,’ Pietro snapped. ‘Luncheon will be served shortly. The food will be cold.’

Helena pushed herself back into the corner of the seat. She shook her head violently. Bleached hair filled the interior of the car.

‘Very well, then,’ Pietro said angrily. ‘Antonio will drive you back to Rome. I told you not to come.’

Helena let out a low moaning sound and shook her head again.

‘Sit in the car, then,’ Pietro shouted. ‘Sit and melt. Sit all day, all night. Dio, what a nuisance this woman is!’

He stormed up the stairs, leaving us standing there. I looked at Smythe. He was smilmg. He was always smiling, curse him. He winked at me and then bent to look into the car.

‘Come along, Helena, don’t be foolish.’ I realized then what was wrong with the girl. She was absolutely terrified. Her lower lip was trembling, and so was the hand she hesitantly extended. Smythe took hold of her and yanked her out of the car, handling her ample poundage with ease. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Even after he had set her on her feet she clung to his hand.

‘You will protect me?’ she whispered, staring up at him. ‘You will not let it hurt me?’

‘Of course not,’ Smythe said. ‘Now hurry, do. You know how angry his Excellency gets when he is kept from his food.’

Helena tottered along, clinging to his arm. She was not my type, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her; I would have pitied anyone who was in such a blue funk of fear.

‘What are you so afraid of?’ I asked.

‘That’s a good question,’ Smythe agreed. ‘Perhaps I ought to know what I have naïvely promised to protect you from. My talents, though enormous, are limited; anything along the lines of King Kong or the Loch Ness monster – ’

‘It is a monster,’ Helena muttered. ‘A phantom. The ghost of the Caravaggios.’

‘A ghost,’ I said. ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’

‘No, it is not funny,’ Helena said. ‘It is terrible! All in black, hooded like a monk, but the face . . . The face is . . .’

She made a gurgling sound, like a blocked-up sink. It was a very effective performance. I could feel my flesh creep, even in the warm noontide.

‘The face,’ I said impatiently. ‘What about it? No, let me guess. A melting, dissolving, phosphorescent horror . . .’

‘A rotting, mummified, withered, brown, noseless horror,’ Smythe contributed.

‘A skull!’ Helena shrieked. I heard a thud behind us, and turned. The chauffeur, following with the baggage, had dropped a suitcase. He was staring at Helena with horrifled eyes.

‘Oh, a skull,’ Smythe said, yawning. ‘That’s a bit old hat, don’t you think? I liked my rotting mummy better.’

‘You laugh? It will laugh with you – a great soundless laugh like a scream of horror. I saw its teeth, two rows of blackened teeth . . . It walks the gardens by night, but who knows whether it will not soon enter the house? I have seen it once, a face of silver bone shining in the moonlight, laughing . . .’

She wasn’t pretending. The plump arm that brushed mine was icy cold.

Of course that didn’t mean that the phantom was real. It only meant that somebody had scared poor old Helena out of her socks. If something walked the grounds of the villa by night, disguised from casual strollers, there must be a reason for concealment.

Smythe seemed to be as surprised and impressed by the story as I was. I had to remind myself that the man was an accomplished actor, and as untrustworthy as a polecat.

‘It sounds perfectly dreadful,’ he said sympathetically. ‘But I shouldn’t worry, Helena; spectres of that type never come inside a building.’

‘È vero?’ Helena asked hopefully.

‘Assolutamente,’ Smythe said firmly. ‘I know something about ghosts. My ancestral home is absolutely littered with the creatures. Frightful nuisances; rattling chains all night, spotting up the floor with bloodstains that can’t be removed . . . Furthermore, you’re in luck, Helena, old thing. I’ll wager you didn’t know that Doctor Bliss here is a real expert on spooks. You tell her all about it and she’ll tell you how to deal with it. Right, Vicky?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, glowering at him. That might have been a hit in the dark, but I didn’t think so.

‘There, you see?’ Smythe patted Helena on one of the more rounded portions of her anatomy. She revived enough to wriggle and giggle at him.

The villa was a beautiful place, magnificently furnished with antiques, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate its wonders. I passed through the great hall with scarcely a glance and followed one of the maids up the stairs to my room. Smythe left us on the second floor, with a murmured apology, but Helena stuck to me like a burr. My room was a grandiose chamber, like the throne room of a doge’s palace, with a balcony overlooking the gardens and the ‘Fountain of the Baboons.’ Helena threw herself down on the bed and peered at me through her sunglasses.

