“No,” Ben says quickly. “Who knows what could happen next? I think I’ll proceed alone, with all my limbs intact.”

It is then that I remember my errand. “I think my binoculars might have fallen out in the car last night,” I say. “Have you seen them?”

“Mmm,” Ben murmurs, not looking at me any more, just at the painting in an absorbed sort of way. “They were under the back seat. I gave them to Rosa this morning.”

That is good news. I would have hated to misplace them, particularly in a place like this, where new and exciting discoveries seem to be waiting around every corner. With a cheery goodbye, I turn away, back towards the avenue cut into the yew hedges. The air is filled with a symphony of birdsong and almost immediately I am treated to the sight of a blue-throated keeled lizard (Algyroides nigropunctatus) skittering along in front of me. Surely a sighting of the hoopoe cannot be far behind? I head towards the villa in an excellent mood.

As I emerge from the gardens the building rises from behind the trees, the earthy red facade glowing with welcome under the heavy golden sun. I make for Rosa and the kitchen. Perhaps as well as my binoculars there will be a glass of something cold. And another one of those sweet rolls. Exploring is hungry work, after all.

As I get closer to the house I spy Hero in the distance, sitting under the pergola with her books spread over the long table, and an older woman perched rigidly beside her. Hero’s head turns and she spots me. She lifts her hand in greeting, leaps to her feet and runs forward, followed by her tutor who calls after her despairingly in Italian.

Hero’s expression is cheerful, but once we get a little closer to one another, she suddenly comes to a screeching halt, naked fear and horror dawning on her face.

“Oh, Bea!” she gasps. “What has happened?”

“Madre de Dio!” the woman behind her exclaims, promptly dropping into a dead faint at my feet.

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“And then…” Hero’s voice is gleeful. “Bea emerged from the garden, ghostly pale and positively dripping with blood…”

“Paint,” I put in here. “It was paint.”

“Yes, yes.” Hero waves a hand. “But we didn’t know that at the time, did we? It looked like you’d been at the scene of some horrific murder; your dress was covered in blood, your hands were covered in blood…”

“Paint,” I interject again.

“And that,” Hero continues, ignoring me and throwing her hands dramatically in the air as though warding off evil spirits, “was when I cried out, Dearest cousin, what horrors have you witnessed? What on God’s earth has befallen you?”

“You certainly did not,” I protest.

Hero glares at me. “And then, Signora Giuliani screamed and collapsed into a swoon.”

“That part is true,” I admit.