CHAPTER SIX

It was the hour before dinner and everyone had gone to their rooms. They had driven back from Monte Marcello in silence; several times during the journey he quietly pressed her hand, and once he kissed it, as they waited by the toll on the autostrada. It was the most intimate silence she had ever known, a communication deeper than words. She went upstairs to her room and closed the door. She saw her reflection in the mirror and was shocked. Her face was colourless, her lipstick gone, dark shadows under her eyes. The wind on the mountain at Monte Marcello had whipped her hair; she combed it, her hand unsteady.

She had had three love affairs; one lasting two years with a boy too young to marry her when they were both at college, and a brief and unhappy respite from nursing Peter, which was over after a few weeks, and the night spent with Frank Carpenter. She couldn’t remember a moment with any one of them, when she had felt as she did in the arms of Alessandro di Malaspiga. She dropped the comb and turned away; she had cried in the grotto at Romani, and again on the ridge of that windswept hill. Now there were no tears left. He had wiped them away with his fingers, not understanding what they meant. Tears of joy, he had promised her, because he was thinking of the future. He had been happy, triumphant. She poured herself some water and sipped it slowly. She felt drained and weary.

She loved him. She faced the reality with a strange calmness. From the moment they met, the day she saw him in the long drawing room at the villa, something had sparked between them, some terrible chemistry had begun to work.

She had fought hard against it; Katharine gave herself credit for the struggle. Even though she had weakened in the early days, when Raphael told her the truth about her brother’s death, she could protest that from that moment her purpose hadn’t wavered. She had hated Alessandro di Malaspiga and feared him; nothing altered that. But now she knew she also loved him. Ruthless, a murderer, enriching himself by the most evil traffic in the world, responsible for the final extinction of hope for her brother. He talked of being judged by history. He spoke with the arrogance of a man who didn’t accept the standards of common humanity. It wouldn’t be history who passed sentence. It would be the woman who loved him. Whatever he was and whatever he had done, nothing could alter that love or change the consequences of it. The modern-minded, self-sufficient American girl who had left on Harper’s mission had been taken over by another self, a stranger, with alien feelings and traditions that were very old.

Italy and her heritage had claimed her. The New World had not been proof against the power of the Old. The respectable, conventional Dexters, with their sensible values, were a blur. Her whole life before she came to Florence was indistinct, as if it had been lived by someone else. She was a Malaspiga, in love with one of her own kin, and she knew by instinct the course that must be taken.

She could never destroy that love, but she had to destroy him. Not because of what had happened to her brother, still less for any moral reasons, but because she felt they were predestined to destroy each other. It was a decision based on a sense of fatalism, the same instinctive knowledge that had overcome her when she first came to the Castle. No human being could escape their destiny. Theirs was to find each other and to be destroyed. She was going back to the storeroom that night, to see that picture and to mark it. Through her, justice would overtake her cousin and, whatever part of her survived, it would be purged.

She changed into a plain black dress, painted her pale lips and went downstairs.

Francesca di Malaspiga was getting dressed when the door to her bedroom opened. She ran to meet him and flung her arms round his neck.

‘Carissimo—hold me!’ John kissed her, stroking the smooth black hair which was hanging down her back.

‘Make love to me …’ she whispered. ‘Make me forget this afternoon!’

‘There’s nothing to forget,’ he comforted. ‘And anyway we have each other. What do you care what he does with her—I love you!’ He moved her to the bed and began stripping off her dress. For a moment she stood naked in front of him, her white body shrouded by the long black hair.

He reached out for her. ‘One day I’m going to sculpt you like this. That will be my masterpiece.’

Later he dressed her; she took his hand and kissed it. ‘You’re so good with me,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened to me. I never thought it would be possible for me—’

‘He didn’t know how to love you,’ John Driver said. ‘You only needed patience … you’re wonderful, don’t you know that?’

‘God, if only we could be together all the time! I’ve waited so long!’

‘You won’t have to wait much longer,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that pretty soon we’re going to have our life together. I promised you that a long time ago. Remember that I love you.’ He kissed her lips and then her forehead. She bowed her head submissively. ‘Do up your hair, my darling,’ he said. ‘And hurry down. I’d better go now.’

