Free The Etruscan Net by Michael Gilbert

aircraft carrier, and needed, unkind persons asserted, almost as much seaway to turn in. At an early age it had become clear that such talents must lead him into the Foreign Service.
    His wife being dead, he was looked after efficiently by his elder daughter, Tessa, every inch a Weighill herself; and spasmodically by his younger daughter, Elizabeth, who was so startlingly different, with her light hair, blue eyes and boyish figure, that she might have come from a different family altogether.
    ‘She’s a throw-back to the Trowers,’ explained Sir Gerald, ‘my wife’s family.’ He added, ‘They came from Shropshire,’ as though this explained everything.
    The Sindaco Trentanuove, Mayor of Florence, nodded his agreement. He knew nothing about Shropshire, but if Sir Gerald asserted that it was so, that was good enough for him. In his view, Sir Gerald was all that a diplomat should be. The last two or three English Consuls had not been up to the mark at all; small, clever, anxious men, hurrying through Florence, as though it was a railway junction on the route to some more important terminus. But Sir Gerald was clearly a fixture. Even when his term of office expired he would probably remain, a notable addition to the corps of ex-Consuls in Tuscany.
    The party was gathered in the Consul’s drawing-room. Elizabeth was pouring out the second of the pre-lunch drinks for her father and the Sindaco. Tessa was seated at one end of the sofa, dividing her attention between Miss Plant, Tom Proctor, the solicitor from England, and the American, Harfield Moss, who was suspected of being very rich, and was known to be interested in Roman and Etruscan relics.
    Sir Gerald looked at his watch, and said, ‘I hope Broke hasn’t forgotten us. It’ll upset the seating plan for lunch.’
    ‘He promised he’d come,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and I sent him a card to remind him. He’s getting terribly absent-minded, though.’
    ‘Give him a ring at his house. We can’t keep Miss Plant waiting much longer. She’s finished a whole plate of cocktail biscuits. No. Stop. I hear the bell. It’s probably him.’
    Broke came in, full of apologies, with a story of a difficult last minute customer. It sounded a bit thin to Elizabeth, who guessed, correctly, that he had forgotten all about them and gone home to lunch in the ordinary way, only to be chased out by Tina.
    Introductions were effected. Miss Plant gave Broke her hand to kiss. Harfield Moss said that he was certainly pleased and proud to meet the author of Five Centuries of Etruscan Terracotta, and the Sindaco, who had been staring at Broke with undisguised interest, suddenly strode across, seized him by the hand, pumped it vigorously up and down, and said, ‘Captain Roberto.’
    Broke had been looking at the Sindaco with a faint frown of puzzlement between his eyes. Now he grinned – (‘Yes, positively, he grinned ,’ said Elizabeth, thinking about the scene afterwards) – and said ‘Marco! Good heavens! How very nice to see you again. How fat and prosperous you’ve grown.’
    ‘It’s true,’ said the Sindaco. ‘One’s youth departs. One’s waist-line loses its boyish trim. When last we met I was very poor and very thin. And very happy. Full of the joy of youth. Untouched by the cynicism of advancing years. A ragged adventurer, sword in hand–’
    ‘I take it,’ said Weighill, ‘that this was during the war.’
    ‘It was in the autumn of 1943,’ said Broke. ‘Near Vallombrosa. I was on the run from a prison camp in the north. Marco – by the way, is your name really Marco?’
    ‘A nom-de-guerre. But it gives me great pleasure that you should use it again.’
    ‘Marco was commanding a troop of very irregular soldiers, and gave me hospitality for some weeks.’
    ‘Hospitality,’ said the Sindaco. ‘Yes indeed. And we afforded some warm hospitality during that time to certain Germans in the neighbourhood – very warm indeed! But I must say no more. We are all friends