Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.

From down below she heard a woman’s voice, sounding worried, almost tearful, then Vittorio Tazzini’s, seeming to comfort her. She just managed to get to her feet and brush her clothes down before the door opened and a powerfully built middle-aged woman entered, with Vittorio’s arm about her shoulder.

‘This is Berta,’ he explained in English. ‘She looks after the house and does a wonderful job.’ He translated this for the woman before reverting to English to say, ‘Unfortunately, she understands very little of your language, and she’s worried in case this counts against her.’

‘Why should it?’ Angel asked. ‘We can speak in Italian.’ She crossed her fingers and spoke slowly. ‘Berta, I’m sorry that I did not warn you I was coming. It was rude of me.’

To her relief, Berta understood, and a smile broke over her broad face. She too spoke slowly.

‘If the signora will come down to the kitchen I will prepare coffee while the room is made ready.’

As they descended the stairs, Angel could see that the household was already alive to her presence. All the staff were buzzing around her bags, beginning to take them upstairs, but not before they’d given her quick looks of curiosity.

She could sense the other woman’s unease, and it touched her heart. She hadn’t come here to hurt anybody.

When Berta served up coffee, Angel thanked her with her warmest smile and said in slow, clear Italian, ‘This looks delicious. I’m sure we’re going to get on really well.’

Berta nodded, looking happier.

‘By the way, is this what you were looking for?’ she asked Vittorio, holding out the little book.