Alessandro was walking in the garden. He had changed his clothes and come down early; his mood was exultantly happy, and yet he wanted solitude.

From the top terrace, the view stretched out over the Tuscan plain, turned golden by the setting sun. As he walked in the gardens, a lizard streaked for safety along the grey stone wall and vanished down a crevice. He climbed a flight of rough stone steps, their borders crowded with the graceful blue plumbago that grew everywhere like a weed, and at the top he lit a cigarette. It was a perfect evening, warm and peaceful; the scent of flowers and shrubs was strong. There was a step behind him and he turned. John Driver stood there.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘They told me you’d gone for a walk.’

‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ the Duke said. ‘I wanted to be alone for a few minutes.’

John didn’t respond to the hint. He sat on the edge of the wall.

‘Sandro, I’ve got to talk to you. This is crazy!’

‘Wanting to walk in my garden before I spend the evening with my family?’ The expression on the Duke’s face and the tone of his voice should have silenced the younger man. Driver scowled at the ground, crushing the feathery plumbago flowers in his hands.

‘Bringing that girl here,’ he said. ‘You know exactly what I mean. It’s crazy. You’ve never brought anyone here before. I don’t understand why you’re taking the risk.’

‘There is no risk,’ Alessandro said impatiently. ‘You’re talking nonsense. Katharine is my cousin; naturally she comes to the Castle. I brought her here because she wanted to come and because I wanted to invite her.’

‘All right,’ Driver spread both his hands. ‘All right. You bring your cousin here and show her the family home. Okay, fine. But you took her to the gallery and down to the storeroom. For Christ’s sake, why did you do it? She’s not a fool—she could notice something …’

‘I didn’t know you were so nervous,’ the Duke said, and his smile was momentarily cruel. Then it became friendly, and suddenly he put his hand on Driver’s shoulder.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not a fool either. Just because we know what we are doing, we imagine it must suggest itself to everybody else. This is nonsense. Why should Katharine suspect anything? Haven’t you heard it said that love is blind?’ Driver moved and the Duke’s hand slid off his shoulder.

‘You should keep that kind of thing for Florence,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m just a middle-class Canadian, but I wouldn’t bring it home to my family.’

‘Be careful,’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘We work together and we are friends. But there are certain limits. I don’t want to remind you of them unless I have to do so. If you have come out here to complain that I am putting our operation at risk, then I can assure you there is nothing to fear. But any personal matter concerning my cousin is nothing to do with you. I hope you understand?’

‘You know how to express yourself,’ Driver said slowly. There was a red patch on the middle of his forehead, like a blush. ‘But we’re in this thing together. I’m a partner, not a bloody lackey. I say you should send her back to Florence. Take her back yourself and let me get on with sending the consignment out.’

Alessandro trod out his cigarette. He looked at Driver calmly, with disinterest. ‘You’re not a partner, my dear John. You share in the profits but there’s no partnership. I shall do exactly what I like regarding my cousin and you will keep quiet. Otherwise it is you who will go back to Florence.’ He turned and walked away towards the Castle. Driver watched him; the patch was deeper on his forehead. It looked like a skin allergy. Alessandro had turned a corner out of sight.

‘You bastard,’ Driver said.

The Duke and Uncle Alfredo were drinking champagne in the saloon. The old Duchess came in, making an entrance out of lifelong habit, and both men came towards her.

Alessandro took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look beautiful, Mama,’ he said. The Duchess smiled.

‘Lovely, lovely,’ declared Alfredo. ‘Bella Isabella!’ He swept a low bow, at the same time removing an embroidered velvet smoking cap. The Duchess took a glass of champagne. She would have preferred a cocktail, but since her son was apparently celebrating something, she decided it would be tactless not to join him. She looked at him and wondered whether she should ask him what had happened at the water gardens that afternoon.

