“I think I get the picture.”
“Excellent. Now, where are you staying?”
“The Osbourne.”
“We’ll have to find you more permanent digs. There’s a drinks party later. It would pay for you to show your face. We might be able to rustle up something for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“If you don’t mind riding pillion, I can pick you up around five.”
“You have a motorcycle?”
“Technically, it’s three motorcycles, held together with wire and willpower.”
Pemberton flashed his film-star smile.
Yes, thought Max, Rosamund will be most pleased with her unexpected guest.
She was.
Her hand even went to her hair when she greeted them at the door, something it had never done for Max.
The house sat near the top of Prince of Wales Road in Sliema, just shy of the police station. It was typical of many Maltese homes in that the unassuming façade gave no indication of the treasures that lay behind it. The wooden entrance door was flanked by two windows, with three more windows on the upper floor united by a stone balcony overhanging the street. Perfectly symmetrical, the front of the house was unadorned except for a brass nameplate set in the white stucco—Villa Marija—and a small glazed terra-cotta roundel above the entrance, which showed a disconsolate-looking Virgin clutching her child.
Rosamund was wearing an oyster-gray satin evening gown, and once her hand had tugged self-consciously at her auburn locks, Max made the introductions. Rosamund offered a slender hand, drawing Pemberton inside as they shook, which permitted her to fire an approving look over his shoulder at Max as she did so.