both stood in silence for a moment and then they heard the distinct sound of a bolt being drawn back inside the heavy door and a moment later the door swung inwards. It didn't creak, and yet Sancha had the certain impression that she and Tony were like flies stepping into the spider's parlour. She thrust these thoughts aside impatiently. She was becoming fanciful, allowing the building to influence her almost without volition.
Behind the door a man was waiting, a man of middle years with a completely bald head and beetling black brows. Surely this could not be the Count, Sancha thought incredulously.
However, Tony had no such doubts. ‘We're from Parita magazine. The Count is expecting us,’ he said, handing the man the small square card signifying their identity.
The man, who was quite tall and whose chest muscles bulged beneath the polo-necked shirt he was wearing, glanced casually at the card before stepping aside and saying: ‘Please to come in, signore, signorina.'
Tony urged Sancha forward and with reluctance she preceded him into the palazzo. A gloomy dank atmosphere engulfed them and for a moment she wanted nothing so much as to escape from this assignment, but then she realised that she was behaving foolishly and as Tony pressed reassuring fingers against her arm she calmed down.
They were standing on a stone floor in what appeared to be a kind of entrance hall, a huge monolithic apartment which chilled them to the bone after the heat of an early summer day outside. It was an enormous room devoid of any kind of decoration apart from sculpted arches and columns now left to moulder and decay. No one could live in such a room, Sancha decided, and as though to confirm this decision the man, servant or otherwise, closed the door and led the way across to a flight of shallow marble steps leading up to a long gallery which appeared to run from front to back of the building.
The steps beneath their feet had been worn smooth with the passage of years and were slightly slippery so that Sancha was glad to use the handrail even though Tony was just behind her. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she was looking about her with genuine interest, trying mentally to compose the first few lines of her article. The interview with the Count would come later, but first she must describe the palazzo to her readers, many of whom had never even been to Italy, let alone seen such a place as this.
The gallery had a tessellated floor, its walls hung with portraits. Sancha supposed these grim-faced men and women must be ancestors of the present Count, but as their guide showed no efforts to instruct them she did not like to ask. However, she made another mental note and decided to ask the Count when the opportunity arose.
The man at last halted before double panelled doors and with a certain panache swept them open and advanced into the room. Tony and Sancha hesitated in the doorway, both unwilling to intrude. However, beyond the doors was merely a small ante-room and their companion had gone through this room into the apartment beyond.
Tony raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sancha. ‘Some ceremony,’ he remarked sardonically, and Sancha hid a smile.
‘Do you think he's a servant?’ she asked, indicating in the direction of the inner apartments.
Tony nodded. ‘Yes. That's Paolo! I had heard of him, actually,’ he replied, in an undertone. ‘He's sort of valet-cum-manservant-cum-bodyguard all rolled into one.'
‘I see.’ Sancha was impressed. ‘Does the Count have no other servants?'
Tony looked cynical again. ‘I don't believe so. The exchequer won't run to it, I hear.'
‘I should be most interested to hear from what source you gather your information, signore.'
The soft and yet menacing tones disconcerted both of them, coming as they did from immediately behind them. Neither had heard the approach of the man who was now standing regarding them with narrowed blue eyes which were startling in such a tanned complexion.
The man was not particularly tall, being a little above average height, nor was he stockily built. And yet he had the kind of arrogant presence which diminished the size of those around him. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow, and in a black silk shirt open at the throat to reveal the brown column of his neck and close-fitting black trousers he was essentially masculine. Thick black hair brushed his collar, touched here and there with traces of grey, and dark sideburns darkened high cheekbones which gave his face a patrician cast. He was certainly one of the most attractive men Sancha had ever seen and in spite of her nervousness she was fascinated by the penetrating quality of his eyes.
Now Tony tried desperately to regain his composure. ‘I—I beg your pardon, signore. I thought we were alone.'
‘Did you?'
The man moved past them into the ante-room and Sancha glanced swiftly at Tony who made a baffled movement with his shoulders.
‘Paolo! Avanti!'
The man spoke again and a few moments later the manservant came through the doors from the inner apartments.
‘Si, signore?’ he responded politely.
The man turned back to Sancha and Tony. ‘We will speak inglese, Paolo. For our guest's sake, si?’ There was a trace of humour about his lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, signore, signorina: I am the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta!'
For a moment there was complete silence in the room and Sancha, glancing again at Tony, saw that his cheeks had turned a brilliant shade of red. Embarrassment swept over her, too, and she wondered with a sinking sense of despair however they would be able to redeem themselves.
Tony took a deep breath. ‘Then we must apologise, Count, for speaking so carelessly. I—I'm afraid our natural curiosity made us say things we might otherwise not have said——'
The Count interrupted him. ‘You have a saying in your country, do you not, that eavesdroppers do not hear good of themselves? I suppose I was in a sense eavesdropping!'
Tony swallowed hard. ‘It's very good of you to say so, sir!'
The Count's eyes flickered over him penetratingly. ‘Not at all. Will you come in? Paolo! Some wine for our guests.'
The Count stepped back and pressed open the door leading to the inner apartments, indicating that they should precede him. Paolo disappeared through another door and Tony gently propelled Sancha before him past the Count and into the room beyond.
Sancha was intensely conscious of the appraising gaze of the Italian as she passed him and she could smell a faint aroma of some lotion he must use after shaving mingled with the heat of his body.
The room they were now in was enormous, but here at least there was evidence of beauty and comfort. The soft carpet underfoot was worn in places, but its colours were amazingly bright considering how old it must be. The furniture was a mixture of ancient and modern, with comfortable leather chairs cheek by jowl with examples of Venetian sculpture. On a low plinth there was an exquisite bronze of a winged goddess, small and childlike, and flawless in every detail, while on the walls Sancha recognised examples of the work of Titian and other famous Italian painters. It was a room of contrasts with odd pieces of antique value almost carelessly thrust aside by the modern hi-fi equipment and cocktail cabinet. It was a long room and Sancha could see that it overlooked the shadowy waters of the canal, which they had negotiated earlier.
‘Please, sit!'
The