He was teasing the old Prince, evidently in a gay, relaxed mood. The trip must have been a success. The gardens at Romani were a family joke, a trick which had been played upon their guests since she had come to Malaspiga as a bride. One of the Count Romani’s brothers had been an admirer of hers. She remembered that isolated grotto with its effective screen of water. He had been very gallant, although a little stout and short, with a wife who was always pregnant. The Duchess drifted for a moment; it was becoming a habit, to slip away into the past, where one could choose one’s memories. Her son was not himself that night. She had always thought him as cold and controlled as his father; devoid of deep feelings except pride and ambition. As a child he had occupied a minor place in her life; reared by a nurse, educated by a tutor; she had been aware that he admired her and enjoyed dazzling the child in the nursery by displaying herself in evening dress. When he became a man and the head of the family he was a stranger, and she treated him with the same respect as she had given to his father. But she had never really known him at all. She had never seen him so happy, and she knew with a sad, jealous pang that the cause was love for someone else. When Katharine came into the room he hurried to her; taking her hand, he kissed it.

‘I’ve opened champagne for tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to celebrate. I’m very happy—you look a little pale. Drink that, it’s a fine vintage. I chose it specially for you.’ Over the glass he toasted her silently. There might have been no one else in the room. She saw John Driver come into the room; he glanced across at her and then away. He took a glass from the butler and wandered across to the old Duchess. Some moments later Francesca came through the door. She must have seen them standing together from outside because she didn’t look, she moved quickly to a chair near the fireplace. When the champagne was offered she shook her head and turned away.

‘Katharine,’ the old Duchess said, ‘how pretty you look tonight.’ She had never called another woman beautiful in her life. It was a word she reserved for herself. She gazed at Katharine for a moment, her head slightly on one side. ‘You know, you look quite different from when you first came. Don’t you think so, Sandro? Doesn’t Katharine look different? You look more Italian than American. Perhaps it’s the way you’ve done your hair.’

They were all looking at her; Driver with disapproval, Francesca with blatant hatred, but she was aware of no one but the Duke. The magnificent black eyes, blazing their message of love and pride, the chiselled lips curved in a tender smile. For a second her hand crept to her breast and touched it. She had never believed that love could be a physical pain.

‘My mother is right,’ he said. ‘Your Italian blood is coming out. You must always wear your hair brushed back like that. It makes you even more beautiful.’ At that moment the telephone began to ring. John Driver moved across to answer it.

‘When can I come to you?’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘Will you let me come tonight?’

‘Sandro,’ John called across to him. ‘The call’s for you.’

‘When?’ the Duke whispered. ‘How long must I wait for you?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Katharine said. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow.’ His lips formed a word she couldn’t understand and then he went to take the call. She could hear Driver murmuring on the telephone in the background.

‘He’s right here.’ He turned to Alessandro. ‘It’s Lars Svenson. He’s in Rome.’

The old Duchess went to bed soon after ten-thirty; they had been listening to Vivaldi on a stereo built into the room used as a general sitting room, and she had begun to doze in her chair. Katharine watched her gradually drifting away, her head on one side, cushioned into the enormous wing-backed chair, with her little feet crossed over on a foot-stool. She felt envious of the peaceful withdrawal from life which was the solace of old age. No pain, no desire, no convulsions of the spirit could trouble Isabella di Malaspiga. If she felt, it was on a scale of trivia; comfort, admiration, the cocktails which she loved, the choice of her dresses. Her vanity was her only vulnerable point. She had to be beautiful and to be told so. In the semi-shadow there was a ravishing quality about her face in repose which fascinated Katharine. Looking at the miracle of bone structure and the graceful sweep of hair against the old woman’s cheek, she thought how well the image fitted with Vivaldi’s gracious music from a different age. Fear and death and the pain of loving were held at bay for a brief moment. Then suddenly the Duchess slipped into a deeper sleep and her jaw fell open. It was like looking at a corpse. ‘Mama.’ Alessandro had seen it too and he was beside his mother, gently waking her. She opened her eyes, looked startled for a second, and then smiled up at him.

‘I think you should go upstairs,’ he said. ‘Francesca will take you.’ He bent and kissed her cheek, helping her to stand. ‘Good night.’

