‘Silenzio! How dare you come here and use such vulgar language to a lady? A learned lady, who comes to study my collection! She is – she is writing a book, which will make me famous, is that not so, Vicky?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I surely am. You surely will be.’

  Helena started to speak again, but Pietro shouted her down.

  ‘Go! Go and learn manners. I do not give you so much as a ring, no! These jewels have been in my family for centuries. They belong to the Contessa Caravaggio, not to a – a – ’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, as he glanced apologetically at me. ‘I know what you mean. You had better put the jewels away, Pietro.’

  And – I hate to admit it, but I must – as I started to remove the ornaments from my fingers and throat and breast, my hands were stiff and reluctant. That was when I first began to understand the lure of precious jewels – a violent emotion that has prompted a good deal of bloodshed over the centuries.

  It wasn’t until I got back to my own room and began getting ready for cocktails that I could think sympathetically of Helena.

  If those damned pieces of crystallized carbon affected me as they had done, what must they do to Helena? I will do myself some justice; it wasn’t only the value of the stones that fascinated me, it was the beauty of the workmanship. The Renaissance jewellers weren’t simply craftsmen, they were the great artists of the period. Cellini was a sculptor as well as a goldsmith; Ghirlandaio, Verrocchio, and Michelozzo worked as jewellers. The ‘Doors of Paradise,’ those matchless bas-reliefs at the Baptistery in Florence, were designed by a goldsmith named Ghiberti.

  The unknown workman who had copied the Charlemagne talisman was in good company. I wondered if any of the jewels I had seen that day were fakes.

  I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about fakes. It isn’t a single subject, it is a dozen subjects, because the techniques used in imitating jewellery, for instance, obviously differ from the methods used for porcelain or paintings. But all imitations have one thing in common, and that is this: if they are well done, it is practically impossible to tell them from the real thing.

  The stuffier connoisseurs and art critics like to think they can spot a fake masterpiece by its stylistic failings alone. After all, if Rembrandt was so great, he should not be easy to imitate. This is a nice theory, but it is wrong. Every single museum in the world, including the snootiest, has objects tucked away in the basement that their experts would like to forget about – forged paintings and sculptures that they paid through the nose to get because they thought the pieces were genuine. Oh, sure, once a piece of art is known to be a fake – because the forger confessed, or chemical tests exposed it – then it’s easy to pick the thing apart. ‘The drapery in the imitation Greek bas-relief is not as crisp and sure as in the original . . .’ Bah, humbug. The best of the experts have been fooled.

  Take the case of Van Meegeren, who was probably the most famous and most successful art forger the world has ever known. If he hadn’t confessed, his fake Vermeers would still be featured in museums. His was a rare and lovely case of poetic justice, because he had to confess in order to save himself from a far more serious charge. During the German occupation of Holland, Van Meegeren sold one of his paintings to that clod Goering, who thought he was a connoisseur. Goering believed he was buying a genuine Vermeer, of course. Unfortunately, so did the Dutch government, and after the war, when they were catching up with traitors and quislings, they arrested Van Meegeren on a charge of collaborating with the Nazis – specifically, for selling national art treasures. The really amusing thing about the case was that when Van Meegeren confessed to faking dozens of Vermeers, the art world refused to believe him. What – the great ‘Supper at Emmaus’ a fraud? Nonsense. It was obviously by Vermeer; in fact, it was his masterpiece! Not until Van Meegeren painted a new Vermeer, in his cell in the city jail, were the sceptics convinced. Then – such is human nature – they all started picking flaws in the paintings they had once hailed as treasures.