‘Do you really know all about ghosts?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, sure,’ I said.

‘Then you must tell me what to do, to be safe.’

‘First you had better tell me what you saw,’ I said, sitting down beside her.

She hadn’t much to add to her original description. She had only seen the apparition once – one night in April, the last time they had visited the villa. She had had a fight with Pietro and had gone for a walk, in order to calm herself, as she put it. The vision had sent her screaming back to Pietro’s willing arms, and at her insistence they had returned to Rome the following day. She had not wanted to come back to the villa.

‘But he no longer cares for my feelings,’ she whined. ‘He forced me to come. I think he does not believe me, about the phantom. I swear to you – ’

‘Oh, I believe you. But I’m surprised at Pietro. Isn’t there a family tradition about the ghost? Many old families have such stories.’

‘He says not. But he lies, perhaps; he is a great liar, Pietro. Now tell me what to do to be safe. And,’ she added firmly, ‘do not tell me to leave this place. If I go, I will lose him. And that I cannot afford to do just yet.’

I thought she meant ‘afford’ in the most literal sense. Well, that was her business, and I do mean business. It didn’t concern me. On the whole, I preferred to have her stick around; she would distract Pietro, and I didn’t want him following me everywhere I went. I dipped into my childhood memories of horror movies.

‘You ought to have a crucifix,’ I said.

‘But I have them – many of them.’ She plucked at a chain that hung around her neck and drew out a cross. It was a handsome thing, made of platinum set with diamonds.

‘Ah, but has it been blessed by the Pope?’ I inquired seriously.

‘No . . .’ Helena took off her sunglasses, frowning. ‘But I have some that were.’

‘Wear one of them, then, all the time. You should be perfectly safe then.’

‘That is all?’ She sounded disappointed.

‘You weren’t wearing it when you saw the ghost, were you?’ I assumed she hadn’t been wearing it, or much else; the quarrel had occurred late at night. ‘Oh, well. To be perfectly sure, what you should do is hang some garlic at every window and door. And over the fireplace, if there is one. Iron is good, too. Something made of iron over each opening – door, windows – ’

‘What else?’ She sat up, hands on her knees, eyes bright.

‘Well,’ I said, getting into my stride, ‘holy water. Can you get some?’

‘Sì’, sì’. I sprinkle it on me, eh? That is good. And perhaps garlic too, on a chain with the crucifix?’

I was about to agree when I realized that Pietro might balk at embracing the lady if she were reeking of garlic. I didn’t want to break up that romance; it would keep him out of my hair.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The crucifix and the garlic don’t go together. They cancel each other, capisce?’

‘Ah, sì. It is sensible.’

‘That should do it. Stay in at night, of course. Ghosts do not walk by day. And,’ I added cunningly, ‘you are perfectly safe when you are with Pietro. He is the lord of the manor. It is his ghost; it won’t bother him.’

‘Sì’, sì’; how clever you are, Vicky!’ She beamed at me. Like most simple souls, she was easily convinced. She hoisted herself to her feet. ‘I will dress now. It is time for lunch.’

I had suspected it might be. Somewhere in the depths of the villa someone was banging on a gong, and had been doing so for some time.

I ran a comb through my hair and followed the sound of the gong, which had assumed a slightly hysterical resonance. The closer I got, the more outrageous the noise became; I had my hands over my ears when I came upon it – a mammoth structure as big as the one that is banged in old Arthur Rank movies. Pietro was swatting it with a huge mallet. His tie was up under his left ear and his face was bright red with anger and exertion. When he saw me he dropped the mallet. The gong shivered and echoed and died, and I took my fingers out of my ears.

‘It is too maddening,’ Pietro exclaimed. ‘The boy is always late; never is he on time; and now Helena too. And Sir John, where is he? They all conspire to keep me from my lunch. I suffer from a rare disease of the stomach, my doctor tells me I must eat at regular hours.’

‘I was late too,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know about your rare disease.’

Pietro straightened his tie, mopped his face, smoothed his hair, and smirked at me.

‘But for you it is different. You are a guest. I should have given you more time. Come, we will go in. We will not wait for them.’

We didn’t have to wait long for Helena and Smythe. She gave me a big grin as she entered; her crucifix, of gold and pearls, was prominently displayed. Smythe followed her in and took a seat next to me.