John Driver got up; he yawned slightly and excused himself. ‘You know, I’m tired too. I’ll take Mama up to her room.’

Immediately Katharine was on her feet ‘I’m going with you,’ she said. She looked at her cousin. ‘It must be the air here,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep awake.’

The disappointment in his eyes was quickly hidden; he gave his lazy smile and said lightly, ‘Stay for five minutes. Till the record’s finished.’

‘Why don’t you? The finale’s the best part,’ the old Duchess encouraged. ‘John and Francesca can look after me.’

‘I’m afraid I’d fall asleep,’ Katharine said. She didn’t look at the Duke. She knew what had to be done and she had made her decision to do it. She couldn’t trust herself if he made love to her a second time. Betrayal. The word came into her mind and shocked her. She loved him and she was going to betray him, but being what he was, there was no other course. She turned back and came to him. He caught her hand. ‘I won’t stay,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s been a lovely evening. Thank you.’ She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. A Judas kiss, with the same mixture of love and hatred that condemns to death.…

When she got to her own room she took off the plain black dress and changed into a skirt and sweater, with slip-on shoes. She put the marker in the skirt pocket, pulled the window curtains back so that there was light in the room and sat on the bed to wait. It was a brilliant clear night, with a full moon. It turned the marble mountains into snow, showing the clouds floating past on what must be a keen wind. Below, the lights in the town of Malaspiga were going out, until the houses and the church were eyeless in the silver light. She lit a cigarette, watching the tip glow in the semi-darkness from the curtained bed. Her room and everything in it were brilliantly illumined by the moonlight.

It was her good luck that it should be such a perfect night; finding her way to the Banqueting Hall in the dark would have been very difficult. She had gone over the plan many times during the evening, looking round her to memorize the way. It was eleven-thirty by her watch. The old Duchess was down the corridor; she didn’t know where Alessandro slept, or where the servants were, but she suspected that it was on a higher level. Eleven forty-eight. It was superstitious to wait for midnight. There was no magic in the hour, no guarantee that he would be asleep and that she wouldn’t meet him on her way downstairs. She got up, pulled her bed curtain close and went to the door. It seemed to creak when she opened it; she waited, feeling her pulse rate leaping, and very carefully looked out into the corridor. There was a light at the end, near the Duchess’s door; the rest was shadowy and silent. The stairs to the main hall, which had to be crossed first, were at the opposite end and very dark.

She went outside, gently eased her door shut and began to walk very quickly and lightly to the stairwell. It was so dark she couldn’t see beyond the first step. The stairs curved in a wide spiral downwards to the lower floor. A rope guide rail ran down the inside of the wall. She felt for this, held tight to it and stepped down. Feeling her way and following the curve of the rope, Katharine climbed downwards; once she slipped on the edge of the stair, and saved herself by grabbing the rope with both hands. At a turn in the stair she suddenly saw light.

The hallway was only a few steps below; the light came from two electric sconces set in the stone wall on either side of the iron-studded entrance doors. She waited by the bottom step, listening for any sound that might indicate another human presence. There was nothing. Slowly she stepped down into the hall; it was cold and she shivered. There was very little furniture in it, except a massive iron-bound wooden chest, so old that it was black, two chairs on either side of the fireplace which was so wide and tall that, according to Alessandro, it burned a waggon-load of wood, and a huge marble urn filled with potted plants. It looked larger and bleaker than she expected in the gloomy light. She walked across, raised on her toes with the instinctive tread of the intruder, opened a door leading into the armoury, fortunately lit by the bright moonlight through the arched windows, and hurried past into the Banqueting Hall. It was silver and grey in the light from its great central window, a place of deep shadow where the tapestries moved imperceptibly against the walls, stirred by some secret draught, and the long table could have been the feasting board of ghosts. The silence, the atmosphere, heavy and moist with the sweat of ancient stone, made it seem larger still and full of menace. She crossed at a run and came to the wall and the door to the store-room. There was a small iron loop, and she pulled. The door opened. Here it was impossible to see. Katharine felt with her hand to the right, up the wall, and when her fingers touched a switch, she snapped it on and there were the stairs she had gone down with Alessandro that morning. She pulled the door closed behind her and hurried down to the room below. Fluorescent lighting flooded it; for a moment she blinked at the contrast. There was the furniture, ready for packing. She shouldn’t have run, but she did, hearing the sound of her shoes on the stone floors and not caring, because in a few moments she would have uncovered the picture, marked the back of the canvas and be on her way upstairs again. The picture stood on its easel, shrouded in the green cloth. Someone had been back and covered the corner of frame which she had noticed. The marble children stood side by side on a table; they too had been moved since she had seen them that morning. She took the marker out of her pocket, slipping the cap off, and as she did so, she dropped it. It rolled under the table. She bent to pick it up, and decided that she had better mark the little marble busts since they were part of the consignment. She lifted the girl with both hands and slowly turned it on its side. She made a cross on the base, and as she did so, a hand fell on her shoulder and a voice behind her said.

