“It was.” The contessa was looking pleased and excited. “I heard about it through the grapevine, and Vittorio managed to meet with the artist and bring it out under a perfectly horrible pastoral scene by a Nazi-approved painter.”

“So this artist is not a Nazi favourite, I suppose?” Mr Sinclair asked.

“Not only is he not a Nazi favourite, but he is Jewish,” she said. “We have begged him to leave while he can, but he has aged parents and they won’t go anywhere, and so he stays. I have told him I’ll put them up here, but he stays and he paints. Asking for trouble, I’m afraid.”

“In which city does he live?” Franz asked.

“In Stuttgart. By day he is an engineer at the Mercedes-Benz plant. He thinks he is safe because his division is making armoured cars and he is a valued member of the team. His paintings are signed under his pseudonym, and nobody knows he paints but his friends outside of Germany.”

“He is running a big risk, I’m afraid,” Mr Sinclair said.

“Yes. There are many like him, who keep on with their small, defiant protests, against all odds. Brave boys and girls.”

Imelda touched my hand. “We should probably leave soon if we want to take the ten o’clock vaporetto. If we miss that, we have to wait until eleven thirty, and the last one is always so crowded.”

“Good idea. Thank you,” I said and went to round up Henry.

“So you really think this is the future of art, do you, Gabriella?” I heard Count Da Rossi say. “No more beauty? For me, I would have preferred the Nazi pastoral scene.”

“But you have no soul, Massimo. I’ve always known that.”

Franz was examining the painting carefully, and I wondered if he was looking for a signature. Was it possible that Henry was right and he was a German spy? I was glad the artist was signing his pictures with a pseudonym.

I went up to the contessa and thanked her for the lovely evening, saying we had to catch our vaporetto.

“Of course, my darling,” she said. “But you are welcome at any time. To all my soirées. And come to tea one day, just you and me and a good British tea party, eh?”

“Don’t tell me you have real British tea,” I said, laughing. “All the tea I have had here is so pale and tasteless.”

“But my dear, I import mine from Harrods,” she said. “Where else?”

She reached forward and gave me a little kiss on my cheek. I’m afraid I blushed. I wasn’t used to being kissed by countesses. We took our farewells and started down the boulevard and back to the dock. A sizeable crowd was there, waiting for the vaporetto.

“I hope we can all get on,” Henry said. “We’ll be squashed like sardines.”