The thing that takes your breath away, though, is the art. Jostling for space on the walls and illuminated by the beautiful light that spills through the windows are dozens of paintings in different styles. It’s like the most ridiculous jewel of a museum. There are huge landscapes in heavy frames and there are napkins with ink sketches on them pinned up carelessly with gold tacks. Depictions of classical mythology rest alongside geometric shapes in bold colours and the effect is dizzying.

“Let me give you the tour,” Lili says, taking my arm. She guides me around the room pointing to different pieces and telling funny stories about the artists that painted them; how they hogged all the hot water when they came to stay, or how they would only drink a particular vintage of wine and ate raw vegetables for a week. There are names that even I recognize, names like Picasso and Matisse. We stop in front of one painting. A white road curves through a trembling blue sky, full of arcs of light, and Lili says, “This was always Ben’s favourite.”

Ben comes to stand beside me. “Balla. This piece is genius. See how he captures the speed and urgency of it, the way the light crashes like waves across the canvas, pulling you along and through it.”

I am distracted then by a portrait of a beautiful woman whose face looks faintly familiar.

“What about this one?” I ask. Ben’s face stills, the enthusiasm dies from his eyes.

“That is a genuine Sir Hugh Falmouth original,” he says.

“It’s a portrait of Susie, Ben’s mother.” Gert wraps a plump arm around Ben’s waist and squeezes hard. “That is why we keep it here. She was a real beauty.”

“She was,” I murmur. She looks like she fell out of a renaissance painting, all golden hair spun like a halo, and delicately flushed skin. Still, there’s something about the picture that I don’t like. Her eyes look hunted, and her head is turned slightly away, as though she longs to escape the canvas. It’s like seeing a butterfly pinned down to a board.

I shiver, telling myself I am being melodramatic; but even as the others continue chatting cheerfully about the friends who will be calling in to see Ben, even as I accept a cup of coffee and settle into one of the sofas to hear stories of Ben’s childhood, I still feel as if those eyes are watching me, crying out for help.

Chapter Thirty

CHAPTER THIRTY

After we have been sitting for a while, chatting and dunking biscotti into bitter black coffee, Gert shows me up to my room, which is small and papered with tiny yellow roses. There is an old brass bedstead and an ancient-looking travel case that acts as a nightstand. Gert bustles around, checking that I have all I need.