Free The Bernini Bust by Iain Pears

it is swamped by people desperate to get away from the heat and dust and pollution of the capital. So they come to the heat and dust and pollution of Bracciano instead. It makes a change, and also means the water is no longer quite as fresh as it once was. Those local residents who bought their houses some time ago are not pleased at the disturbance that thousands of noisy Romans bring with them; others make a small fortune out of them and are perfectly happy about it.
    The Alberghi were firmly in the former category. Their castle looked basically medieval with lots of modern conveniences added in the sixteenth century, like windows. The owners were not the sort of people who rushed out to sell Coca-Cola and popcorn to the tourists. The place was more than a little secluded; from the road the only indication that it was there at all came from the signs at the gate warning of ferocious dogs and announcing that you were entering private property so go away.
    If the gateway was unwelcoming, the owner was even less hospitable. It took some time for the door to be opened, and even longer for the appropriate person to put in an appearance. They were the sort who still had servants; indeed, they were clearly the sort who, without a cook, would starve to death. Flavia handed her card to an ancient woman who opened the door, and waited for results.
    “And about damn time too.” The voice of the owner preceded his actual appearance. He came limping down the stairs shortly afterwards, bristling with indignation. “Pretty disgraceful, I call it.”
    Flavia looked at him in a cold manner. It seemed the best way to deal with the situation; to adopt a general air that implied that Alberghi was at fault himself and should count himself lucky he was getting any attention at all.
    “Pardon?” she said.
    “Four weeks,” he said, glaring at her. “What do you call that? I call it appalling, myself.”
    “Pardon?” she repeated frostily.
    “The robbery, woman, the robbery. Good God, we have thieves swarming all over the house and what do the police do about it?
    Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing. Can you imagine how my dear wife…’
    She held up her hand. “Yes, yes,” she said. “But I’m here now, so why don’t we get on with it? I gather you were meant to be drawing up a list of everything that was stolen. Have you got it?”
    Still grumbling and stroking his moustache with fury, he grudgingly led the way in. “Waste of time, I suppose,” he complained as they passed through a dusty entrance hall into a dark, wood-panelled study. “Can’t imagine you’ll get anything back now.”
    He flung open the top of a desk in the corner and extracted a sheet of paper. “There you are,” he said. “Best I can do.”
    Flavia looked at it and shook her head despairingly. The chances of getting anything back were always fairly small, even when the descriptions were complete and photographs appended. Any burglar with even half a brain knew that it was imperative to get stolen goods over the border fast.
    But this thief needn’t have bothered. The list was about as useful as an old sweet packet. On the other hand, it did provide a useful cover for the department’s tardiness. No one could blame them if Alberghi’s goods were never seen again.
    ““One old landscape. One silver pot, an old bust, two or three portraits,”’ she read. “Is that all you could manage?”
    For the first time she got him on the defensive, and his moustache twirling switched from aggressive to defensive mode. “Best I could do,” he repeated.
    “But this is useless. What do you expect us to do now? Go round and examine every portrait in Europe in the hope one might turn out to be yours? You’re meant to be an art expert, for heaven’s sake.”
    “Me?” he said scornfully. “I know nothing about it.”
    In the circumstances, Flavia thought that the tinge of pride in his voice was misplaced. A small amount of expertise would have greatly