‘Well, now … I thought I’d find you here …’

She turned with a cry of terror, knocking the marble off balance, and she was face to face with him.

Pisa had a very small airport. There was none of the streamlined bustle common to the big air terminals of Carpenter’s experience. He came down the steps and hurried across the tarmac towards the main building; inside he was swallowed by a throng of people. It was late at night, but the plane had been full. There was a Hertz office with a sleepy girl sitting behind the counter. Carpenter hired a car, watching in a sweat of impatience while she laboriously filled out the forms. It was a Fiat 127, small and fast. He checked the tank and found that it was full. He had begun to expect any factor which could cause delay. The night outside was warm and windless, bright with moonlight; over his head the Milky Way swept in a shimmering arc across the sky.

He started the Fiat and swung out on to the Pisa road. There was a lot of traffic leaving the airport and not until he had reached the perimeter of the town was he able to accelerate towards the outlet into the autostrada. He calculated that Malaspiga would be twenty minutes’ drive if he went flat out, and then at last he saw the way clear and his foot went down on the pedal until it was slammed against the floorboards. He blessed the straight, two-lane Italian highway, remembering from somewhere that they were said to be the best engineers and builders in the world. In the opposite lane cars flashed past him, their headlights blazing; there was a distant howl of a horn that was like a phantom wailing, only to fade out seconds later. He was touching 180 kilometres and the little car was shuddering under the strain. A glance at the luminous dial of his watch showed that it was close to midnight. A big blue-and-white sign said ‘Massa 2 kilometres’ on the right, with an arrow for the turn-off. He began to slow down. The back of his shirt was sticking to him with sweat, and his hands were greasy on the wheel. He wouldn’t consider what he might do if he didn’t find Katharine at the Castle. It was the first time in any operation when he hadn’t planned ahead. The gun in his shoulder holster was fully loaded. He brought the little car round and out through the exit lane; he stopped at the toll-booth, flung a five-thousand-lire note at the duty officer, who shouted after him to collect his change as he drove on. Now it was difficult to drive fast; the country road was narrow and twice the lights of other cars bisected the darkness from a crossroad and he had to halt. There was a sign saying Massa, but no indication of where Malaspiga lay. He pulled into the side, and looked at the road map he had bought while he was waiting for the car. Massa lay close to the autostrada on the line of the coast. Further inland, and up a rising gradient of mountain roads, he found the town of Malaspiga. He had miscalculated the time. Five kilometres on roads that wound as sharply upwards as the road to the Castle and the town could take as long as twenty on the arrow-straight highway. He let in the clutch and set off. He could only trust that no lorry or slow-moving vehicle appeared ahead of him. Years of experience had warned him that murders were usually committed at night.

Alfredo di Malaspiga couldn’t make up his mind to go to bed. He had undressed, putting on pyjamas and dressing gown, examined himself for some time in the looking glass to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and then began sorting through his collection of night-caps. There were a dozen little round caps, some made in linen, others in wool; plain, decorated, with tassels and without. He tried on several before he made a choice. His earliest memory was of seeing his grandfather Duke Piero, sitting up in bed with a satin cap on his head, and the child had been enchanted to find that men wore hats in bed.

