“My niece, Lola, and her husband, Alfonso,” said Belmonte, and they exchanged greetings, unenthusiastically on the part of the niece, but with evident interest on the part of Alfonso, who held on to Julia’s hand rather longer than necessary, looking her up and down with an expert eye. Then he turned to Menchu, whom he greeted by name, as if they were old acquaintances.

“They’ve come about the painting,” Belmonte explained.

Alfonso clicked his tongue.

“Of course, the painting. Your famous painting.”

Belmonte brought them up to date on the new situation. Alfonso stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling and looking at Julia.

“If it means the value of the painting will go up,” he said, “it strikes me as excellent news. You can come back whenever you like if you’re going to bring us surprises like that. We love surprises.”

The niece didn’t immediately share her husband’s satisfaction.

“We’ll have to discuss it,” she said. “What guarantee is there that they won’t just ruin the painting?”

“That would be unforgivable,” chimed in Alfonso. “But I can’t imagine that this young lady would be capable of doing such a thing.”

Lola gave her husband an impatient look.

“You keep out of this. This is my business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darling.” Alfonso’s smile grew broader. “We share everything.”

“I’ve told you: keep out of it.”

Alfonso turned slowly towards her. His features grew harder and more obviously foxlike, and his smile seemed like the blade of a knife.

Julia thought that he was not perhaps as inoffensive as he at first sight seemed. It would be unwise to have any unsettled business with a man capable of a smile like that.

“Don’t be ridiculous… darling.”

That “darling” was anything but tender, and Lola seemed more aware of that than anyone. They watched her struggle to conceal her humiliation and her rancour. Menchu took a step forward, determined to enter the fray.

“We’ve already talked to Don Manuel about it,” she announced. “And he’s agreed.”

The invalid, his hands folded in his lap, had observed the skirmish from his wheelchair like a spectator who has chosen to remain on the sidelines but watches with malicious fascination.

What strange people! thought Julia.

“That’s right,” confirmed the old man to no one in particular. “I have agreed. In principle.”

The niece was wringing her hands, and the bracelets on her wrists jingled loudly. She seemed to be in a state of anguish – either that or just plain furious. Perhaps she was both things at once.

“Uncle, this is something that has to be discussed. I don’t doubt the good will of these two ladies…”

“Young ladies,” put in her husband, smiling at Julia.

“Young ladies then.” Lola was having difficulty getting her words out, hampered by her own irritation. “But they should have consulted us too.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said her husband, “they have my blessing.”

Menchu was studying Alfonso quite openly and seemed about to say something. But she chose not to and looked at the niece.

“You heard what your husband said.”

“I don’t care. I’m the legal heir.”

Belmonte raised one thin hand in an ironic gesture, as if asking permission to intervene.

“I am still alive, Lola. You’ll receive your inheritance in due course.”

“Amen,” said Alfonso.

The niece pointed her bony chin, in the most venomous fashion, straight at Menchu, and for a moment Julia thought she was about to hurl herself on them. With her long nails and that predatory, birdlike quality, there was something dangerous about her. Julia prepared herself for a confrontation, her heart pumping. When she was a child, Cesar had taught her a few dirty tricks, useful when it came to killing pirates. Fortunately, the niece’s violence found expression only in her glance and in the way she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” she said. And the furious tapping of her heels disappeared down the corridor.

Hands in his pockets, Alfonso wore a quietly serene smile.

“Don’t mind her,” he said, and turned to Belmonte. “Right, Uncle? You’d never think it, but Lolita has a heart of gold really. She’s a real sweetie.”

Belmonte nodded, distracted. He was clearly thinking about something else. His gaze seemed drawn to the empty rectangle on the wall as if it contained mysterious signs that only he, with his weary eyes, was capable of reading.

“So you’ve met Alfonso before,” said Julia as soon as they were out in the street.

Menchu, who was looking in a shop window, nodded.

“Yes, some time ago,” she said, bending down to see the price of some shoes. “Three or four years ago, I think.”

“Now I understand about the painting. It wasn’t the old man who approached you; it was Alfonso.”

Menchu gave a crooked smile.

“First prize for guessing, dear. You’re quite right. We had what you would demurely call an ‘affair’. That was ages ago, but when the Van Huys thing came up, he was kind enough to think of me.”

“Why didn’t he choose to deal directly?”

“Because no one trusts him, including Don Manuel.” She burst out laughing. “Alfonsito Lapena, the well-known gambler and playboy, owes money even to the bootblack. A few months back he narrowly escaped going to prison. Something to do with bad cheques.”

“So how does he live?”

“Off his wife, by scrounging off the unwary, and off his complete and utter lack of shame.”

“And he’s relying on the Van Huys to get him out of trouble?”

“Right. He can’t wait to convert it into little piles of chips on smooth green baize.”

“He strikes me as a nasty piece of work.”

“Oh, he is. But I have a soft spot for low-lifers, and I like Alfonso.” She remained thoughtful for a moment. “Although, as I recall, his technique certainly wouldn’t have won him any medals. He’s… how can I put it…?” She groped for the right word. “Rather unimaginative. No comparison with Max. Monotonous, you know: the wham, bang and thank-you-ma’am type. But you can have a good laugh with him. He knows some really filthy jokes.”

“Does his wife know about you and him?”

“I imagine she senses something, because she’s certainly not stupid. That’s why she gave me that look, the rotten cow.”

“I think,” said Cesar, “that we’re dealing here with a chess problem.”

They’d been discussing the painting for half an hour. Cesar was leaning against the wall, a glass of gin-and-lemon held delicately between thumb and forefinger, Menchu was poised languidly on the sofa and Julia was sitting on the carpet with the ashtray between her legs, chewing on a fingernail. All three of them were staring at the painting as if they were watching a television screen. The colours of the Van Huys were darkening before their eyes as the last glow of evening faded from the skylight.

“Do you think someone could put a light on?” suggested Menchu. “I feel as if I’m slowly going blind.”

Cesar flicked the switch behind him, and the indirect light, reflected from the walls, returned life and colour to Roger de Arras and the Duke and Duchess of Ostenburg. Almost simultaneously the clock on the wall struck eight in time to the swing of the long brass pendulum. Julia turned her head, listening for the noise of non-existent footsteps on the stairs.

“Alvaro’s late,” she said, and saw Cesar grimace.

“However late that philistine arrives,” he murmured, “it’ll never be late enough for me.”

Julia gave him a reproachful look.

“You promised to behave. Don’t forget.”