Marcus privately considered that as a luxury penthouse in a Knightsbridge High-Rise it was a triumph: as a seagoing vessel on the other hand, a vague disappointment.

Under the awning at the stern he saw Sylva Puglia, somewhat alarmingly dressed in black, her hair severely braided about her head, sitting in a rattan chair reading Paris Match. She waved hesitantly, and as Marcus went across to her, feeling slightly uneasy, Nando Belluno muttered something about returning in a few moments, and plodded off down the deck.

‘You come to see Papageno?’ She was looking professionally sad.

‘Yes. And to have a drink, with Grottorosso. You coming?’

‘Me?’ She laughed a cold laugh of disdain. ‘I do not get invited. We meet at dinner. Is enough. A very pretty ship, isn’t it?’

‘Very. Wonderful.’

‘But sorrowful now. You know of Wolf?’

‘Yes. Minerva said.’

‘So terrible. So terrible. But maybe now we all go home. Kaput. Finito.’

‘I’m sorry. Bad luck.’

‘For all. Most for Wolf, but for all.’ She folded the magazine, looked with sudden intense interest at something on the back cover. ‘You are not mad with me? For the time at the swimming-pool?’

Marcus flushed lightly, cleared his throat. ‘No. Of course not. As much my fault as yours.’

‘You didn’t like me?’

‘Well, yes, I mean … yes. I mean; what a thing to ask.’

‘I am curious only. Poor Sylva. I feel very wicked, you know.’

‘Oh? Oh well, you mustn’t feel that; I mean, you know …’

‘But I was wicked, you see. For ten thousand francs.’

Marcus sat on a small stool beside her. ‘Ten thousand francs? What was wicked?’

‘Grottorosso said he would make a bet, like at the races, you know? That I could not have you. That was wicked, no?’

Marcus sat bolt upright. She put a hand quickly on his knee.

‘But I enjoyed very, very much. It was just for fun, you know, the bet.’

‘When did he say that?’

‘When? Oh, when he was leaving he said to me, “I think I go. Will you come with me?” and I said, “No, it is such a happy day, and so many pretty, pretty gentlemen.” and he said, “I will bet you ten thousand francs there is one pretty gentleman you won’t get.” He pointed to you – all in yellow. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Marcus in a cracked voice.

‘He said you were the “special” friend of the old woman who gives the picnic. Is true?’

‘Godson. I’m her godson, that’s all.’

‘Oh? I don’t know this. Anyway. It was wicked but I tried, and I liked very, very much.’

‘Good. Thanks a lot, smashing of you to tell me. Did you collect?’

‘Please?’

‘The ten thousand francs?’

‘No.’ She patted her braided hair, raising a bare arm high above her head.

Marcus averted his head, glowered at the deck.