In staggered pairs, they made their way back through the salone, from which had already vanished all sign of the drinks that had been served there, and towards the front hall, where two of the evening’s servants helped them into their coats. Brunetti glanced aside and said softly to Paola, ‘And people say it’s hard to find good staff these days.’ She grinned but someone on his other side let out an involuntary snort of laughter. When he turned, he saw only Franca Marinello’s impassive face.

In the courtyard, the group exchanged polite farewells: Cataldo and his wife were led towards the porta d’ acqua and their boat; Rocchetto and his wife lived only three doors away; and the other couple turned in the direction of the Accademia, having laughed off Paola’s suggestion that she and Brunetti walk them to their home.

Arm in arm, Brunetti and Paola turned towards home. As they passed the entrance to the university, Brunetti asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Paola stopped and looked him in the eye. Instead of answering, she asked, coolly, ‘And what, pray tell, was that all about?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti answered, stalling.

‘You beg my pardon because you don’t understand my question, or you beg my pardon because you spent the evening talking to Franca Marinello and ignoring everyone else?’

The vehemence of her question surprised Brunetti into bleating out, ‘But she reads Cicero.’

‘Cicero?’ asked an equally astonished Paola.

‘On Government, and the letters, and the accusation against Verres. Even the poetry,’ he said. Suddenly struck by the cold, Brunetti took her arm and started up the bridge, but her steps lagged and slowed him to a halt at the top.