The Savage Garden

    'Water? Yes, of course.' She changed tack, heading for a corridor beside the staircase. 'Wait here,' she said.

    He didn't mind. It allowed him to cast an eye around the interior. Any suspicions that the quiet elegance of the villa's exterior owed itself to little more than chance vanished immediately. You sensed the same poised hand at work in the proportions of the vast drawing room that occupied the central section of the ground floor, and giving onto a balustraded terrace out back. The flanking rooms were connected by a run of doorways, perfectly aligned, which generated a telescopic sense of perspective and permitted an uninterrupted view from one end of the villa to the other.

    Adam retreated at the sound of approaching footsteps, not wishing to be caught snooping by the maid, or the housekeeper, or whatever she was.

    Signora Docci lay propped up on a bank of pillows in a four-poster bed of dark wood, reading. She inclined her head toward the door as they entered, peering over the top of her spectacles.

    'Adam,' she said, smiling broadly.

    'Hello.'

    'Grazie, Maria.'

    Maria acknowledged the dismissal with a nod, pulling the door closed behind her as she left.

    Signora Docci gestured for Adam to approach the bed. 'Please, it's not contagious, just old age.' She laid her book aside and smiled again. 'Well, maybe it is contagious.'

    Her hair hung loose, tumbling like a silver wave around her shoulders. It seemed too long, too thick, for a woman of her advanced years. A tracery of fine lines lay like a veil across her face, but the flesh was firm, shored up by the prominent bones beneath. Her eyes were dark and wide-spaced.

    He extended his hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

    They shook, her grip firm and bony.

    'Please.' She indicated a high-backed chair near the bed. 'I'm glad you're finally here. Maria has been fussing around for days, tidying and cleaning.'

    It was hard to picture: stern, monosyllabic Maria preparing for his arrival.

    'She is a good person. She will let you see that when she's ready to.'

    He was slightly unnerved that she'd read the thought in his face.

    'So, how was your trip?'

    'Good. Long.'

    'Did you stop in Paris?'

    'No.'

    'Milan?'

    'Just Florence. And only for a night.'

    'One night in Florence,' she mused. 'It sounds like the title of a song.'

    'Not a very good one.'

    Signora Docci gave a short, sharp laugh. 'No,' she conceded. Adam took a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. 'From Professor Leonard.'

    She laid the letter beside her on the bed. He noted that her hand remained resting on it.

    'And how is Crispin?' she asked.

    'He's in France at the moment, looking at some cave paintings.' 'Cave paintings?'

    'They're very old—lots of bison and deer.'

    'A cave is no place for a man his age. It'll be the death of him.'

    Adam smiled.

    'I'm serious,' she said.

    'I know, it's just . . . your English.'

    'What?'

    'It's very good. Very correct.'

    'Nannies. Nannies and governesses. My father is to blame. He loved England.' She shifted in the bed, removing her spectacles and placing them on the bedside table. 'So tell me, how is the Pensione Amorini?'

    'Perfect. Thanks for arranging it.' 'How much is she charging you?' 'Twenty-five hundred lire a day.' 'It's too much.'

    'It's half what I paid in Florence.'

    'Then you were had.'

    'Oh.'

    'You should pay no more than two thousand lire for half- board.'