Lucchese pushed back his stool and stood up, inspecting the intruders with a glare whose pedigree bespoke generations of arrogance and condescension.
‘Do what?’ he demanded after a terrible silence.
Zen was about to intervene, to try to save the situation, but too late.
‘Play Scarlatti like that, of course!’ Carla burbled on. ‘And what a magnificent instrument! Is it a Ruckers?’
The prince’s glacial hauteur was instantly replaced by an expression of almost childish pleasure.
‘Absolutely! Originally, that’s to say. It was remodelled by either Blanchet or Taskin a century later, of course.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Carla.
There was a brief pause.
‘And to whom do I have the honour…?’ Lucchese began.
‘My name’s Carla Arduini, and this is…’
The prince shot Zen a sour look.
‘I know who he is.’
‘… my father,’ Carla concluded.
‘Your father?’
‘We think so,’ Zen put in. ‘Now we want to find out.’
A beam of sunlight projected into the room between them. On the other side, Lucchese’s dim figure moved around the harpsichord and emerged into the glare.
‘First, let’s talk about this absurd charge that’s hanging over my head for having mutilated Scorrone’s corpse.’
Zen gestured languidly.
‘No problem. I’ve subsequently ascertained that you were merely carrying out a recognized medical procedure at the request of your deceased cousin. All charges have been dropped.’
Lucchese glanced at him.
‘Very well. I fancy the bass needs a tune-up, Irena.’
‘So do I!’ retorted the latter, stalking out of the room.
Lucchese shook his head sadly.
‘These highly strung modern instruments are so hard to keep sweet. So you want a blood test, is that it?’
‘If that’s what it takes,’ Carla replied.
‘Oh, and I want these stitches removed,’ added Zen. ‘If one more person tells me that it’s a nasty-looking cut I’ve got there, and quite fresh, too, by the look of it, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Then give me your bill and I promise never to disturb you again.’
Lucchese led them towards the door.
‘Ah, but I may still have to disturb you, dottore. Remember our agreement? Until that matter is resolved, my charges remain pending.’
‘What if I just run off without paying?’
Lucchese turned to him.
‘You’ve been doing that all your life,’ he said, his delicate fingers exploring the scar on Zen’s brow. ‘Look where it’s got you.’
Minot was under his truck, completing an oil-change, when Anna started barking. He listened intently to the sound of the approaching vehicle, then gave a satisfied nod. He’d been expecting this visit all day.
‘Basta!’ he yelled at the dog, which subsided into repressed whimpers.
Minot crawled out from under the truck as the Carabinieri jeep drew up alongside. The door opened and Enrico Pascal clambered out with ponderous gravity.
‘Minot,’ he said.
‘Marescia.’
The two men stood looking at each other, trying to divine the exact nature of the silence, the shape and heft of their unspoken thoughts.
‘Good thing you came by,’ Minot began. ‘I was going to call you anyway.’
‘You were?’
‘I’ve had a word with the friends I was out truffling with that night we were talking about.’
Enrico Pascal appeared to reflect.
‘Ah, yes. And?’
‘And they say it’s all right.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes, they do.’
Enrico Pascal swept his eyes up and down Minot’s faded check shirt and corduroy trousers.
‘Nasty stains you’ve got there.’
Minot pointed to the truck.
‘I’ve been changing the oil.’