  I knew something about how paintings are faked. I also knew that the only sure way of detecting a good forgery is by means of chemical and physical tests. For instance, a careless modern forger might use paints such as synthetic cobalts, ultramarine, or zinc white, which weren’t manufactured until the nineteenth century. But a good forger would avoid such sloppy errors. Van Meegeren was careful to use only the pigments obtainable in Vermeer’s day. They are still available; there are no ‘mystery pigments’ or unknown techniques. Most forgers know enough to use old canvases, and they are skilled at imitating things like cracks and wormholes and patinas. There are all kinds of tricks. I’m sure – and any honest art historian will admit it, after a drink or two – that there are still lots of forgeries adorning the sacred halls of the world’s great museums. As for private collectors, they are hopelessly outclassed, especially if they buy things of questionable origin. They daren’t consult appraisers or scholars if they suspect the objects are stolen.

  I felt sure that a great deal of antique jewellery had been faked, too, but the only piece I could remember reading about was the Saitaphernes tiara. A tiara is not necessarily a delicate half crown like the ones worn by fairy princesses. This piece was shaped like a tall pointed hat made of thin gold and covered with embossed scenes and inscriptions. The inscriptions had been copied from genuine Greek texts, so they sounded authentic, and the workmanship was good enough to fool the boys at the Louvre, who bought it for that great collection! The jeweller was a Russian named Rouchomowsky. Like Van Meegeren, he had a hard time making the art world accept his confession when he finally broke down. Again let me repeat – there are no lost techniques. Rouchomowsky had learned how to perform the ancient art of granulation – designs formed by tiny beads of gold, no bigger than grains of coarse sand, each one of which is individually welded into its place. Some of his forgeries were excellent copies of ancient Etruscan goldwork.

  If Rouchomowsky could do it, so could someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this gang had an undetectable racket. The only certain method of detecting fakes is by scientific tests, and if you use authentic materials, there is no way in the world they can test wrong. Gold is gold. It varies in purity, of course, but a careful faker would make sure he used the same type normally employed by the Greek or Renaissance craftsmen he was copying. Imitation jewels used to be easy to spot, but nowadays, since the discovery of synthetic jewels, a well-made piece can virtually defy laboratory tests. I wondered why Schmidt was so sure he had the genuine Charlemagne talisman. If I had been in his shoes, I would have taken good care of both of them.

  I put on my one long dress – black jersey, very slinky – and took out my own personal jewellery collection. I must say it looked rather tacky.

  Chapter Six

  THE MEN WERE wearing dinner jackets; and if I had not felt less than kindly towards ‘Sir John Smythe,’ I would have had to admit that formal wear suited his slim build and fair hair. His cummerbund was nice and flat. Poor Pietro looked like a melon with a purple ribbon tied around it.

  The dowager was sitting by the drawing-room windows, in a tall carved chair like a throne. Her presence subdued her son slightly. He had to confine his amorous proclivities to Helena, since the old countess beckoned me to her side and kept me engaged in conversation.

  She was cute. She reminded me of my grandmother. Not that they looked alike; Granny Andersen was a typical Swede, big-boned and blonde even in her seventies, with eyes like blue steel chisels. But they were both matriarchs. The dowager had a passion for fashionable scandal. She wanted to know all the latest celebrity gossip. I wasn’t up to date on that subject, but I was a good listener. We both agreed, regretfully, that while recent American presidential wives might be very nice ladies, they had not contributed much to the world of glamour.

  Before long, young Luigi wandered in. He looked vaguely around the room, as if he had forgotten what he came for; then he caught his grandmother’s eye and ambled over to her. She put out her thin, veined hand and drew him down to a seat on a low stool at her side. They made a pretty picture sitting there – sweet old age and attentive youth.

  ‘My darling, you have not greeted Doctor Bliss,’ said the dowager fondly.

  Luigi looked up at me. I felt a slight shock. He might look dreamy and disconnected, but his eyes were furiously alive – black, blazing, intent.

  ‘Buona sera, Dottoressa,’ he said obediently.

  I returned the greeting, and then silence fell. Luigi continued to fondle his grandmother’s hand, running a delicate thumb over her bony fingers, almost in the manner of a lover.

  ‘You look tired, my treasure,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? You must conserve your strength, you are growing.’

  ‘I am well, Grandmother.’ He smiled at her. ‘You know that to work is for me the highest pleasure.’

  She shook her head anxiously.