Alfredo had always considered the head the most important part of the human body. The soul must surely be inside the skull, allied to the brain. Hair was one of God’s miracles and Alfredo considered that it must be protected against climate and changes in temperature. His obsession had sound reasoning as a base; he cared for the most vital part of himself and adorned it at the same time. It seemed perfectly sensible to him, and when the well-meaning nuns had tried to regulate his changes of hats and caps, he had reacted first with violence and then with miserable apathy. He didn’t think of the convent, except when he saw Francesca. She had wanted to send him back; he knew that and he had never forgiven her.

He had enjoyed his dinner; he felt stimulated by the company, instead of relying solely on looking at his hat collection for amusement, and trying everything on a dozen times a day. He was quite happy during the time his family were in Florence, which he detested—the noise and bustle confused him—but he was happier when they were all together in the Castle. He sat on the edge of his bed, and wondered for a moment whether a yellow woollen night-cap might not be a better choice. He liked the beautiful blonde cousin. Hats had not been his only interest in youth. He gave a sly little grin. He had liked blonde hair; there was a girl in Malaspiga who had true Titian colouring, the golden red made famous by the painter … Long, long ago. His mind flitted, restless, touching on one subject and then another. He frowned. He did like the cousin; not just because she was beautiful to look at, but because she had made him feel important. And most of all because she had admired his hats. He was worried about her. That was why he hadn’t gone to bed. She should go away from the Castle. He didn’t want anything to happen to her …

He re-tied the cord on his dressing gown and wandered to the door. He was not supposed to leave his room at night; Alessandro would be angry. There was a danger he might trip and fall. He opened the door; there was light in the corridor. Once, some time ago, he had left his room and pattered through the empty passages, creeping downstairs. He had been going to the kitchen. He remembered that. He wanted something to eat and the maid had forgotten to put biscuits by his bed. He had gone out and downstairs and he had seen—he stopped, one hand cupped to his mouth. He gave a little groan of fear and distress. Never mind what Alessandro said.

He hadn’t found out about the last time. He had to go and tell the nice girl with the lovely hair that it wasn’t safe for her to stay at Malaspiga. He wasn’t such a fool as everybody thought. He knew things he wasn’t meant to know. And he had seen things. He began to creep down the passageway towards the stairs.

‘Oh God,’ Katharine said. His hand was still on her shoulder, he was looking down at her and there was a slight smile on his lips. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered. ‘It’s you—I thought …’

‘You thought it was Alessandro, didn’t you?’ John Driver said. ‘What are you doing down here?’

He had pale grey eyes; in an ordinary, even ugly, face they were his best feature. Katharine saw the look in them and under the hand pressed on her shoulder she went stiff with terror. There was murder in his eyes, although he was smiling at her.

Her reply was incoherent, stammered out wildly before she had time to think. ‘I lost something—this morning … I was looking for it …’

‘You were looking for the “stuff”,’ he chided her gently. ‘I know all about you, Miss Dexter, so you needn’t try to lie. You’ve been very clever; I congratulate you. You deserve to solve the mystery. There’s what you were looking for: right by your feet.’

She looked down, and there lay the little sculpture of the girl; its nose had broken off and a stream of white dust lay on the ground.

‘It’s made in two halves,’ Driver said. ‘You’d never see the join; it’s in the carving of the hair. That’s clever too, don’t you think so? I’d say there was twenty pounds of heroin inside that one head. The other one’s full of it too.’

For a moment Katharine thought she was going to faint. There was pain in her shoulder where his fingers were pressing harder and harder into the skin.

Angelo. Firelli’s clue. But only half of it, misheard down a crackling telephone line. Michelangelo, the sculptor.

‘Don’t pass out on me,’ he said. With his free hand he slapped her face. ‘Don’t faint.’ The blow shocked her; she raised her arm to defend herself, and immediately he caught it, twisting it up and backwards. ‘What were you doing besides looking?’ he asked. ‘How much did you find out?’

