Free Death of a Dutchman by Magdalen Nabb

the low sun. The river, where it was visible, was dissolving from olive to gold in the evening light. Only a couple of hours ago, the Marshal had talked of fishing desperate citizens out of that same water that lay there smooth as oil, and every day that week the paper had carried letters suggesting ways of controlling the increasing population of rats . . .
    The vision was framed by long, sweeping curtains of faded blue silk. Looking more closely, the Marshal saw that what appeared to be a pattern of darker horizontal stripes was caused by the silk having rotted with old age.
    'Beautiful, isn't it?' The Count was back, carrying a silver tray with a bottle and two dusty glasses on it. He looked about him, trying to decide which of the ghostly shapes might be some sort of table, eventually placing the tray on the broad wooden step running along beneath the window.
    'We have one of the best views in Florence. I like the country well enough but I'd as soon stay here all summer if my father didn't insist we all go . . . You're very lucky to have found me, you know, because I only came down to collect some more books. I read a great deal in the country. Here you are, try this. It's from our own vineyards but we make so little of it that we never sell any . ,.
    'Very nice,' murmured the Marshal, sipping a little unhappily at the dusty rim but appreciating the dryness of the liqueur wine that was so often stickily sweet. He wondered where he could put his glass down, and eventually decided to keep hold of it, balancing his hat on one knee to make room.
    This is not, as I said before, an official call exactly. I'm just trying to satisfy myself in my own mind as to what happened . . .' The Marshal was sweating a little, and his free hand groped for a handkerchief in his trouser pocket. He had no right to be here, and if, however inadvertently, he annoyed this young man who looked so blandly pleased to see him, it would only take a brief telephone call.. .
    'I just thought your experience as a Brother of the Misericordia might help me . . .'
    'Yes yes yes . . . but of course I'm not a Brother, not yet . . . But you're not a Florentine.'
    He had noticed that the Marshal looked baffled.
    'I understand.' His tone implied that it could happen to anybody; just bad luck. 'There are only seventy-two Brothers, as there were originally: twelve prelates, twenty priests, twelve nobles, and twenty-eight artists. The rest of us are only assistant brothers, really. My father thought I ought not. . . he's one of the twelve nobles, as I shall be, eventually . . . but I wanted to join as soon as I could. It's a great tradition, you know . . . and then, one can talk to the other Brothers. While we're waiting for calls. I've had a number of interesting conversations •. . . I like to meet people, don't you?'
    The Marshal was too bemused to think of an answer, but he noticed, when the young man bent down to refill their glasses, that he was balding a little on his crown. He wore a pair of worn-out slacks like the Marshal used for pottering in the kitchen, and the childish striped T-shirt, buttoned up at the collar, was much too small for him.
    'No, no . . . that's plenty.'
    The Marshal tried to withdraw his glass, his eyes still rolling over the young man's clothes. The shoes looked odd, being black, city shoes, some sort of absent-minded concession to the idea of dressing to come into town? Surely not; perhaps he changed when he got here. How old would he be? Much older than the Marshal had first thought when judging by the T-shirt and the childlike facial expression. Probably nearer forty than thirty. . .He was still talking, barely pausing to draw breath.
    'There's my sister, of course, but once we're out in the country she thinks of nothing but her horses, and I've never been strong enough ..."
    He was certainly too thin and very pale. The Marshal thought briefly of the escaped prisoner at the Pensione Giulia . . . was it only yesterday? His