  ‘You work too hard, my angel.’

  He didn’t look overworked to me. He’d have been a howling success as a pop-music star, setting the little girls shrieking, if he hadn’t been so clean.

  ‘What sort of work do you do, Luigi?’ I asked. Then, as he held out those expressive, stained young hands, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot. What sort of painting do you do?’

  It was badly phrased. Most young painters imitate one style or another, but none of them like to be reminded of that; they all think they are innovators. Before I could repair my blunder, Pietro let out a sneering laugh.

  ‘His style, do you mean? It is of the most modern school, Vicky. Totally without form or sense. Blobs of colour smeared on a canvas.’

  The boy’s eyes flashed.

  ‘I am still experimenting.’ He spoke directly to me, ignoring his father. ‘To me art is a very personal experience; it must flow directly from the unconscious onto the canvas, do you not agree, signorina?’

  ‘How could she agree?’ Pietro demanded. ‘She is a scholar, a student of art. Did Raphael allow his unconscious to overflow onto the canvas?’

  ‘Well, now,’ I said, remembering the etchings, ‘that might not be so far off as – ’

  ‘No,’ shouted Pietro. ‘Form, technique, the most meticulous study of anatomy . . . Vicky, do you not agree with me?’

  I was about to give some light, joking answer when the tension in the room caught me. They all stared at me with fierce, hungry eyes – the boy, his father, the old woman. I realized that we weren’t talking about art at all. This was an old feud, a basic struggle between father and son. I also realized that I would be an idiot to commit myself to one side or the other. Looking around for help, I caught John Smythe’s ironical eye. Get yourself out of this one, he seemed to be saying.

  ‘I’m not a critic,’ I said modestly. ‘As a medieval scholar I appreciate form, naturally, but I do feel that one’s approach to art must be basically visceral. I couldn’t comment on your work without seeing it, Luigi.’

  It wasn’t a bad answer; it could be interpreted according to the predilections of the hearer. Luigi’s face lit up. Goodness, but he was a handsome boy!

  ‘I will show you,’ he said, starting to rise. ‘Come now and we will – ’

  ‘Luigi!’ The dowager tugged him back onto the stool. ‘You forget yourself, my child. It is almost time for dinner.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’ The boy stared at me.

  ‘It will be a pleasure,’ I said.

  ‘It will be a great pain,’ said Pietro rudely.

  I am probably the only person in the whole world under thirty who knows all the words to ‘Lover, Come Back to Me.’ It isn’t my fault, it’s the fault of my idiot memory, which retains all the meaningless facts it has ever encountered. Granny Andersen used to play the songs from the old Romberg and Victor Herbert operettas on the piano. God help me, I know them all.

  On this occasion the knack proved to be useful. After dinner, when returned to the drawing room, Pietro and I sang along with Nelson and Jeanette, and by that time I had drunk enough wine to ignore Smythe’s hilarity in the background.

  After we had listened to ‘The New Moon,’ Pietro passed into the belligerent stage and challenged Smythe to a duel. I forget what brought on the challenge; some fancied insult or other. As I might have expected, Smythe accepted, and the two of them pranced up and down the salone whacking at each other. There weren’t any swords handy, so they used umbrellas, and even the dowager was reduced to helpless laughter as she watched them. She went to bed then, and Pietro showed us card tricks and produced a very fat, very indignant white rabbit from a top hat. Apparently the rabbit had been asleep – in the hat or elsewhere – and was annoyed at being disturbed; it bit Pietro, and was carried off by the butler while Helena fussed over her wounded lover and bound his wounded thumb up in a long gauzy hankie. I enjoy slapstick, but by then I had had enough; I said good night and went to bed.

  A long cold shower shook some of the wine fumes out of my head, and instead of retiring I went out onto the balcony.

