How fine he looks, thought Grottorosso slicing through his jambon de Parme and melon; such a splendid head, the smooth brow, clear skin, perfectly set eyes, firm chin, sculpted mouth, strong throat, the golden head haloed by the sun. The perfect l’Aiglon façade. A beautiful facade indeed. But there is no one at home when you knock, she had said. Bitch of hell! For me to have made such an error! A tremor of anger, slight as the whispered ripple from a distant earthquake, forced him to grip the handle of his knife so tightly that his knuckles shone like silver shillings through the bronze skin. And then, quite suddenly, it passed; he smiled, set the knife carefully across the edge of his plate, thrust his fork into a small cube of melon and raised it to his lips.

If a building is empty and there is nothing of interest within, then one might turn one’s eyes to the façade instead, and this one has a great deal of architectural interest. One must look closely; why seek only the hidden flaws? A flaw is not necessarily concealed. I wonder, he thought, slipping the melon into his mouth, why I didn’t think of that before?

Chapter Six

Minerva, her head bound up in a white silk turban, her long body draped in flowing chiffon, arms folded lightly across her chest, hands to shoulders, elbows tight to slender waist, a vague smile of content on her lips. A caryatid in drenching moonlight. She stood for some moments perfectly still, looking up the gentle slope of silvered lawns towards the lights of the house. Somewhere in the pines above her a nightingale; laughter from the distant pool, fireflies drifting, spiralling; in the house, light in Archie’s window, the terrace shadowy as a church, sparkling with votive candles, the high bay-window of the drawing-room thrusting into the darkness, a crescent of amber.

She tapped the soft grass beneath her foot, feeling its resistance and solidity, and throwing her arms wide, as if to embrace all that lay before her, she walked slowly and deliberately towards the terrace steps, retrieved her bag from a body-indented chair, her empty glass from a table where she had left it more than half an hour before, and went into the drawing-room.

Pools of shaded light, gleam of polished wood, silver, glass, massed spikes of white delphiniums, the John portrait above the fireplace, the Sickerts, Magrittes, the Bonnard lilac glowing as if incandescent, from hidden lights. In a far corner, sitting at a bonheur du jour, pencil to her lips, Cuckoo with a thick book, her free hand idly twisting pearls at her throat.

‘It’s all to die! It’s too much … all too much!’

Cuckoo turned in startled surprise, eyes wide. ‘To die? My dear; what? What is?’

Minerva waved her empty glass vaguely above her head. ‘The whole bit: this room, the house, the gardens, the moonlight … the peace, the calm of it all. If you knew what calm means to me after three weeks on that bloody bateau … nothing moves any more, nothing lurches.’