Caroline found she was holding her breath as she took a tentative step into the big silent room. As if on cue, the sun came out between billowing black clouds, sending a shaft of sunlight on to the water of the Giudecca Canal and the lagoon beyond. Caroline gave a small gasp of happiness. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered.

“Signora,” the man began, stepping up. “Or is it signorina?”

“It’s signora,” she replied, feeling uneasy about his hand touching her but not knowing how to shake him off without seeming rude. She turned to face him. “I am in the middle of a divorce. My husband moved to New York.” She felt stupid as soon as she had said it, as if she had wanted to let him know that she was available. Ridiculous.

“Signora,” he went on, “I am afraid that this document is a fraud. Somebody pulled the wool over your aunt’s eyes. Isn’t that the English expression?” He went to take it from her. “Now, if you will permit, I will take this to the Da Rossi lawyer, and he can verify if it is authentic or not.”

Caroline held on to the piece of paper. “You must think me very naive,” she said. “Do you think I’d let you take away the only proof that this apartment belongs to me? Something inconvenient would happen to it. It would fly out of a window, into a canal. ‘Oh dear. What a shame. So sorry.’”

“Oh no, I assure you . . . ,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Do not worry, signor. I will take it personally to your city hall. I am sure they can check it against their records of the time to see if it is still valid, and also check whether my aunt later sold her lease.”

She put the document back into her purse and started to walk around the room, pulling a dust cover off the item of furniture in the window. It proved to be a handsome inlaid lemonwood desk. “Oh.” She ran her hands over it. That Aunt Lettie had ever owned something as lovely . . . She opened a drawer and found it full of sheets of paper.

She took the top sheet out, gasped and looked up with a small, triumphant smile.

“Well,” she said, holding it up to the man, “I think this proves that my aunt once owned this flat, don’t you?” It was a drawing of the scene outside the window, and it was signed JB . “There you are. Juliet Browning. My great-aunt. She was an artist. I have some of her artwork with me, and I can tell you that this was done by her.”

“Juliet Browning?” He was still frowning. “An artist? Why would the Da Rossi family ever lease this place to a foreign artist? I don’t think they were ever great patrons of the arts.”

“Is there any older family member who might know?” she asked.