‘The foundations date from the fourteen hundreds—’
‘Thirteen eighty,’ Hester said firmly. ‘Then there were wings and additions in the fifteenth century and more in the eighteenth.’ She dimpled up at Harold, annoyingly helpful. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’
He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know the family history, probably better than I do.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that—’
He cut her off. ‘Hester, don’t be modest.’
‘I’m just trying to help,’ she said, leaning back in her seat and sipping the sherry. ‘Please go on.’
‘I can give you a quick tour of the house,’ Harold offered. ‘We get people coming here pretty often. You know the kind of thing: journalists, people who write those home style magazines. I don’t mind – I’m grateful to own such a wonderful place.’
‘But you don’t own it, do you?’ Hester intervened. ‘We’re all just guardians, looking after the house and the books for the next generation.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Harold replied shortly, raising his eyebrows and turning away.
Having noticed several photographs around the room, Nino changed tack.
‘You were in the Army?’
‘I was. Retired now.’
‘Harold speaks several languages,’ Hester said proudly. ‘And he’s travelled all round the world, haven’t you? And he’s so well read, which helps with us having such a marvellous library. You know, all your travelling used to worry me when you first came here – would you settle into being a country gentleman?’ Her tone was all barbed sweetness. ‘But you have. Hunting, shooting, fishing. He’s especially good at hunting, aren’t you, dear?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘One of the best shots in the county, I’m told. And he’s game for everything – deer, rabbits. Skins them quick as that!’ She snapped her fingers. Harold interrupted the flow as he turned to Nino.
‘Did you want to look around?’
‘I’d love to, thanks.’
Leaving Hester to her sherry, Harold took Nino on a tour. It was something he had often done before, that much was obvious, his enthusiasm a mixture of pride and boredom. Apparently his son was to inherit after him, and the Greyly line would continue as it had done for generations before.
‘A place like this takes a lot of money to keep up, but it’s worth it,’ he went on. ‘I made plenty—’
‘In the Army?’
‘God no!’ he laughed. ‘When I came out I worked as a consultant, putting the right people together with the right people – you know the kind of thing. Contacts. That’s how I got my OBE.’ He pointed to a painting on the landing. ‘That picture’s a Van Dyck. Not a copy, an original.’
‘Must be worth a lot of money.’
‘It’s not a problem. We’re insured and alarmed up to the hilt. We have to be, with the library, the silver and the paintings,’ Harold continued, just in case his visitor was not what he seemed. ‘We’ve not had a break-in since the seventies.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Nino said, looking around at the oak panelling and the carved ceiling above the stairwell. ‘It might be exactly what the film company’s looking for. Can I take some photographs?’
Flattered, Harold allowed him to capture a few shots of the hall and upper landing, culminating in the drawing room. Knowing that he couldn’t keep up the pretence for much longer, Nino pointed to a framed photograph on a side table, a faded picture of a debutante in the 1940s.
‘It that your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all very English, isn’t it?’ Nino remarked, smiling as he took another photograph. ‘You can tell from my name I’m a bit of a half-breed myself. My mother was Italian, my father Swedish. I suppose Courtford Hall’s never seen any foreign blood? No dilution of the English line?’
Following Nino, Harold watched as he took several more photographs in the hall, finally concentrating all his attention on the ancient front doors.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s always a little slip-up here and there in the best of families.’
Pretending to line up a shot, Nino’s voice was casual. ‘Really? Some ancestor you hide away? Some old scandal?’
Pausing, Harold considered his reply.
‘There was an incident a long time ago. My relative was very excitable. She chose to marry a foreigner. She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.’
‘Didn’t the family approve of her choice?’
‘He was a Venetian merchant.’ Harold’s voice was pure scorn. ‘Called Moroni. My relative was christened Catherine, but changed her name to Claudia. To fit into Italy better, I imagine. Claudia Moroni – it would hardly suit Norfolk, would it?’
The name slapped down between them, as unsettling as a firecracker, and Harold’s voice suddenly took on an under-current of suspicion. ‘I thought you were interested in the house?’
‘I am, but it’s good to hear about the family too.’ Nino clicked away, avoiding Greyly’s stare. ‘So she married a Venetian in trade,’ he went on, refusing to acknowledge the insult and taking it as a joke instead. ‘That’s bad. Did she have children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Hardly a threat to your lot, is it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Nino could sense the enmity coming off the man.
‘I mean a daughter isn’t the same as a son who could claim some inheritance. Did your ancestor ever come back to England?’
‘No. She died in Venice.’ Harold replied curtly. ‘What exactly has she got to do with a film location?’
Nino shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just get bored looking at houses. Sometimes I like to know about the people who lived in them. It makes the place come to life.’ He paused after taking the last photograph. ‘I think I’ve got what I need now.’
‘Really? You do surprise me.’
The words caught Nino off guard. They were said with an unexpected malice Harold Greyly’s expression cold.
‘What exactly do you want, Mr Bergstrom?’
Nino didn’t miss a beat.
‘What do I want? What I got, Sir Harold. Some great shots of a great house.’ He opened the front door and stepped out on to the steps. ‘Will you say goodbye to your aunt for me, and thank her for her kindness? I’ll be in touch.’
Venice, 1555
The rumours have swollen, gross and unconfined. Three nights ago a mob collected outside Vespucci’s house. I counted over thirty men combined, carrying torches in the fog, their voices raised in a frenzy, their hands wrenching at the iron gates to gain admittance. But the gates held. Only later did Vespucci come to the window and look out. The candles illuminated his lean shape, the portrait of his murdered wife hanging on the wall behind him.
All Venice believes him guilty, for what other suspect is there?
At nine the wind picked up, frothing a sea so high it threatened to drown us all. Some spoke of wickedness, that God was meting out punishment where we would not. We had a killer in our number. Behind iron gates, Angelico Vespucci lived like an innocent. Whored, enjoyed the worst depravities. And kept his freedom. The priests spurred us to action: Vespucci was the reason for our suffering. The Skin Hunter was killing Venice herself.
The mob comes each night. They stand at Vespucci’s gates, they chant the names of Larissa and Claudia, summoning up the dead as though they believe the living cannot touch him. Vespucci has hired guards who patrol the railings and shadow the doors.
Later he stands at the balcony window, Aretino beside him. He stands like a martyr before God, demanding understanding, his lean hands pressed to his temples. Aretino might defend him, plead his innocence, Titian might suggest support, the portrait coming more and more to life as Vespucci moves closer and closer towards death.
All but a few of the old priests are refusing to come out at night. They fear the dark and the ghosts of drowned dogs, and although the poor body of Claudia Moroni was buried in a crypt on the Island of St Michael, the grave was desecrated and her corpse stolen. Two days later the body was returned. The undertakers had wrapped her in white silk, but when she came back she was flayed and bound in the darkest of crimson.