end was long and generous with cries of ‘Bravo’ from all over the auditorium. It took a while for the stalls to clear and Maddie hung back, unsure what she should do.
Her best bet, she supposed, was to go back to the hotel and wait for instructions. Because she was sure there would be some.
In a way, she hoped they’d arrive tomorrow. It was late, and she felt suddenly very tired, as she walked out into the rain-washed street, hugging her cream pashmina around her. The stress of the past weeks coupled with the flight and the long car journey were clearly taking their toll.
I need sleep, she thought longingly, not an interview.
But the Count clearly had other ideas, she realised, recognising the unmistakable shape of his limousine, parked just across the street from the theatre, with its chauffeur in his dark uniform standing beside it holding the rear passenger door open for her.
And not Camillo this time. This new man was altogether taller and leaner. Younger too, she thought, although his peaked cap was pulled down shadowing his face, denying her a good look.
‘Signorina Lang—you will come with me, please.’ His voice was quiet, but it seemed to convey an order rather than a request, and Maddie hesitated.
‘You’re taking me to the Count?’
‘Who does not like to be kept waiting.’
Slightly brusque for a paid employee, she thought as she climbed into the car, but at least he spoke English, so that was a step forward.
Not that any conversation was likely, however, while the glass panels between the front and rear seating remained firmly closed.
On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like talking. The effect of the coffee had worn off and waves of drowsiness were sweeping over her.
But I can’t go to sleep, she told herself firmly, suppressing a yawn. I have to stay awake and totally alert. This is an important evening. And made herself check once again that her little voice operated tape machine and spare batteries were safely in her bag.
What she really needed was the caffeine rush from another espresso, she thought, helping herself to some of the chilled mineral water, in the hope that it would clear her head.
She began to rehearse some of the questions she needed to ask, but instead found the words and music of the opera still teeming through her brain.
I am Crime. He is Punishment. Except that was wrong, surely. It was the other way round. He is Crime …
Wasn’t that the way it went? She wasn’t even sure any more. But she could remember Rigoletto’s despairing cry, ‘Ah, the curse’ and shivered again.
She wanted to knock on the glass and ask the chauffeur not to drive quite so fast, but it was too much effort. Somehow it was much easier just to lean back against the cushions, and let them support her until the jolting over the cobbled streets ceased.
I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes, she told herself, yawning again. A little catnap. I’ll feel better then. Wide awake. Ready for anything.
And let herself slide gently down into a soft, welcoming cloud of darkness.
Her first conscious thought was that the car had stopped moving at last, and she no longer felt as if she was being shaken to bits.
Her next—that she was no longer simply sitting down, but lying flat as if she was on a couch. Or even a bed.
With a supreme effort, she lifted her heavy lids and discovered that she was indeed in a bed.
Oh God, I must have been taken ill, she thought, forcing herself to sit up. And I’m back at the hotel.
But just one glance round the room disabused her of that notion.
For one thing, the bed she was lying in, though just as wide and comfortable as the one in Room 205, was clearly very much older with an elegant headboard in some dark wood, and a sumptuous crimson brocade coverlet.
For another, there seemed to be doors everywhere, she realised in bewilderment as she tried desperately to focus. Doors next to each other, in some impossible way, in every wall all round the large square room. Doors painted in shades of green, blue and pink, and interspersed with shuttered windows.
I’m not awake, she thought, falling limply back against the pillows. I can’t be because this is obviously some weird dream.
She wasn’t even wearing her own white lawn nightdress, but some astonishing garment in heavy sapphire silk with narrow straps and a deeply plunging neckline. And it was the faint shiver of the expensive fabric against her skin that finally convinced her that she wasn’t dreaming. And that she hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole like Alice either.
The bed and this extraordinary door-filled room were not Wonderland at all, but total, if puzzling, reality.
Go back to your first conclusion, she told herself. You became ill in the Count’s car, and you were brought here to recover. That’s the only feasible explanation, even if you don’t remember feeling unwell—just terribly sleepy.
And you’ve been looked after, although a room liable to give one hallucinations was perhaps not the best choice in the circumstances.
Thinking back, she seemed to remember a phrase which described this kind of décor. Trompe l’oeil, she thought. That was it. She’d come across it during some of her preliminary research on the Ligurian region, but had decided it was irrelevant.
However, it occurred to her that she was growing a little tired of mysteries and enigmas, whether verbal or visual, and would relish a little straight talking from here on in.
She would also prefer to get dressed, she thought, if only she knew where her clothes were.
She wondered too what time it was—and that was when she realised, with shock, that not only was she no longer wearing her wristwatch, but that, even more alarmingly, her engagement ring was also missing.
And it’s not just my clothes, she thought frantically, as she shot bolt upright, suddenly wide awake as she stared round the room. Where’s my bag? My money, passport, credit cards, mobile phone, tape recorder—everything?
Suddenly, the fact that she was next door to naked in a strange bed, in a strange house in the middle of God only knew where, took on a new and frightening significance.
And even if there was a perfectly innocent explanation, the noble Count Valieri was going to have some serious explaining to do—when they finally met.
The next moment, Maddie heard a key rattle, and a section of the wall opposite the bed swung open, revealing that, in this case, it was a real door and not a pretence.
But it was not the man in the portrait, her expected elderly host who entered. Her visitor was male but younger, tall, lean, olive-skinned and, in some strange way, familiar. Yet how could that be? she asked herself, perplexed, when she was quite certain that she’d never seen that starkly chiselled, arrogant face before in her life, or those amazing golden brown eyes, currently flicking over her with something very near disdain.
‘So you have woken at last.’
It