  It was the kind of night you wouldn’t believe. Full moon – a big silvery globe caught in the black spires of the cypresses, like a Christmas ornament. The bright patina of star points made me homesick for a minute; you only see stars like that out in the country, away from the city lights. In the pale moonlight the gardens looked like something out of a romantic novel, all black and silver; the fountains were sprays of diamonds, the roses ivory and jade. My knees got rubbery. It might have been the wine, but I don’t think so. I slid down to a sitting position among the potted plants, my arms resting on the low balustrade, and stared dreamily out into the night. I wanted . . . Well, I’ll give you three guesses.

  Then a figure came drifting out of the shadows, across the silver-grey stone of the terrace. It was tall and slim, with hair like a white-gold helmet moulding its beautifully shaped head. It stopped under my balcony, flung up its arms, threw back its head, and declaimed, in the bell-like tones common to Shakespeare festivals and the BBC:

  ‘Sweet she was and like a fairy

  And her shoes were number nine . . .’

  I picked up a flower pot and let it fall. It missed him, but not by much; he had to leap aside to avoid the spattering fragments. I could hear him laughing as I ran inside.

  Like rats and hamsters, Pietro was a nocturnal animal. Knowing he seldom arose before noon, I figured that morning was the best time to explore. So I was up at eight, bright and shining and ready for action.

  What was I looking for? Well, I had had an idea. Smythe had been a little too anxious to assure me I wouldn’t find anything at the villa. Ordinarily you would assume that a gang of crooks wouldn’t bring a suspicious investigator to the scene of the action, but Smythe was just weird enough to be trying the double fake. It’s an old adage, that if you are trying to hide from the law you go to a police station. Maybe the criminals were carrying on their nefarious activities under my very nose. There was one activity that would damn them for sure – the workshop of the craftsman who was manufacturing the fake jewellery.

  Breakfast was set out in the small dining salon, on silver salvers and hot plates in the English fashion. I ate alone, and then started to explore.

  I got lost several times. The villa was a huge place, and I couldn’t be sure I had seen it all even after I had been poking around for some time. The cellars were the most confusing part. Some of the rooms were carved out of the limestone of the hillside itself. It seemed to me that this would be a good place for a hidden workshop, so I explored the underground regions as thoroughly as I could without a plan of the place, but I didn’t find anything except a lot of spiders and cobwebs, plus a wine cellar with hundreds of bottles.

  It was with considerable relief that I left the dank darkness of the cellars for the sunny warmth of the gardens. Faint music accompanied me as I wandered – the splashing of fountains, the singing of birds, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. But after I had walked for a while I began to get an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades – the feeling you get when someone is watching you.

  There were plenty of places to hide – shrubs and hedges and ornamental stonework all over the place. But there was no sign of a human being. I suppose that got on my nerves. We city types aren’t used to solitude. We are like rats breeding and biting each other in overcrowded spaces. I was suffering from an insane combination of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. I was out of doors, with nothing around me but trees and bushes and the sky above, and yet I felt closed in. The weathered statues seemed to eye me cynically from their broken eye sockets, and the carved fauns and satyrs laughed as if they knew some nasty secret I didn’t know.

  The gardens had been laid out with a view to the comfort of the stroller. There were benches all over the place, seats of marble and wrought iron, carved and decorated with mosaic. I discovered no less than four summer houses fitted out with cushioned chairs and low tables. One was shaped like a miniature circular temple, with the prettiest little Corinthian columns all around. Eventually I found the grotesque giant head where Smythe and I had had our dialogue the day before. I had been too preoccupied on that occasion to get more than a generalized impression of horribleness; when I examined the head more closely I found it even more awful. I went around it, following a paved path of dark stone, and discovered that the head was the guardian of another garden filled with even more repulsive statues.

  They were strategically placed so that I came on them suddenly, without warning, increasing the shock of their grotesque contours. One of them was an elephant – at least I guess that is what it was supposed to be, although it had horns as well as tusks, and claws on its forepaws. The trunk was wound around the torso of a man whom it was trying, quite successfully, to tear in two. The sculptor had succeeded in capturing the victim’s expression very well. He looked just the way you would expect a man to look when he is being ripped apart.