pains and pleasures of love, or perhaps a warning about the perils of venereal disease… the temptress and the innocent child.’
Isabella blushed. Was he implying that she was the temptress, and poor Livia the innocent child?
‘You seem remarkably uninterested,’ he went on, ‘in our findings about this girl.’
‘Not at all,’ she said nervously. ‘It’s just that I… well, I may have been too hasty.’
‘Too hasty?’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘I thought you were doing your patriotic duty.’
‘That too, of course,’ she replied weakly.
‘Well, as it happens, the other party came to her rescue.’
‘The other party?’ asked Isabella uncertainly.
‘The film director you mentioned. Although he is thought to have left-leaning tendencies, he is also a member of the aristocracy – a Count apparently. The family have a home not too far from Florence and are highly respected locally. He maintained that the girl is an old family friend with no interest in politics, and certainly not a partisan. He was merely visiting her over the summer for personal reasons.’
‘I see,’ said Isabella weakly.
He paused, still studying the painting. ‘He mentioned, during the course of his own interrogation, that an actress had become, what was the word he used?’ He tapped his mouth rhythmically with his fingers. ‘Ah yes, that was it, “infatuated” with him.’ He emphasised the word, as he turned to look at her. ‘He said that she was a fantasist. Basically, she made it all up.’ He smiled at Isabella, who looked away, embarrassed. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the girl was released, but we are keeping an eye on her – and that director friend of yours, of course, just in case.’
Isabella nodded politely, whilst pretending to study the picture of Venus and Cupid. But her mind was not on the art. She had betrayed an innocent girl for the basest of motives – an unjustified jealousy – and now it seemed she had endangered the life of the person she loved most in the world. What must Vicenzo think of her? He had called her a fantasist. He would now surely despise her and never speak to her again. She felt light-headed, almost giddy with guilt and regret.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I’m sorry if I wasted your time. As I said, I must have been misinformed.’ She wanted to get out of the building there and then – to run across the park, and throw herself on Vicenzo’s mercy.
‘She may still be guilty, of course,’ Wolff mused, his grey eyes sparkling. ‘No smoke without fire, isn’t that what they say? So don’t worry, if she is up to something, we’ll find out.’
Wolff guided her to the next painting – a pastoral scene featuring naked men and women dancing around a tree.
‘“Primitive Man” – another Cranach,’ said Wolff. ‘It’s charming, isn’t it? I like the way the adults are almost childlike in their innocence.’
He stood so close to her, she was aware of his soft breathing, of the rough texture of his wool jacket pressing against her linen sleeve. She wished then that she could go back to an age of innocence. A time before she had committed her own venal sins. Suddenly, she remembered the promise she had made to her friend Gianni. She had an opportunity, if she was brave enough, to make amends by helping her old friend, even if it brought her into danger.
‘I wonder,’ she began nervously, ‘if I might ask a small favour.’
‘Another one?’ Wolff replied, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
She ignored his sarcasm. ‘I have an old friend, Gianni Cini. His father, Vittorio was one of Mussolini’s ministers. He has been arrested, and worse still, sent to somewhere called Dachau.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Wolff. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about that.’
‘Of course, I wasn’t implying it was your decision in any way. I simply wondered… if a mistake had been made. He is a loyal Fascist, you see – surely it can’t be right. They’re a very good family, wealthy and well-connected.’
He turned to look at her, studying her heart-shaped face and clear blue eyes. ‘That makes two favours I’ve granted you,’ he said, laughing. ‘I shall expect a favour in return.’
She felt a rising sense of panic, as she imagined the sort of ‘favour’ he might have in mind.
‘I will make some enquiries,’ he said.
‘I’d be so grateful,’ she replied. ‘Thank you so much, Herr Wolff.’
‘Call me Karl… please.’
Isabella spent the next couple of days in a turmoil of indecision. She reproached herself for the arrest of Vicenzo’s friend –