to satisfy herself that no one was in there.
Then she opened the door of her father’s studio and, her nostrils full of the familiar smell of paints and turpentine that lingered even now, looked around.
Apart from his easel, his unused canvases propped against a wall and, on the racks, his paints and brushes, his pallet and pallet knife, his cleaning fluids and soft rags, it was empty.
His bedroom too was free of intruders.
It was still as he had left it.
One of these days she would have to go through his private papers, and give his clothes and belongings to charity, but the grief was still too new, too raw, to be able to do it yet.
The only thing she had moved had been his last gift to her, which she had discovered hidden in his bureau, along with some letters.
Though only about the size of a small shoebox, it had been quite heavy. Wrapped in gold paper, it bore a printed tag which had read simply:
For Sophia, with all my love. Have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday.
Finding it like that had made her tears flow.
When they were under control, she had stripped off the paper with unsteady fingers to reveal the exquisite ebony jewellery box that the stranger had commented on.
It was like a miniature chest, the thick, arched lid beautifully carved with what appeared to be one of the signs of the zodiac. A moment or two later, though it wasn’t the conventional portrayal, she recognized it as Pisces, her own birth sign.
Caught in a curling wave were two tiny sea horses, one obviously frolicking, the other melancholy. It perfectly captured the dual personality, the moods and emotional depths, attributed to Pisceans.
Fresh tears had trickled down her cheeks while she wondered where her father—who had been housebound for quite some time—had managed to find such a lovely and appropriate birthday gift.
Her heart overflowing with love and gratitude, she had put it on her dressing table where she could see it the moment she woke up.
Suppose it had gone?
Almost more concerned about losing her gift than the possibility of finding an intruder, she took a deep breath and, flinging open her bedroom door, switched on the light.
To her immense relief the box was where she’d left it and the room appeared to be empty, but—sensitive to atmosphere—to Sophia it didn’t feel empty.
Her divan bed was only an inch or two from the floor, so the only place anyone could possibly hide was the walk-in wardrobe.
Though she told herself she was being a fool, she slid aside the doors and peered in.
It occurred to her with wry amusement that if she did find anyone hiding in there, she would probably die of fright.
In the event, it was innocent of anything but clothes and accessories.
As she caught sight of the box once more, the thought struck her that it was the right shape and size to be the package brought by the mysterious visitor Mrs Caldwell had let in.
Maybe it had been a special delivery ordered by phone? If that was the case, it would account for her father not mentioning anything about a visitor.
The fact that the man had been Italian was no doubt quite irrelevant.
But would a delivery of that kind be made by taxi?
Well, the box had come from somewhere.
Giving up the riddle, her thoughts went back to a possible burglar. The box was still here, but what about its contents?
Mostly it was costume stuff. The only items of any real value were her few good pieces of jewellery and her father’s signet ring…But surely any would-be thief would have taken them?
A glance inside showed that nothing was missing, so maybe the whole concept of a burglar had sprung from her imagination?
But what about the curtains?
Perhaps, her mind taken up with the fair-haired stranger, she had closed them herself without registering the fact?
As if to add weight to this theory, she realized that none of the curtains at the rear of the house had been closed.
Common sense jumped in and pointed out that they wouldn’t need to be. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, so no one could have looked in and noticed anything amiss.
Oh, well, if someone had come in—and it was starting to look less likely—they had gone out again without taking anything or doing any damage, so she must try and put the whole thing out of her mind.
She was about to move away and prepare for bed when she caught sight of something that looked like a wisp of stocking dangling from the drawer she kept her underwear in.
Frowning a little, she pulled it open to find that one of her fine silk stockings had somehow escaped from its protective wrapper and snagged on the top of the drawer.
She stared at it, a chill running through her, certain, or almost certain, that she hadn’t left it like that.
A quick glance in her other drawers suggested that someone had looked through them, leaving them marginally less neat.
But, if that was so, as well as the puzzling—how did they get in? was the equally perplexing—what had they been looking for?
While she showered, brushed her teeth and put on her nightdress, she turned the whole thing over and over in her mind, but it made no sense.
By the time she climbed into bed, heartily sick of the fruitless exercise, she determined to think no more about it.
At once, thoughts of the fascinating stranger who had looked so like the man in her portrait brought to life flooded in.
The joy she’d felt on first seeing him came back to linger like some sad ghost. And she knew now that, as though under a spell, she had spent all her life just waiting for him.
But a one-sided enchantment was no use, and that was all it had been. Otherwise he wouldn’t have walked away as casually as he had.
So what was the point of repining?
None at all, she told herself stoutly. She would try not to think about him. Though, with his face only a few feet away, that was easier said than done.
Reaching out a hand, she switched off the light, but blotting out sight didn’t stop the thoughts and regrets that tramped ceaselessly on the treadmill of her mind.
She slept badly, tossing and turning restlessly, and awoke headachy and unrefreshed to find the light of another grey, overcast day filling the room.
A bleary glance at her bedside clock showed that, for once in her life, she had badly overslept.
As quickly as possible, she showered and dressed in a neat business suit, coiled her dark hair and put on a hasty dab of make-up. Then, having swallowed a cup of instant coffee, she pulled on her coat and made her way to A Volonté.
Despite walking fast, she was over half an hour late by the time she hurried through the heavy smoked glass doors into the oval-shaped gallery.
Quiet and elegant, with its white, gold and dark green decor, its graceful sweep of staircase, its classic columns, which supported the encircling balcony, it was a Mecca for the art world.
On her way to the staff room, she glanced up at the balcony. Several people were already strolling round looking at her father’s paintings. At the far end a couple with their backs to her—a tall fair-haired man and a petite woman with a black shoulder-length bob, were studying the miniatures.
The exhibition appeared to be getting off to a good start, thank the Lord.
When Sophia had hung up her coat and tapped on David’s office door to give him her apologies—which he waved away—she went back to take her place at