“If the owner has paid the yearly sum, then the vault still works,” he said. “Are you the owner?”

“It belonged to my great-aunt. She left it to me in her will.”

He nodded. “Very well. Show me your identification, and we shall see. Follow me, please.”

After checking that things were in order, he admitted her through a security gate and then a door and then down a flight of steps that could have led to a dungeon. Down below was cold and poorly lit. His key opened another door, and she found herself in a strongroom with a long wall of safe-deposit boxes. The man examined the number on her key and nodded. “Sì . The number is still here.” He bent down, selected a small brass door amongst the many and put the key into the slot. The door slid open. Caroline’s heart was beating rather fast as the man retrieved a long slim box from the vault.

“You wish time to examine?” he said. “There is a private room here.”

He led her through, still carrying the box, and placed it on a table. Then he retired, shutting the door behind him. Caroline could hardly make her fingers work to open the catch on the box. It was stiff, and for a moment she thought it wouldn’t move, but then it came open and she gave a little grunt of disappointment. Instead of money or jewellery, there was one piece of paper. It looked like some form of official document, signed and stamped in various colours. She closed the box and came out to find the man waiting for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “There was just one thing inside. Can you please tell me what it is?”

His eyes scanned the page, then he looked up. “It seems to be the deed to a property,” he said. “A lease, you say, sì ?”

“To a property in Venice?”

He nodded.

“My aunt had a property in Venice?” she blurted out.

“The name of your aunt?”

“Juliet Browning.”

“That is what it says on this document, yes.”

She wondered if the lease was long expired. “The lease was for how long?”

He examined it again. “Ninety-nine years,” he said. “The letter is dated nineteen thirty-nine.”

“Gosh.” Caroline blurted out the word. Rapid calculation indicated about forty more years. “And where is this, do you know?”

He examined the sheet of paper again. “It is Dorsoduro 1482.” He looked up and, seeing her blank face, added, “In Venice we do not have street numbers. We have the number within the sestiere . Impossible for foreigners to find, I think. If you like, I can look it up for you.” She followed him out of the vault and up to his desk, where he consulted a big book. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Zattere al Saloni. On the other side of Dorsoduro. Do you know the Zattere? It is the waterfront.”