“You are so annoying, Aunt Lettie,” Caroline said out loud. “If you wanted me to do something here, why didn’t you just write me a note? But if these things weren’t special to you, why keep them in their own little box?”

None of it made sense. But she realized one thing: at least she had not been eaten up with worry about Teddy for a little while. Maybe that was what her great-aunt wanted.

CHAPTER 12

Caroline, Venice, October 9, 2001

The next morning dawned clear and bright, and bells awoke Caroline at first light. She opened the shutters and stood at the window, taking in the traffic on the Grand Canal, the pigeons strutting importantly across the garden. A gardener was raking the gravel into neat circles. Across the small side canal, someone was putting out bedding to air on a windowsill. Caroline gave a sigh of contentment, feeling the weeks of pent-up tension easing away. She showered and went down to breakfast.

“I should serve in the garden, signora?” the waiter asked. “It is maybe too cold?”

But Caroline chose to sit outside, enjoying a buffet of fresh fruits, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, meats, yoghurt and freshly baked brioche. Then she put the two sketchbooks into her tote, along with the box of keys and a map of the city she had picked up at the tourist office, and set out, not exactly sure where she should be going. Clearly most of the important monuments were on the other side of the canal, and she crossed the Accademia Bridge, finding herself a little breathless by the time she negotiated all the steps up and then down. When she reached a piazza on the other side, she gave a little gasp of delight. Here was one of the first sketches, exactly as Aunt Lettie had drawn it in 1928. She continued, hoping she was making for St Mark’s Square. From the map, she saw there was no direct route. She studied the front doors, then gave up, realizing that almost every house had an imposing door knocker and a lock that her key might well fit. I can hardly go up and try all the doors I pass, she thought, and besides, how could Aunt Lettie have needed the key to one of these houses?

When she spotted a used-book store, she went in and after much digging managed to find a guidebook from 1930. Yes, it listed the Pensione Regina. She bought the book and, after a bit of Italian language struggle, accompanied by much hand waving, asked the store clerk where the address might be. He sent her back to the Grand Canal, where she found that the Regina was now a private residence with a large padlock on the gate. What’s more, it had been completely remodelled with sleek modern lines and big windows. None of her keys would fit that new white front door. A newspaper vendor in a nearby booth pointed at the villa. “Russians,” he said with a sniff. “Rich Russians. Never here.”