Dark Venetian

Anna had offered to unpack for Celeste, so leaving her stepmother to the maid’s ministrations, Emma decided to explore. Her own bedroom was far less imposing than Celeste’s, but it was still rather big although the bed was a modern divan-type four-footer, for which she felt rather disappointed. She, much more than Celeste, would have welcomed the genuine atmosphere of old things in their proper place.

The lounge when she returned to it was deserted, but sounds penetrated from a door opening off to the left which seemed to lead to the kitchen quarters and she thought perhaps the old lady might be supervising the arrangements for lunch.

She stepped back out on to the long gallery which ran from front to back and stood for a moment looking down on the deserted and rather dark hall below. She could picture what the Palazzo must have looked like in the days when the hall was used for receptions, when the room was filled with beautifully adorned women in silks and satins and brocades, their jewels more fabulous than any Emma had ever seen, while the men, bewigged perhaps, or simply elegantly clothed themselves in satin breeches and waistcoats joined their ladies in the minuet, the strains of violins floating up to the younger members of the family, as they watched perhaps from the secrecy of this very balcony.

She was lost in thought, a faint smile touched her lips, and she started, shaken out of her reverie, when the outer door opened below and a shaft of sunlight momentarily dispersed the gloom, revealing a man who was entering the Palazzo, carrying a guitar case in his hand.

Completely unaware of her scrutiny, he walked silently across the hall to an ante-room. He opened the door, and without a sound disappeared inside.

Emma frowned, and straightened up. She had been leaning on the balcony rail, and her arm felt cold from the touch. But she was unconscious of any discomfort to herself. There had been something peculiar about the entrance of the man downstairs; she could not have said what it was exactly, but his movements had been deliberately stealthy, as though the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. And if that was the case, who could he be? And what was he doing down there?

Emma swallowed hard. It was difficult for her to gauge the situation. From what Celeste had told her, and the Contessa’s conversation the previous evening, she had gathered that only the apartments on the first floor were used by the Contessa and her grandson, and if this were so, what possible reason could anyone have for entering the ante-room downstairs, and with a guitar, too? It sounded ridiculous when she thought about it, and shrugging her shoulders, she turned resolutely away. Whatever was going on it was no concern of hers, and she hardly knew the Contessa well enough to go and ask whether she knew that someone was using one of her downstairs rooms.