‘It was the young Dorne. Yesterday we arrange he takes it with his own development.’

‘So,’ said the Baron. ‘What a nonsense,’ and began with perfect good humour to re-assemble the contents of his rucksack.

‘He hasn’t done anything about it,’ Alleyn said. ‘If I may, I’ll collect your film with his.’

‘Good, good,’ agreed the Baron.

Alleyn said aside to him, ‘You’re sure you don’t want it?’

He shook his head, pursed his lips and frowned like a nanny.

‘No, no, no,’ he murmured. ‘You see how it is. My wife prefers—no. Although,’ he added rather wistfully, ‘there are some pictures—our little group, for instance. But never mind.’

‘I’ll let you know how it comes out,’ Alleyn said.

They went down in the lift together. He wondered if, long after the case of Sebastian Mailer had faded out of most people’s memories, he and the Van der Veghels would meet somewhere. The Baroness had cheered up. They were off on a coach trip to the water-gardens at the Villa d’Este. He walked with them to the main entrance. She went ahead with that singularly buoyant tread that made Alleyn think of the gait of some kind of huge and antique bird: a moa, perhaps.

‘My wife,’ said the Baron fondly regarding her, ‘has the wise simplicity of the classic age. She is a most remarkable woman.’ And dropping his voice, he added to himself rather than to Alleyn, ‘And to my mind, very beautiful.’

‘You are a fortunate man.’

‘That, also, is my opinion.’

‘Baron, will you have a drink with me? At about six o’clock? I will be able to show you your photographs. Since they would distress the Baroness I don’t ask you to bring her with you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall be delighted. You are very considerate,’ and, shifting his rucksack on his massive shoulders, he called: ‘Mathilde, not so fast! Wait! I am coming.’

And he, also with springing gait, sped nimbly after his wife. They went down the street together, head and shoulders above the other pedestrians, elastically bobbing up and down and eagerly talking.

Kenneth Dorne sat at the wheel of a white sports-car with his aunt beside him. It occurred to Alleyn that they might have been served up neat by an over-zealous casting department as type-material for yet another Dolce Vita. Kenneth had one of the ridiculous ‘trendy’ caps on his head, a raspberry-coloured affair with a little peak. He was very white and his forehead glistened.

‘Here we are,’ cried Lady Braceley, ‘and here’s the film. Such a fuss! Come and have drinks with us this evening. I suppose it’s frightful of one, isn’t it, but one can’t help a feeling of relief. I mean that poisonous Giovanni terrifying one. And all lies. Kenneth knows that I told you. So, don’t you think a little celebration? Or don’t you?’