Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew. Ngaio Marsh

told her.

      ‘If you ask me,’ Troy said, ‘it needs only another outrage like this and she’ll break down completely. She was literally shaking all over as if she had a rigor. She can’t go on like that. Don’t you agree?’

      ‘Not really. Not necessarily. Have you ever watched two Italians having a discussion in the street? Furious gestures, shrieks, glaring eyes, faces close together. Any moment, you think, it’ll be a free-for-all and then without warning they burst out laughing and hit each other’s shoulders in comradely accord. I’d say she was of the purest Italian – perhaps Sicilian – peasant stock and utterly uninhibited. Add to that the propensity of all public performers to cut up rough and throw temperaments right and left when they think they’ve been slighted and you’ve got La Sommita. You’ll see.’

      But beyond staring bemusedly out of the windows, Troy was not given much chance of seeing for herself. Instead, she and Alleyn were to be taken on a tour of the house by Mr Reece, beginning with the ‘studio’ which turned out to be on the same level as their bedroom. Grand pianos being as chicken feed to Mr Reece, there was one in here and Troy was given to understand that the Sommita practised at it and that the multiple-gifted Rupert Bartholomew acted as her accompanist, having replaced an Australian lady in that capacity. She found, with astonishment, that an enormous easel of sophisticated design and a painter’s table and stool had been introduced into the room for her use. Mr Reece was anxious, he said, to know if they suited. Troy, tempted to ask if they were on sale or return, said they did and was daunted by their newness. There was also a studio throne with a fine lacquer screen on it. Mr Reece expressed a kind of drab displeasure that it was not large enough to accommodate the grand piano as well. Troy, who had already made up her mind what she wanted to do with her subject, said it was of no consequence. When, she asked, would she be able to start? Mr Reece, she thought, was slightly evasive. He had not spoken this morning to Madame, he said, but he understood there would be rehearsals for the greater part of the day. The orchestra was to arrive. They had been rehearsing, with frequent visits from Bartholomew, and would arrive by bus. The remaining guests were expected tomorrow.

      The studio window was of the enormous plate-glass kind. Through it they had a new view of lake and mountains. Immediately beneath them, adjoining the house, was a patio and close by an artificially enclosed swimming pool, round which and in which members of the house party were displayed. On the extreme right, separated from the pool and surrounded by native bush, was an open space and a hangar which, Mr Reece said, accommodated the helicopter.

      Mr Reece was moved to talk about the view which he did in a grey, factual manner, stating that the lake was so deep in many parts that it had never been sounded and that the region was famous for a storm, known locally as The Rosser, which rose unheralded in the mountains and whipped the lake into fury and had been responsible for many fatal accidents.

      He also made one or two remarks on the potential for ‘development’ and Alleyn saw the look of horrified incredulity on his wife’s face. Fortunately, it appeared, pettifogging legislation about land-tenure and restrictions on imported labour would prohibit what Mr Reece called ‘worthwhile touristic planning’ so that the prospect of marinas, high-rise hotels, speedboats, loud music and floodlit bathing pools did not threaten those primordial shores. Sandflies by day and mosquitoes by night, Mr Reece thought, could be dealt with and Troy envisaged low-flying aircraft delivering millions of gallons of kerosene upon the immaculate face of the lake.

      Without warning she was overcome by a return of fatigue and felt quite unable to face an extended pilgrimage of this unending mansion. Seeing her dilemma, Alleyn asked Mr Reece if he might fetch her gear and unpack it. There was immediate talk of summoning a ‘man’ but they managed to avoid this. And then a ‘man’ in fact did appear, the dark, Italianate-looking person who had brought their breakfast. He had a message for Mr Reece. Madame Sommita wished to see him urgently.

      ‘I think I had better attend to this,’ he said. ‘We all meet on the patio at eleven for drinks. I hope you will both join us there.’

      So they were left in peace. Alleyn fetched Troy’s painting gear and unpacked it. He opened up her old warrior of a paintbox, unstrapped her canvases and set out her sketchbook, and the collection of materials that were like signatures written across any place where Troy worked. She sat in a chair by the window and watched him and felt better.

      Alleyn said: ‘This room will be de-sterilized when it smells of turpentine and there are splotches of flake white on the ledge of that easel and paint rags on the table.’

      ‘At the moment it can not be said to beckon one to work. They might as well have hung Please Don’t Touch notices on everything.’

      ‘You won’t mind once you get going.’

      ‘You think? P’raps you’re right,’ she said, cheering up. She looked down at the house party round the pool. ‘That’s quite something,’ she said. ‘Very frisky colour and do notice Signor Lattienzo’s stomach. Isn’t it superb!’

      Signor Lattienzo was extended on an orange-coloured chaise longue. He wore a green bathrobe which had slid away from his generous torso upon which a book with a scarlet cover was perched. He glistened.

      Prompted, perhaps by that curious telepathy which informs people that they are being stared at, he threw back his head, saw Troy and Alleyn and waved energetically. They responded. He made eloquent Italianate gestures which he wound up by kissing both his hands at once to Troy.

      ‘You’ve got off, darling,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘I like him, I think. But I’m afraid he’s rather malicious. I didn’t tell you. He thinks that poor beautiful young man’s opera is awful. Isn’t that sad?’

      ‘Is that what’s the matter with the boy!’ Alleyn exclaimed. ‘Does he know it’s no good?’

      ‘Signor Lattienzo thinks he might.’

      ‘And yet they’re going on with all this wildly extravagant business.’

      ‘She insists, I imagine.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Signor Lattienzo says she’s as stupid as an owl.’

      ‘Musically?’

      ‘Yes. But I rather gathered generally, as well.’

      ‘The finer points of attitudes towards a hostess don’t seem to worry Signor Lattienzo.’

      ‘Well, if we’re going to be accurate, I suppose she’s not his hostess. She’s his ex-pupil.’

      ‘True.’

      Troy said: ‘That boy’s out of his depth altogether. She’s made a nonsense of him. She’s a monster and I can’t wait to get it on canvas. A monster,’ Troy repeated with relish.

      ‘He’s not down there with the rest of them,’ Alleyn pointed out. ‘I suppose he’s concerned with the arrival of his orchestra.’

      ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Imagine! All these musical VIPs converging on him and he knowing, if he does know, that it’s going to be a fiasco. He’s going to conduct. Imagine!’

      ‘Awful. Rubbing his nose in it.’

      ‘We’ll have to be there.’

      ‘I’m afraid so, darling.’

      Troy had turned away from the window and now faced the door of the room. She was just in time to see it gently closing.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ Alleyn asked quickly.

      Troy whispered: ‘The door. Someone’s just shut it.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. Truly.’

      He went to the door and opened it. Troy saw him look to his right.

      ‘Hullo, Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘Good morning to you. Looking