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‘Of course. I do all the accounts – he never has to know. I can fix everything so it just looks like you had quiet weeks while he was away. And Leni, if you need money, you ask me, all right?’

She didn’t answer.

He pressed the point. ‘Please. I expect nothing in return. I’m your friend. And I am an uncle to your son.’

She nodded. ‘All right. Now, go make an honest woman of Anna, please. I’ll feel happier knowing you have someone who loves you back.’

He checked his watch. ‘Yes, I’d better go. See you tomorrow, perhaps?’

She nodded with no commitment and watched him brighten as he left her. She took a few minutes more to enjoy breathing in the calming salt air.

Her life was indeed a Caravaggio artwork.

Light shone on Danjel and her hours in the cathedral, cleaning, when she escaped being a Falzon woman and lived as Valentina Camilleri, but she was surrounded by darkness and malevolence. There were so many times when she wished Lawrenz dead; each time he forced himself upon her and then rolled off her to snore in his drunken stupor, she hoped he might choke. If he suffocated of his own accord, that would be a blessing. If he simply died in his sleep, she would rejoice.

But life was not that kind to her.

It hadn’t been kind since the day Flight Lieutenant Fox had walked away from her.

So report Lawrenz! her mind said again.

To whom? she pleaded with the universe. Reporting him to the police for battery wouldn’t do anything useful. At most it might stay his fists for a while, but more likely he’d find a way to punish her.

She thought of St John the Baptist, bleeding out, and she knew he represented how she felt. As she pictured the forlorn figure, jailed and helpless, left to his fate, the stirrings of an idea occurred to her. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely helpless… not if she was cunning and creative.

She’d have to take matters into her own hands.

FIFTEEN

London, England

‘Come in, Peter, come in. Have a seat,’ his superior at the Courtauld Institute offered. The offices were at 20 Portman Square in Marylebone, London, a mere skip from bustling Oxford Street.

‘Morning, sir.’ The office smelled of sugar and men’s cologne. Both pleasant. ‘Tea?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’

‘Are you certain? My secretary’s brought shortbread.’

Peter noted the home-made biscuits next to the teapot on the tray. ‘I’m sure, but thank you.’ He sat on the seat that his boss gestured towards.

‘Sorry, old chap. I just have to read and sign this – won’t be a moment.’

‘Fine. Smells very nice in here.’

Anthony Blunt looked up. ‘Acqua di Parma. They refer to it as the scent of Hollywood.’

‘Really?’ Peter grinned.

‘Indeed. A favourite of Cary Grant’s.’ Blunt signed off a letter with indigo ink and then capped his fountain pen, setting it aside. He blew on the signature and then put the sheet into his out-tray. ‘You’re staying up in London for a while, I’m hearing?’

Peter had decided not to hide behind excuses or untruths. The sooner everyone knew, the better. ‘Actually, sir, my wife and I are, well, we’ve decided to call it a day and divorce.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be, sir. It’s all very amicable. We’ll remain good friends.’

‘How very civil,’ Blunt remarked, reaching for the teapot. He poured steaming tea into a delicate china cup with a saucer.