begun.
Tony perched on the edge of a high carved chair which might once have supported some elegant medieval lady as she sat at her sewing frame, but the Count seemed to prefer to stand and Sancha found it incredibly difficult to look elsewhere than at him. He was such a disturbing personality and she wondered how she would ever dare to ask the questions she knew she must ask.
Paolo returned with the wine and after it was poured he departed about his business. The Count offered cigarettes, but Sancha did not smoke and refused politely. Tony accepted one and the Count lit it for him with a heavy gold lighter before taking a cheroot for himself. Then he said: ‘Shall we begin, Signore——?'
‘Braithwaite, Er—Tony Braithwaite,’ said Tony hastily. ‘And this is Miss Forrest.'
‘So!’ The Count nodded. ‘And you, Mr. Braithwaite—you are the photographer,'
‘Yes, sir. Miss Forrest will take the interview. I—er—I take it you have no objections to photographs being taken?'
The Count raised dark eyebrows. ‘Within reason, no. Providing I am not expected to take part in them.'
Tony frowned. ‘You don't want me to photograph you, sir?'
‘Thank you, but no. I prefer to remain, shall we say anonymous?’ He smiled suddenly and Sancha was struck by the whiteness of his teeth. ‘Where do you intend to begin?'
Tony swallowed the remainder of his wine. ‘Anywhere you like, Count.'
‘Oh, signore will do, Mr. Braithwaite. I do not think we need stand on ceremony.’ The Count straightened from his lounging position against the mantelpiece, an exquisitely carved mantelpiece done in a particularly delicate shade of pink marble. ‘Do you need any assistance? Would you like Paolo to accompany you? To show you about?'
‘I'd like that very much.’ Tony was eager. ‘I'd prefer to take a much greater number of shots than I need and choose which ones to use later. You'd see them, of course, before the final decision was made.'
The Count inclined his head and reaching forward tugged at the kind of tasselled rope Sancha had hitherto only seen in movies. Paolo appeared, as though by magic, as if he had been waiting for this summons. For Sancha it was a nerve-racking moment, knowing as she did that when Tony had gone she would be expected to begin the interview.
She folded her notebook, extracted two sharp pointed pencils from her bag and crossed her ankles nervously. Tony gathered together his equipment and after explicit instructions from the Count to Paolo they departed, the door closing heavily behind them.
Then the Count seemed to relax, taking the chair opposite Sancha and fixing her with his blue eyes. ‘Come, signorina,’ he said. ‘I can see you are very nervous and I am not without sensitivity. What is it you wish to know?'
Sancha sought about in her mind for a suitable beginning, and then said: ‘First of all I'd like some personal details.’ She flushed. ‘Not necessarily intimate details, you understand, but perhaps a little of your background.'
The Count tapped ash from his cheroot into an onyx ashtray. ‘Very well, signorina, I will tell you something of my family's history, si?’ He contemplated the jewel-inscribed signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. ‘I am the eleventh Conte di Malatesta, the title being granted to my family in the eighteenth century. There have been ancestors of mine in various walks of life, most notably politics and the church. But I am, regrettably, the last surviving member of the family, having no brothers and no sisters. My parents are both dead, and my closest living relative is an elderly aunt.’ His eyes challenged hers as she looked up from taking this down. ‘Is that the kind of thing you wanted?'
Sancha's colour deepened. ‘Y—yes, signore.’ She consulted her notebook with assumed concentration. ‘You—er—you haven't mentioned the palazzo. Perhaps you could tell me a little about it.'
He inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ He glanced round the huge apartment. ‘The palazzo was built in the sixteenth century and was originally owned by a commercial trading family who lost their fortune when Napoleon Bonaparte was making a name for himself. It is, as you can see, badly in need of renovation, although these apartments which I have for my own use are reasonably comfortable.'
‘Thank you.’ Sancha finished the sentence carefully.
‘What now?’ The Count surveyed her intently. ‘Tell me, are you not a little young to be conducting such an interview, or is Parita experimenting in the use of junior reporters?'
Sancha looked up indignantly. ‘I am perfectly capable of conducting this interview, signore,’ she retorted, her annoyance overcoming nervousness momentarily, but only momentarily so that when she realised what she had said she felt discomfited. However, there was a glint of amusement in the Count's slightly narrowed eyes, as he said:
‘I understood a Signorina Fabrioli was to interview me.'
Sancha bit her lip. ‘Yes, she was,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But I'm afraid she was taken ill at the last moment, so——'
‘So you were deputed to take her place?'
‘Yes.’ Belatedly she remembered she had not said signore.
‘I see.’ The Count stubbed out the remains of his cheroot. ‘Do go on. Do you wish to get on to the book now?'
‘Oh! Oh, yes!’ Sancha flicked over the page in her notebook. ‘Yes, of course. Er'—she was flustered—‘er—would you like to tell me what inspired you to write such a book?'
‘You have read it?’ His eyes were too piercing.
‘Yes,’ Sancha faced him resolutely. She would not let him disconcert her.
‘Then you ask me what you would like to know,’ he parried.
Sancha sighed. ‘All right.’ She sought about in her mind for an opening. ‘Have—have you always been interested in this period of Italian history?'
The Count frowned. ‘Well, signorina, the Borgias have always interested me. And the artists of that time—Dante, Michelangelo, Giotto; the Renaissance period was an inspiring period, don't you think?'
‘Undoubtedly.’ Sancha swallowed hard. ‘Did—did the book take long to write?'
‘To write, no. To research yes. I suppose in all it took perhaps two years from inception to completion. Writing is a fascinating business, do you not agree?'
Sancha smiled faintly and nodded. Mentally she went over what she had put down, trying desperately to keep the conversation going. It would be too awful to sit here with his man and say nothing, constantly aware of the searching penetration of his eyes. She was not used to men like him. He was much older than any of the men she associated with, for one thing, and she speculated upon his actual age. He could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, but she did not like to ask. She had a description, and that would have to be enough. There was the information about his family, of course, that could be enlarged upon back at the office, and there was the further history of the palazzo itself which she could no doubt research herself in the city's archives. Then there was the book; she could perhaps use some more information about his style of writing, and the reasons behind it.
Looking