The meal was a pattern of the others I was to eat in that house. The boy never appeared at all, nor did the dowager. Pietro explained that his mother often dined in her rooms. That was almost all he said. Smythe didn’t contribute much either. He seemed preoccupied. As soon as we had devoured the vast quantities of food, Pietro went staggering out to take a nap. Helena followed him, and I caught Smythe’s arm as he passed me on his way to the door.

‘Don’t you think it’s time we had a talk?’ I asked.

I forget whether I’ve mentioned that he was just about my height – an inch or so taller, maybe, but the heels on my sandals made up the difference. We were eyeball to eyeball as we stood there, but by some alchemy he managed to give the impression that he was looking down at me – down the full length of his nose.

‘I suspect it will be wasted effort on my part,’ he drawled. ‘But I’m willing to give it another try. Let’s stroll in the gardens, shall we?’

‘How romantic,’ I said.

It might have been, if someone other than Smythe had been my escort. The cool tinkle of the fountains followed us through shady walks and avenues lined with flowering shrubs. When I tried to talk, Smythe shushed me.

‘May as well find a quiet spot,’ he said.

We rounded a corner, and I jumped six feet off the ground. Straight ahead was a giant monster’s head carved of stone. It was so big that the open mouth was taller than I am. Its snarling expression and horned, serpent-entwined head would have been startling even in miniature.

‘I suppose that’s your idea of a joke,’ I said, getting my breath back.

‘Sorry. I forgot the damned thing was there. It’s not a bad place for a private chat, actually. Come on in.’

He walked through the mouth, stooping slightly to avoid the stone fangs that fringed it.

I followed him. The stone of which the atrocity was carved was a rough, dark substance, pumicelike in texture, but much harder. Lichen and moss had grown over the surface like peeling skin. It was a singularly unappealing piece of work.

The hollow head had been fitted up as a summer house. Light came in through the eyes and mouth and nose slits, but it was still pretty dark. Smythe sat down on a bamboo chair and waved me towards another.

‘Are there any more little charmers like this around?’ I asked.

‘Several. The ninth count got the idea from a friend – Prince Vicino Orsini – back in the sixteenth century.’

‘I’ve read about the Orsini estate,’ I said. ‘Bomarzo – isn ‘t that the name of it?’

‘I don’t remember. It’s about fifty miles north of Rome. Quite a tourist attraction, I understand.’

‘Never mind the guidebook excerpts,’ I said. ‘I want – ’

‘My dear girl, you introduced the subject.’

‘Consider it finished, then.’

‘Did you really leave a letter with your solicitor?’

‘I left a letter, but not with my solicitor. I don’t have a solicitor. I admit that the evidence I’ve collected so far isn’t conclusive. If it were, I’d go to the police. But I’m sure you will agree that my demise or disappearance would confirm my suspicions in a particularly inconvenient fashion.’

‘Inconvenient for us, certainly. We don’t want publicity.’

‘Then what do you intend doing about it?’

‘About what?’ His left eyebrow lifted.

‘Why, this – the plot – the . . .’

He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on his flat stomach, and smiled at me.

‘Really, Victoria, you’re being unreasonable. I don’t see why I should do anything. It’s up to you to take action, I should think. What are you going to do?’

‘Find out all about the plot,’ I said. ‘Then go to the police and have you all put in jail.’

‘How very unkind of you. I do think you are jumping to conclusions. What makes you suppose this is a police matter?’

I got a grip on myself. His nonchalant, oblique style of conversation was affecting mine; we were talking around the subject and not saying anything.

‘You seem to know all about me,’ I said. ‘I suppose you checked up on me after I gave you my name. You know where I work; you also know that your man in Munich – ’

‘Lovely title for a thriller,’ he interrupted.

‘It’s been done. Stop interrupting. Your man in Munich is dead, and you know he had the Charlemagne talisman – ’

Smythe sat upright. His smile had faded, and his eyes were bright and speculative.

‘So that was it. No, I didn’t know what had stimulated an employee of the National Museum to burglary, but the mere fact was enough to make us suspicious of you. Even so, my dear, the existence of the talisman is irrelevant. What a nasty suspicious mind you must have, to leap to the conclusion that our pretty little copy meant larceny.’

‘Where you made your mistake was having me kidnapped,’ I retorted.

‘You don’t suppose I would do anything so stupid?’ Smythe demanded scornfully.

‘Who did, then?’