‘Nothing,’ she gasped, fighting the pain as he bent her arm backwards. ‘I thought it was Alessandro … Oh, God, you’re breaking my arm!’

He let her go so suddenly that she staggered; she reached out for the table to steady herself and the marker fell out of her clenched hand. He looked at it and the smiled widened. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You were identifying the pieces—that’s very clever too. But since my little children won’t be going now, it won’t do any good. There’s nothing in the other things. Only in my sculptures.’ He gave her a little push. ‘They may not be great works of art, Miss Dexter, but they’ve made me a millionaire. That’s surely something for a poor hick Canadian who learned to carve whittling sticks on a farm.’

Katharine didn’t want to look at him. The plain face with the frank expression had become cruel and watchful; his right hand was opening and closing as if he were going to hit her again. She had almost confided in him in the garden, asked him to help her … it was like a nightmare. ‘Why did you do it?’ she whispered. ‘Why did you work for him? You could have been a great artist …’

‘Work for him?’ He suddenly snarled at her. ‘The arrogant bastard thinks he owns me! He figures he’s some kind of twentieth-century Medici … You talk about talent!’ He reached forward and seized her arm; she shrank back, held by the table. He stepped close to her, so close she could feel his breath on her face. He was hurting her, but almost unconsciously. ‘I wanted genius,’ he said, ‘not talent. The world is full of talented people; crawling with mediocrities who can paint and sculpt. I’ve seen work exhibited that I’d have smashed up with a hammer! Rubbish, daubs—I didn’t want that! I wanted to create beauty. Great art. When I was a kid I borrowed a book on Michelangelo from the travelling library. I saw what he sculpted, what he painted. I knew that’s what I had to do.’ She tried to pull away from him, but he gave her arm a savage twist. ‘I have the vision,’ Driver said. ‘I have it here, in my head. But not in my hands. I can see it, but I can’t create it! Do you have any idea what it means to spend your whole life reaching towards something and to fail? To be so full of beauty that you could burst because you can’t get it out?’

His eyes were feverish, blazing; she thought in terror and confusion that in some part he was insane.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it means. I don’t know how anyone could smuggle drugs and make money out of murder. You had a talent, even if it wasn’t the great thing you wanted. What you’ve done is obscene.’

‘You’re pretty brave,’ he said. ‘You don’t whine when you’re caught. I’ll give you that much. You thought it was Alessandro who’d followed you, didn’t you? I was coming along to your room when I saw you come out. What am I going to do with you, Miss Dexter?’ He put his head a little on one side. ‘When Lars told me on the telephone about you tonight I was quite shocked. I liked you. I really did. I hoped you’d go home and get out of Alessandro’s hair, but I never suspected for a moment what you really were. A narcotics agent. A spy. I’m going to have to shut you up somewhere while I think what to do.’

There was a second when he seemed off guard; he wasn’t looking at her, he had let go of her arm, which was numb from the pressure, and there was a space between them. Fear made her incredibly quick. She flung herself sideways, eluding his sudden grab by inches, and began to race across the floor towards the stairs. Once out of the underground room, in the Banqueting Hall or the anterooms, she could scream for help. She had the advantage of surprise and she was faster than he was; she heard him bump into something as he followed and swear fiercely. She reached the stairs, and, on a quick impulse, snapped off the light in the room below. She raced up them, gasping, trembling with fear; once she slipped and came to her knees, only to scramble up again. She could hear him behind her, and then she had reached the door into the Banqueting Hall. It opened as she pushed it. Silhouetted clearly against the brilliant moonlight, blocking her path, stood Francesca di Malaspiga. She held a gun in her hand and it pointed at Katharine.

‘Don’t move,’ she said. ‘I would love to kill you.’

Driver was behind her then. He spoke to the girl. ‘We’ll have to put this one in a safe place,’ he said. His hand came and covered her mouth, pulling her head backwards. ‘You go ahead, my darling, and be sure there’s nobody around. I’ll see she doesn’t give any trouble.’

Francesca looked at him; she held the gun down by her side. ‘Upstairs?’

‘I guess so,’ Driver said.