LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE Palazzo Malatesta stood in all its crumbling magnificence overlooking the narrow waterway which was its main link with the rest of the city. Beyond this quiet backwater flowed the busy reaches of the Grand Canal where private and public craft alike provided an ever-changing parade of colour, and where every few yards some splendid remnant of Venice's turbulent history could be seen.

      The palazzo itself retained a certain majesty that no amount of decay could entirely destroy. A patina of years had filmed its stone walls and cast a glazing of green across its gilded loggia and on the proudly raised head of the bronze griffin which guarded its entrance. Curled poles supported a stone landing stage in front of the palazzo beside which a motor launch gleamed incongruously.

      To Sancha Forrest, leaning on the side of the craft in which she was travelling trailing a lazy hand in the cool water, the whole building exuded an air of timelessness that was in itself slightly unnerving. How could anyone live in such a place, following the day-to-day pursuits of twentieth-century Italy, when their surroundings so obviously belonged to the age when chivalry and violence so often walked hand in hand? In this quiet quarter of the city it was incredibly easy to visualise what the palazzo must have been like then when some noble family had filled its walls with life and vitality and put to full use its halls and apartments.

      Sancha sighed and the faint sound that escaped her was sufficient to attract the attention of the young man who was lounging beside her in the stern of the motoscafo. He turned to look at her with twinkling eyes, noticing the rapt expression on her young face.

      ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?'

      Sancha withdrew her hand from the water and rubbed it dry. ‘It's very imposing,’ she answered, allowing her gaze to move upward over the façade of the building. ‘Does Count Malatesta really live here?'

      Tony Braithwaite grinned. ‘You find it hard to believe?'

      ‘Don't you?’ Sancha shook her head. ‘It's so big! Too big for one man, surely.'

      Tony shrugged. ‘I expect one day the Count hopes to share the place with a wife and family of his own. Until then …'

      Sancha wrinkled her nose. ‘He's not married?'

      ‘No. Not yet.'

      ‘Then how old is he?'

      ‘I'm not sure. Late thirties—early forties perhaps.'

      ‘I see.’ Sancha fingered the notebook in her hand. ‘Not young, then. Why hasn't he married before?'

      Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Now hold on, Sancha! These are the sort of questions you should wait and ask him. After all, that's your assignment. Mine is simply to take photographs.’ And as if to demonstrate this ability, Tony unfastened the protective shield over his camera, and standing up endeavoured to get a picture of the palazzo as the boatman brought their craft into the palazzo's landing stage.

      Sancha got to her feet also as Tony examined his light meter, unable to suppress the tremor of anticipation that ran through her body. Now that they were actually here, alighting at the Palazzo Malatesta, all her earlier confidence fled away. This was her first real assignment and she only had this because Eleanor Fabrioli was ill and unable to take it herself.

      She

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