“How delightful. I haven’t seen the swine for ages, so I’d be thrilled to have an opportunity to send a few poisoned darts his way, wrapped up, of course, in delicate periphrases.”

“Please, Cesar.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll be kind… given the circumstances. My hand may wound, but no blood will be spilled on your Persian carpet… which, incidentally, could do with a good cleaning.”

She looked at him tenderly, and put her hands over his.

“I love you, Cesar.”

“I know. It’s only natural. Almost everyone does.”

“Why do you hate Alvaro so much?”

It was a stupid question, and he gave her a look of mild censure.

“Because he made you suffer,” he replied gravely. “I would, with your permission, pluck out his eyes and feed diem to the dogs along the dusty roads of Thebes. All very classical. You could be the chorus. I can see you now, looking divine, raising your bare arms up to Olympus, where the gods would be snoring, drunk as lords.”

“Marry me, Cesar. Right now.”

Cesar took one of her hands and kissed it, brushed it with his lips.

“When you grow up, Princess.”

“But I have.”

“No, you haven’t. Not yet. But when you have, Your Highness, I will dare to tell you that I loved you. And that the gods, when they woke, did not take everything from me. Only my kingdom.” He seemed to ponder that before adding, “Which, after all, is a mere bagatelle.”

It was a very private dialogue, full of memories, of shared references, as old as their friendship. They sat in silence, accompanied by the ticking of the ancient clocks that continued to measure out the passage of time while they awaited a buyer.

“To sum up,” said Cesar, “if I’ve understood you correctly, it’s a question of solving a murder.”

Julia looked at him, surprised.

“It’s odd you should say that.”

“Why? That’s more or less what it is. The fact that it happened in the fifteenth century doesn’t change anything.”

“Right. But that word ‘murder’ throws a much more sinister light on it all.” She smiled anxiously at Cesar. “Maybe I was too tired last night to see it that way, but up till now I’ve treated it all as a game, like deciphering a hieroglyph… a personal matter, in a way. A matter of personal pride.”

“And now?”

“Well, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, you talk about solving a real murder, and I suddenly understand…” She stopped, her mouth open, feeling as if she were leaning over the edge of an abyss. “Do you see? On the sixth of January 1469, someone murdered Roger de Arras, or had him murdered, and the identity of the murderer lies in the painting.” She sat up straight, carried along by excitement. “We could solve a five-hundred-year-old enigma. Perhaps find the reason why one small event in European history happened one way and not another. Imagine the price The Game of Chess could reach at the auction if we managed to do that!”

“Millions, my dear,” Cesar confirmed, with a sigh dragged from him by the sheer weight of evidence. “Many millions.” He considered the idea, convinced now. “With the right publicity, Claymore’s could increase the opening price three or four times. It’s a gold mine, that painting of yours.”

“We must go and see Menchu. Now.”

Cesar shook his head with an air of sulky reserve.

“Oh no. Anything but that. Out of the question. You’re not going to involve me in any of your friend Menchu’s shenanigans. Though I’m quite happy to stand behind the barriers, as bullfighter’s assistant.”

“Don’t be difficult. I need you.”

“I’m entirely at your disposal, my dear. But don’t force me to rub shoulders with that resprayed Nefertiti and her ever-changing crew of panders or, if you want it in the vernacular, pimps. That friend of yours gives me a migraine” – he pressed one temple – “right here. See?”

“Cesar…”

“All right, I give in. Vae victis. I’ll see Menchu.”

She planted a resounding kiss on his well-shaven cheek, conscious of the smell of myrrh. Cesar bought his perfume in Paris and his cravats in Rome.

“I love you, Cesar. Very much.”

“Don’t you soft-soap me. Fancy trying to get round me like that. At my age too.”

* * *

Menchu bought her perfume in Paris too, but it was rather less discreet than Cesar’s. She arrived, in a hurry and without Max, and in a cloud of Balenciaga’s Rumba, which preceded her, like an advance party, across the foyer of the Palace Hotel.

“I’ve got some news,” she said, tapping her nose with one finger and sniffing repeatedly before sitting down. She had obviously just made a pit stop in the Ladies, and a few tiny specks of white dust still clung to her upper lip. That, Julia thought, explained why she was so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Don Manuel is expecting us at his house to discuss the matter,” she said.

“Don Manuel?”

“The owner of the painting. Are you being dense? You know, my charming little old man.”

They ordered mild cocktails, and Julia brought her friend up to date on the results of her research. Menchu opened her eyes wide as she rapidly worked out percentages in her head.

“That really changes things.” On the linen cloth that covered the low table between them she was busily etching calculations with a blood-red fingernail. “My five per cent is far too little. So I’m going to suggest a deal with the people at Claymore’s: of the fifteen-per-cent commission on the price the painting reaches at auction, they get seven and a half and I get seven and a half.”

“They’ll never agree. It’s way below their usual profit margin.”

Menchu burst out laughing. It would be that or nothing. Sotheby’s and Christie’s were just around the corner, and they’d howl with pleasure at the prospect of making off with the Van Huys. It would be a question of take it or leave it.

“And the owner? Your little old man might have something to say about it. What if he decides to deal directly with Claymore’s? Or with someone else.”

Menchu gave her an astute look.

“He can’t. He signed a piece of paper.” She pointed to her short skirt, which revealed a generous amount of leg sheathed in dark stockings. “Besides, as you see, I’m dressed for battle. If my Don Manuel doesn’t fall into line, I’ll take the veil.” As if trying out the effect, she crossed and uncrossed her legs for the benefit of the male customers in the hotel. Satisfied with the results, she turned her attention back to her cocktail. “As for you…”

“I want one and a half of your seven and a half per cent.”

Menchu gave a pained yelp. That was a lot of money, she said, scandalised. Three or four times the fee they’d agreed on for the restoration work. Julia allowed her to protest while she took a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit one.

“You don’t understand,” she explained, as she exhaled. “The fee for my work will be deducted directly from your Don Manuel, from the price the painting gets at auction. The other percentage is in addition to that, to be deducted from the profit that you make. If the painting sells for one hundred million pesetas, Claymore’s will get seven and a half, you’ll get six and I’ll get one and a half.”

“Who’d have thought it?” said Menchu, shaking her head in disbelief. “You seemed such a nice girl, with your little brushes and varnishes. So inoffensive.”

“Well, there you are. God said we should be kind to our fellow man, but he didn’t say anything about letting him rip us off.”

“You shock me, you really do. I’ve been nurturing a serpent in my left bosom, like Aida. Or was it Cleopatra? I had no idea you knew about percentages.”

“Put yourself in my place. After all, I was the one who made the discovery.” She waggled her fingers in front of her friend’s nose. “With my own fair hands.”

“You’re taking advantage of my tender heart, you little snake.”

“Come off it. You’re as tough as old boots.”