‘None of your business. Good Lord, girl, you didn’t really imagine I was going to blurt out a detailed confession as soon as you had me to yourself? You can’t prove a bloody thing. You can sit here till moss grows on you, and you still won’t be able to prove anything.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really. We have our tracks very nicely covered, I assure you. You won’t learn anything here, but it is possible that you may get into trouble. My colleagues are harmless souls, on the whole, but one or two of them . . . I spoke quite sharply to them about kidnapping you, and I hope it won’t happen again. But I can’t promise, and I’m damned if I’m going to make a habit of rescuing you. Why the hell don’t you go away?’

‘You wouldn’t be so anxious for me to leave if there were nothing to be learned here,’ I said.

‘Rudimentary Logic One. How to Construct a Syllogism. That doesn’t follow, you know. I told you, I am not completely certain of my colleagues’ reliability.’ His tone changed. He leaned forwards, his blue eyes softening. ‘Look here, Vicky, it’s really quite a harmless little plot. Why can’t you drop it?’

‘If I knew all about it, I might agree with you,’ I said sweetly.

Smythe opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he fell back in his chair and started to laugh.

‘No, no,’ he said, between chuckles. ‘I was tempted to spin you a pleasing yarn. I could do it, you know. But you have a mind that is almost as twisted as mine. You’d never believe me, would you?’

‘Frankly,’ I said, throwing tact to the winds, ‘I wouldn’t believe you if you told me the sun rises in the east. Why don’t you give it up? If the plot is that harmless, it can’t be worth much. I’m very persistent, and my friends already know quite a lot about you.’

Gravely Smythe removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, waved it in the air, and then returned it to its place.

‘The parley is over,’ he said. ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I am going back to the house; I have work to do. Coming?’

‘I’m beginning to like this place,’ I said. ‘I think I shall stay awhile.’

Smythe walked to the mouth – the door, that is. He turned. Against the sunlight he was a dark paper shape, a silhouetted shadow. I couldn’t see his features, but when he spoke his voice had lost its humorous tone.

‘I admire your bravado, Vicky. But don’t push it too far. There are things that walk in the garden here – and not only by night.’

Which was a nice thought to leave with a girl who was sitting inside a monster’s head.

I fell asleep out there in the monster’s head, lying on a nice soft chaise longue. It was very unusual for me to do that. I never sleep in the daytime. I don’t usually eat lunches like that one either, with almost half a bottle of very potent wine.

Things started to liven up at about four o’clock, when Pietro rose from his nap – if that’s what he was doing up there in his room. As I was to learn, he was usually somnolent and lazy in the morning, but he revived, like a night-blooming cereus, as twilight approached, and by midnight he was going strong.

He was a rather engaging little man. Unlike many blasé millionaires, he really enjoyed life. Not that I’ve known that many millionaires; I base that statement on what I read in magazines. Wine may have contributed to his joie de vivre. He started drinking as soon as he got up, and continued until he collapsed. He drank fairly slowly, just a little bit faster than his body could absorb the stuff, so it took him quite a while to get loaded. He passed through several distinct stages along the way. The first sign of inebriation was a profound intellectuality. He would talk about history and politics and philosophy, using a lot of long words and quotations from Greek philosophers I had never heard of. He invented them, I think.

As the dinner hour approached, sensuality replaced the lure of the intellect. If I was alone with him during that period I had to keep moving, but eating used up most of his libidinous urges, and after dinner he became soft and sentimental. That was when he played old Nelson Eddy-Jeanette MacDonald records on his huge hi-fi and tried to do Viennese waltzes.

The belligerent mood succeeded this one, but being a noble Italian, Pietro wanted to fight with swords instead of fists. During these hours he often challenged people to duels. At about midnight he became quite vivacious and told a lot of old jokes and did vaudeville routines. He fancied himself as an amateur magician. He had all the paraphernalia, including one of those trick boxes for sawing a lady in half, but by that time his hands were getting unsteady, and even the housemaids refused to be sawed. Sometime in the early hours of the morning he collapsed and was carried off to bed by his valet and Mr Smythe. I don’t know what he needed a mistress for, unless it was during the pre-dinner hour.

It was during the intellectual stage that first evening that he decided to show me his collections. He warned me that it would take days to study them properly; this was just a quick run-through, to give me a chance to decide what I wanted to concentrate on.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things. Museums are my favourite hobby, as well as my profession. But that was a unique experience. The objects he showed me were not museum pieces, they were part of the furniture.

