‘It’d never work. You’re missing a Y-chromosome, and besides I think Bernie would have something to say about you marrying his husband,’ Nigel said with a grin.
She grinned. ‘You know what I mean. And we have paperwork. I don’t know exactly what’s there, but there are journals. Angelo is going to translate them while I sort through everything else. And hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of this painting. I’d stake my flat on it being a genuine Carulli. But I want to know what it was doing in an attic, nibbled by mice. It’s gorgeous. Why didn’t they hang it in the house?’
‘Find the story,’ Nigel said.
‘Even if it doesn’t end up in the show, I still need to know,’ she said. ‘Look at the light. The way he painted her.’
‘It reminds me a bit of Beata Beatrix,’ he said. ‘Rossetti’s memorial to his wife. The light on her face is transcendent.’
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Mariana said softly. ‘The Girl in the Window. I want to know who she is and what’s her story.’
‘Go get ’em, tiger,’ Nigel said.
When she left the office, Mariana headed for Bloomsbury. Angelo’s house was in a beautiful square: a gorgeous four-storey Georgian place with the first storey painted white, the rest in yellow brick, with dormer windows in a slate roof. There were huge sash windows, an ornate fanlight over the solid black front door, wrought iron railings at the front, and a bay tree in a square pewter pot on the front steps.
She rang the doorbell; when Angelo opened the door, her mouth went dry.
He looked even more formidable than usual in a business suit, crisp white shirt and understated silk tie, and she wished she’d worn a suit instead of her casual jeans and a T-shirt. Right now, she felt completely out of place.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, his expression polite and inscrutable. ‘Come in.’
The entrance hall looked as if it had the original cornicing; stairs led up to the next floor, and the flooring was black and white tiling. There was a gilded mirror positioned artfully to reflect the light, and a marble-topped occasional table beneath it holding an orchid in a plain white pot. The walls were painted cream, and she was a little surprised to see that there was no art whatsoever on the walls. Given that every space possible in Leo’s rooms had been crammed with paintings, this felt austere in the extreme.
‘I’ll give you the guided tour,’ he said. ‘The cloakroom is here on the left. And here’s the dining room, which I’ve moved around so there’s space to store all my grandfather’s things, plus there’s a table if you need to spread anything out.’
‘Thank you. Is that where I’ll be working?’
‘No—that’s the next floor up. I’ve made space for you in my office. If we bring one box up at a time to work on, it’ll be less overwhelming,’ he said.
That was thoughtful. She peered into the room and saw that the boxes were all neatly stacked.
‘Shall we pick the top one and start on that?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’ve already fished out the journals—I put them to one side as I came across them when I was packing. I think we’ve got a complete set, though there might be a couple missing. I made a start on the translation while you were in your meeting this morning.’
‘Don’t start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘I know we need to do all of them eventually, but you said you wanted to start with The Girl in the Window and get that authenticated. Leo said he bought the painting in 1963, so if we allow a few years either side just in case he’s misremembered over the years, maybe you can see if you can find any information from 1960 to 1966?’
‘Good idea. OK. This is the living room,’ he said, indicating another door on her left. She didn’t quite dare to peek inside. If it wasn’t connected to work, she’d consider it out of bounds. She wasn’t going to pry.
‘Kitchen,’ he said, leading her into the room at the end of the hallway.
She loved the room—bright, airy and full of light. Clearly it had been extended because the back wall was pure glass, looking out onto a patio which held large pewter pots filled with lavender. There was a table and chairs next to the glass wall; the cabinets in the rest of the room were all of pale wood, with granite worktops and a slate floor, and the walls were painted sage green. Nothing was out of place; there were no cookery books or magazines scattered on a countertop or the table, no mugs in the sink or on the draining board, and it looked more like a show kitchen than a working one. Then again, Angelo had told her that he liked everything in its right place. The only things on the countertop were a kettle and an expensive-looking coffee-maker.