The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani

projects in the past.’

      De Crescenzo seemed to sense them talking about him. Giving Donatella a smile, he excused himself from the group and approached. Donatella explained to the count that Fabio had been held up, and introduced Ben. ‘Please call me Pietro,’ De Crescenzo said as he shook Ben’s hand. ‘I only use the title to open doors and impress stuffy politicians and museum boards. So, Signor Hope, I gather despite your extremely fluent Italian that you are not from these parts.’

      ‘I’m just passing through,’ Ben said.

      ‘You are on vacation? Remaining a few days in Italy?’

      ‘Sadly not. I’ll be flying to London tomorrow.’

      De Crescenzo shuddered. ‘Air travel. I cannot bring myself to get on one of those things. Quite irrational, I know.’

      ‘It’s a very impressive setup you have here,’ Ben said.

      De Crescenzo smiled widely, showing uneven, grey teeth. ‘Thank you, thank you. We have been extremely fortunate in securing such a fabulous and eclectic range of wonderful pieces.’

      ‘Have your family always been patrons of the arts?’ Ben asked, knowing his supply of cultural small talk was going to run out fast.

      ‘Far from it. My grandfather, Count Rodingo De Crescenzo, was a boorish and tyrannical man who despised culture with almost as much passion as he loathed the artistic genius of his first wife, Gabriella. It is to her that we owe the artistic heritage of my family. After doing everything in his power to suppress her talent, my grandfather ironically did the most to nurture it when he expelled her from the family home in 1925, leaving her destitute. Freed from his controlling influence, she eventually went on to find fame and fortune painting under her maiden name, Gabriella Giordani.’

      Ben nodded and smiled politely, a little taken aback by De Crescenzo’s somewhat dramatic account of his family past. When he suddenly realised that the count was waiting for him to react to the mention of the name Gabriella Giordani, he shrugged apologetically and said, ‘As I was telling Donatella, my knowledge of art is pretty limited. I’m afraid I haven’t come across your grandmother’s work.’

      De Crescenzo frowned sadly and shook his head. ‘Rodingo and Gabriella had no children. My father was born only after Rodingo had remarried, to a woman of great beauty but little else. Otherwise, I might have had the honour of being related in more than name to the most accomplished and admired Italian female artist of the twentieth century.’ He swept an arm enthusiastically behind him at a section of the exhibition.

      Ben gazed in the direction he was pointing. ‘And that one too?’ he said, motioning at an oil portrait of a striking-looking man of about thirty, in a red velvet jacket with a high collar.

      ‘You have a keen eye for style, Signor Hope,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Yes, that is also a Giordani.’

      Ben took a step closer to the portrait and examined it for a moment. There was something aristocratic about the man in the painting, yet not supercilious or arrogant. The artist seemed to have captured a real sense of humility and gentleness in her subject. The little plaque below the edge of the frame simply said ‘Leo’, with the date 1925. Ben wondered who Leo had been.

      ‘Just one of her many celebrated works here on display,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Including a quite incredible recent discovery.’ He said this in a hushed tone of reverence, as though referring to the finger-bone of Christ. Ben waited for more.

      ‘During the recent restoration of my ancestral home, the Palazzo De Crescenzo – it is far too large to live in, of course – workmen came upon a secret room where it seems the young and terribly unhappy countess carried on her art behind her husband’s back. He had forbidden her to paint, you see. We found several previously unknown works of hers, which are being exhibited here today for the very first time.’ Looking even more excited, De Crescenzo added, ‘And sensationally, among the pieces we discovered in her personal collection were several items by other artists – including a most magnificent miniature charcoal sketch by the artist Goya that had long been believed lost.’

      Ben turned to look as he pointed out the piece of artwork across the room. It was a small, simple, shaded monochrome image of a solitary man kneeling humbly to pray inside what could have been a monastic cell.

      Again Ben could feel De Crescenzo’s eyes on him and felt expected to comment knowledgeably, but he just nodded appreciatively and tried not to think about that glass of wine Donatella had promised him. He fought the urge to glance at his watch.

      ‘Naturally it is almost worthless compared to some of the other works here on display,’ De Crescenzo went on rather too grandly. ‘But I founded this academy in April 1987 to honour Gabriella Giordani’s sad passing the previous year, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to be able to mark the inauguration of our new centre with a display of her very own collection. For me, it is what makes this exhibition so special.’

      ‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Ben said. ‘Congratulations.’

      ‘You’ll be wanting that wine now,’ Donatella whispered as they left the count to carry on the rounds of the guests.

      ‘I don’t know what gives you that impression,’ Ben said. What a character, he was thinking.

      Donatella smiled slyly. ‘This way.’ She led him through the crowd to the far side of the gallery, where two doors led off from the main space. One was shut and marked ‘Private’. The other was open, leading into a side room where a long table was covered in expensive finger food and drinks. The glasses were crystal, the white wine was on ice and the red had been opened in advance to breathe at room temperature. Catering done properly. Donatella chose white, while Ben helped himself to a glass of excellent Chianti and suddenly felt much better.

      Gianni was allowed to wander about the exhibition on strict orders to behave himself and stay within sight. Away from the chatter of the guests, Ben and Donatella sipped their drinks and talked for a few minutes. She was warm, vivacious and smiled a lot. He found her company relaxing and enjoyable. She told him a little more about her husband’s church restoration project, and then asked him about his own business. Ben had long ago learned to answer those kinds of questions without sounding evasive but without getting too specific about the kind of training that went on at Le Val. She’d visited that part of France a few years earlier and was curious to know if his home was anywhere near to Mont Saint Michel, which he told her it was.

      As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.

       Chapter Eleven

      It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.

      ‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.

      The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’

      ‘Not that I was told about.’

      The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’

      Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t