‘But what about thieves?’ I said, midway through the tour. ‘This place is wide open, Pietro; anybody could get in.’

‘But how would they get out? Carrying that . . .’ And he gestured at a greater-than-life-size marble torso of Hercules that stood on a pedestal in the salone. ‘You would need a truck, would you not, and a block and tackle. It is not easy to put such an apparatus into my drawing room.’

‘That’s right, I guess.’ The little man wasn’t as foolish as he looked. ‘But what about the smaller objects?’

‘There are many servants, even when I am not in residence. My housekeeper checks the inventory daily. As for the very small, very valuable objects, naturally I keep them in my safe.’

‘Things like jewellery?’ I said.

‘Ah, you like jewellery?’ Pietro patted my arm, and for a minute I thought the sensual phase was arriving a little early. But he went on, ‘That I keep in the vault. You would care to see it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, wide-eyed. ‘I just love jewellery.’

‘Ah, women,’ sighed Pietro. ‘You are all alike – even you clever ladies are like all the others where jewels are concerned.’

The safe was a small room, right next to his sitting room upstairs, and he had sense enough to stand between me and the combination lock as he opened it.

‘It is changed yearly,’ he explained, twirling knobs. ‘A little person comes from the bank.’

At his suggestion I sat down on a velvet divan and he brought out boxes, which he piled on a low table in front of me. Then he started opening the boxes.

For half an hour or so I forgot I was a well-educated, cynical specialist, gainfully employed in a museum. I wallowed in jewels.

The pieces that really got to me were the Renaissance jewels. There was a pendant of gold and enamel, with a mermaid made out of a Baroque pearl. Its contours formed the mermaid’s torso; her raised arms and flowing hair were gold. The scales of her fishtail were made of roughly polished emeralds. And there was a necklace two feet long, made of stones as big as the end of a man’s thumb – emeralds and rubies and amethysts and topazes. Another necklace was of square-cut rubies framed in gold, with a cabochon ruby the size of a bantam hen’s egg dangling from the centre. There was a headdress like one I had seen in a Botticelli painting – fine bands of gold supporting a star sapphire with stylized flower petals all around it. A star-shaped brooch set with pearls and rubies and emeralds framed in twisted gold wire. Rings . . .

I tried to look at these jewels with a critical eye, but it wasn’t easy, because Pietro insisted that I try them on. Rings on my fingers, bells on my toes . . . He was getting to the amorous stage. I was absolutely clanking with jewels when the door burst open and Helena stormed in.

Alas, it appeared that we were no longer buddies. She glared at me and burst into impassioned speech.

‘So this is where you are! You give this to her – never have you let me have so much as a miserable little ring, and you shower this – this – ’

What followed was a fascinating excursion into Roman gutter slang. I had never known there were so many different words for a lady of ill repute. Pietro stood it for a while, and then he let out a roar.

‘Silenzio! How dare you come here and use such vulgar language to a lady? A learned lady, who comes to study my collection! She is – she is writing a book, which will make me famous, is that not so, Vicky?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I surely am. You surely will be.’

Helena started to speak again, but Pietro shouted her down.

‘Go! Go and learn manners. I do not give you so much as a ring, no! These jewels have been in my family for centuries. They belong to the Contessa Caravaggio, not to a – a – ’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, as he glanced apologetically at me. ‘I know what you mean. You had better put the jewels away, Pietro.’

And – I hate to admit it, but I must – as I started to remove the ornaments from my fingers and throat and breast, my hands were stiff and reluctant. That was when I first began to understand the lure of precious jewels – a violent emotion that has prompted a good deal of bloodshed over the centuries.

It wasn’t until I got back to my own room and began getting ready for cocktails that I could think sympathetically of Helena.

If those damned pieces of crystallized carbon affected me as they had done, what must they do to Helena? I will do myself some justice; it wasn’t only the value of the stones that fascinated me, it was the beauty of the workmanship. The Renaissance jewellers weren’t simply craftsmen, they were the great artists of the period. Cellini was a sculptor as well as a goldsmith; Ghirlandaio, Verrocchio, and Michelozzo worked as jewellers. The ‘Doors of Paradise,’ those matchless bas-reliefs at the Baptistery in Florence, were designed by a goldsmith named Ghiberti.

The unknown workman who had copied the Charlemagne talisman was in good company. I wondered if any of the jewels I had seen that day were fakes.

