It was determined that Frederick Nash had prepared two pistols, had shot Pamela through the head at close range and then dispatched himself immediately after. Watching the bodies being brought out of the house as he stood between Hudson and Berry on the windy street, Matthew thought that the Nashes had been crushed beneath the weight of losing a second daughter, the sorrow of which they could not bear.

It was time to broach the dreaded subject. He had steeled himself for it.

“You’re going back to New York,” he said.

“Of course,” Berry replied. “We all are.”

Here was the edge of the precipice. “No,” said Matthew. “Just you. I, Hudson, the professor and a few others are going to Italy.”

“What?”

They were sitting at a table having their supper in the Question Mark, the time being around seven-thirty in the evening. Matthew had had the wisdom to order from the barkeep a mug of strong cider for himself and a cup of wine for Berry. Across the room, where other residents of Y Beautiful Bedd dined on the catch of the day, Hudson was involved in a game of dice with Hugh Guinnessey and Di Petri ate alone.

“Italy,” Matthew repeated. “It’s a promise I made to the professor. It has to be done.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“Ohhhhhh no,” was the reply, followed by a drink of cider. “No further intrigues for you.”

She continued to stare at him, her lovely freckled face impassive. “I mean it,” he went on. “You are going back to New York, I am going to Italy to keep my vow, and when it’s done I’ll come home and ask your grandfather for your hand in marriage.” Would that be enough to dampen the fires?

No.

“You are absolutely insane,” she said, “if you think I’m letting you out of my sight, Matthew Corbett! Italy? What’s in Italy?”

“A vineyard,” he answered.

“Here, have my wine.” She pushed the cup toward him across the table.

He took her hand. “It won’t be so very long. I’ll—”

“Won’t be so very long? It’s months to get to Italy, isn’t it? It could be a year before you’re back!”