Ben stares at the canvas, open-mouthed.
“Perhaps it’s not so bad,” I say at last, reaching down to pick up the painting and place it carefully back on the easel.
“You have put it upside down.”
“Really?” I ask, squinting at the picture.
“This is all your fault,” he says, snatching the painting up and turning it the right way round. “I never know what disaster you’re going to unleash upon me next.”
That’s not really fair, but I don’t want to argue the point. “Shall I help you to tidy up?”
“No,” Ben says quickly. “Who knows what could happen next? I think I’ll proceed alone, with all my limbs intact.”
It is then that I remember my errand. “I think my binoculars might have fallen out in the car last night,” I say. “Have you seen them?”
“Mmm,” Ben murmurs, not looking at me any more, just at the painting in an absorbed sort of way. “They were under the back seat. I gave them to Rosa this morning.”
That is good news. I would have hated to misplace them, particularly in a place like this, where new and exciting discoveries seem to be waiting around every corner. With a cheery goodbye, I turn away, back towards the avenue cut into the yew hedges. The air is filled with a symphony of birdsong and almost immediately I am treated to the sight of a blue-throated keeled lizard (Algyroides nigropunctatus) skittering along in front of me. Surely a sighting of the hoopoe cannot be far behind? I head towards the villa in an excellent mood.
As I emerge from the gardens the building rises from behind the trees, the earthy red facade glowing with welcome under the heavy golden sun. I make for Rosa and the kitchen. Perhaps as well as my binoculars there will be a glass of something cold. And another one of those sweet rolls. Exploring is hungry work, after all.
As I get closer to the house I spy Hero in the distance, sitting under the pergola with her books spread over the long table, and an older woman perched rigidly beside her. Hero’s head turns and she spots me. She lifts her hand in greeting, leaps to her feet and runs forward, followed by her tutor who calls after her despairingly in Italian.
Hero’s expression is cheerful, but once we get a little closer to one another, she suddenly comes to a screeching halt, naked fear and horror dawning on her face.
“Oh, Bea!” she gasps. “What has happened?”
“Madre de Dio!” the woman behind her exclaims, promptly dropping into a dead faint at my feet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“And then…” Hero’s voice is gleeful. “Bea emerged from the garden, ghostly pale and positively dripping with blood…”
“Paint,” I put in here. “It was paint.”
“Yes, yes.” Hero waves a hand. “But we didn’t know that at the time, did we? It looked like you’d been at the scene of some horrific murder; your dress was covered in blood, your hands were covered in blood…”
“Paint,” I interject again.
“And that,” Hero continues, ignoring me and throwing her hands dramatically in the air as though warding off evil spirits, “was when I cried out, Dearest cousin, what horrors have you witnessed? What on God’s earth has befallen you?”
“You certainly did not,” I protest.
Hero glares at me. “And then, Signora Giuliani screamed and collapsed into a swoon.”
“That part is true,” I admit.
It is evening, and we are sitting in the garden sipping on cool, pale yellow drinks that taste like sugar and sunlight and lemons. Someone has wheeled out a gramophone and a crackling jazz record plays softly in the background. It is still warm, but the air has cooled a little. The sky is streaked with dramatic swathes of gold and burnt orange as the sun gathers in its last rays for its final, spectacular display of the day – like a diva bowing offstage in a blaze of glory.
In the time since I emerged from the bushes and gave Hero’s tutor the shock of her life, I have washed and changed into a pale blue dress scattered with a pattern of white flowers and closed at the side with small, cloth-covered buttons. The dress is one of my newer ones (though it is still faded and worn, it is less faded and worn than most of the others) and it makes me feel more grown up.
I have worn it as armour because I have never been to dinner with a group of artists before, and I am not sure what to expect. My hair is still damp from the bath and screwed up in a knot on top of my head, and I noticed in the mirror that a little sunburn has given my cheeks and the bridge of my nose a slightly pink glow.
Ben and the other artists are yet to arrive, but Leo and Filomena are here. As Hero tells her story with relish, Leo fusses over his fiancée, wrapping a fringed and brightly patterned silk shawl around her shoulders and kissing the corner of her mouth – the kind of affectionate gestures that would never be seen in public at Langton Hall.
I watch Filomena now as she smiles and listens to Hero chatter on. The relationship between them is puzzling. They are friendly with each other, warm even, but on Filomena’s side I sense the same slight reserve that she has with my uncle – as though she’s holding Hero a little at a distance.
“It sounds completely thrilling,” Filomena says.
“You’d be less pleased if you were the one who had to calm Signora Giuliani down and convince her that she should stay in this – I believe she used the term den of vipers, but I could be mistranslating.”
Uncle Leo’s tone is light, teasing. At home, this sort of scrape would have been met with tears and recriminations; here everyone seems to have found the slightly abridged version of events quite funny.
“Bah!” Filomena exclaims. “That woman could use some more thrills in her life.”
Leo makes a funny, snorting sound at that.
“Hello,” a voice calls and I turn in my seat to see two figures moving towards us. One is a boy, lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, who walks with a swagger. He is perhaps a year or two older than me, and as he steps forward to shake my hand he gives me a slightly crooked and perfectly charming smile. I notice that he has a small beauty mark at the corner of his mouth.
“Ah, Signora Bea,” he says and his voice is warm and low, with a subtle Germanic accent. “I am delighted to meet you at last. Hero has told us so much about you.” He nods to Hero who is gazing at him with worship writ large in her eyes.
“I am Klaus,” he continues and I realize he is still holding my hand. He lets go of it, but slowly, as though he regrets having to do so. It’s a practised move, I think, as smooth as a beeswax-polished floor. “And this” – Klaus gestures to the girl beside him – “is Ursula, my sister.”
Ursula nods coolly. She is beautiful in an intimidating sort of way, with her brother’s dark hair and dark eyes and a wide, sulky mouth painted with a slash of red lipstick. She is several inches shorter than me and slim as a reed. Her hair is cut into a short, severe bob, the strands at the front tickling against her high cheekbones. Her emerald-green dress clings lovingly to her body, making me feel woefully unsophisticated.
Klaus accepts a drink from my uncle and pulls up the chair beside mine, shuffling it so that we are sitting close enough that our arms brush lightly against each other. Ursula drops into a seat beside Filomena.