I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about fakes. It isn’t a single subject, it is a dozen subjects, because the techniques used in imitating jewellery, for instance, obviously differ from the methods used for porcelain or paintings. But all imitations have one thing in common, and that is this: if they are well done, it is practically impossible to tell them from the real thing.

The stuffier connoisseurs and art critics like to think they can spot a fake masterpiece by its stylistic failings alone. After all, if Rembrandt was so great, he should not be easy to imitate. This is a nice theory, but it is wrong. Every single museum in the world, including the snootiest, has objects tucked away in the basement that their experts would like to forget about – forged paintings and sculptures that they paid through the nose to get because they thought the pieces were genuine. Oh, sure, once a piece of art is known to be a fake – because the forger confessed, or chemical tests exposed it – then it’s easy to pick the thing apart. ‘The drapery in the imitation Greek bas-relief is not as crisp and sure as in the original . . .’ Bah, humbug. The best of the experts have been fooled.

Take the case of Van Meegeren, who was probably the most famous and most successful art forger the world has ever known. If he hadn’t confessed, his fake Vermeers would still be featured in museums. His was a rare and lovely case of poetic justice, because he had to confess in order to save himself from a far more serious charge. During the German occupation of Holland, Van Meegeren sold one of his paintings to that clod Goering, who thought he was a connoisseur. Goering believed he was buying a genuine Vermeer, of course. Unfortunately, so did the Dutch government, and after the war, when they were catching up with traitors and quislings, they arrested Van Meegeren on a charge of collaborating with the Nazis – specifically, for selling national art treasures. The really amusing thing about the case was that when Van Meegeren confessed to faking dozens of Vermeers, the art world refused to believe him. What – the great ‘Supper at Emmaus’ a fraud? Nonsense. It was obviously by Vermeer; in fact, it was his masterpiece! Not until Van Meegeren painted a new Vermeer, in his cell in the city jail, were the sceptics convinced. Then – such is human nature – they all started picking flaws in the paintings they had once hailed as treasures.

I knew something about how paintings are faked. I also knew that the only sure way of detecting a good forgery is by means of chemical and physical tests. For instance, a careless modern forger might use paints such as synthetic cobalts, ultramarine, or zinc white, which weren’t manufactured until the nineteenth century. But a good forger would avoid such sloppy errors. Van Meegeren was careful to use only the pigments obtainable in Vermeer’s day. They are still available; there are no ‘mystery pigments’ or unknown techniques. Most forgers know enough to use old canvases, and they are skilled at imitating things like cracks and wormholes and patinas. There are all kinds of tricks. I’m sure – and any honest art historian will admit it, after a drink or two – that there are still lots of forgeries adorning the sacred halls of the world’s great museums. As for private collectors, they are hopelessly outclassed, especially if they buy things of questionable origin. They daren’t consult appraisers or scholars if they suspect the objects are stolen.

I felt sure that a great deal of antique jewellery had been faked, too, but the only piece I could remember reading about was the Saitaphernes tiara. A tiara is not necessarily a delicate half crown like the ones worn by fairy princesses. This piece was shaped like a tall pointed hat made of thin gold and covered with embossed scenes and inscriptions. The inscriptions had been copied from genuine Greek texts, so they sounded authentic, and the workmanship was good enough to fool the boys at the Louvre, who bought it for that great collection! The jeweller was a Russian named Rouchomowsky. Like Van Meegeren, he had a hard time making the art world accept his confession when he finally broke down. Again let me repeat – there are no lost techniques. Rouchomowsky had learned how to perform the ancient art of granulation – designs formed by tiny beads of gold, no bigger than grains of coarse sand, each one of which is individually welded into its place. Some of his forgeries were excellent copies of ancient Etruscan goldwork.

If Rouchomowsky could do it, so could someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this gang had an undetectable racket. The only certain method of detecting fakes is by scientific tests, and if you use authentic materials, there is no way in the world they can test wrong. Gold is gold. It varies in purity, of course, but a careful faker would make sure he used the same type normally employed by the Greek or Renaissance craftsmen he was copying. Imitation jewels used to be easy to spot, but nowadays, since the discovery of synthetic jewels, a well-made piece can virtually defy laboratory tests. I wondered why Schmidt was so sure he had the genuine Charlemagne talisman. If I had been in his shoes, I would have taken good care of both of them.

I put on my one long dress – black jersey, very slinky – and took out my own personal jewellery collection. I must say it looked rather tacky.