Cort, looking pale, but trying to maintain an expression of manly scepticism, put up his hand.

'Her name is Annabelle,' said the Marchesa, reverting to her usual voice. 'She is in great distress.'

Cort did not reply, but the Marchesa took silence as assent. 'It is one who loves you,' she said. 'She is sad and distressed. She says you know full well what she means.'

Cort, again, said nothing, but was breathing heavily, sweating profusely. Then the Marchesa began speaking in voices, a girlish squeak that was quite terrifying to hear even for me. The effect on Cort was indescribable. 'William, you are cruel. You dishonour your name. Stop, or he will take your soul. I am the one who gave my life, that you might live.'

A savage cry came from Cort's throat at this statement, and he screamed, pushing over his chair and backing, wild-eyed to the wall. The noise brought the Marchesa from her reverie, and she stared around in confusion – very convincingly, I must say. I do not think she was faking; she clearly did go into some sort of trance. Even I, sceptic though I was, was prepared to grant her this.

Then she focused on the scene her words had created, peering with alarm at the mayhem she had let loose. Cort, hard against the wall, sobbing and moaning; chairs tumbled over the floor as he had struck out at imagined apparitions; Drennan, the only one of us to maintain some self-possession, moving to pick up the candelabrum that had tumbled on the floor and which threatened to burn the place down; Louise leaping back from the table and standing stock still, staring at her husband.

'Cort, my dear fellow . . .' Longman began, advancing towards him.

Cort stared in terror at him, rushed to a side table where the sweetmeats and brandies had been placed, and grabbed a sharp knife used for peeling fruit. 'Get away from me! Get away! Leave me alone!' The tears flowed down his cheeks as he spoke, but underneath them there was anger as well.

Even though he had certainly never used a knife for such a purpose before, he looked dangerous to me and I was quite prepared to follow his instructions. Longman was made of braver – or more foolish – stuff. Even though Drennan called out a warning, he advanced on the young man, hands held out.

'Calm yourself, dear boy,' he said in a kindly fashion. 'There's nothing . . .'

He did not finish. Cort backed away towards his wife and began lashing out violently; it was obvious from his expression that he was not feinting. Louise fell back just in time, a long red scratch showing through the sleeve of her green dress. She fell to her knees with a piercing cry, gripping her wounded arm.

'Dear God!' 'Stop him!' 'Are you mad?' All these conventional phrases burst from people's lips as Cort turned, threw the knife on the floor, and ran for the door, just as Drennan hurled himself forward and brought him to the ground. There was no struggle; Cort made no resistance, but broke down completely, sobbing on the floor as all around looked on at the scene, horrified, appalled, disgusted, embarrassed according to their temperaments.

Then people reverted to type. Longman started moaning as though he had been stabbed, not Louise; Marangoni became medical and started to treat her, examining her wound with remarkable gentleness. The Marchesa collapsed in a fit of vapours, and Drennan, reassured that the violence had gone out of the man, coaxed Cort to his feet and over to a chair. Only I – not victim, not healer, not a hunter – had no natural role to adopt. I went to Louise to assist, but was pushed back by Marangoni, and I noticed an interested, knowing look on his face as he did so. So I pretended; surveyed the scene, escorted the Marchesa to a chair, and poured her – and myself – a large brandy. Louise was still kneeling on the ground, trembling with fear and shock. But her eyes puzzled me; they were wide, but not with the horror and fear of what had just happened.

The wound was not severe; the knife had penetrated flesh, but the damage was more dramatic than real. Marangoni swiftly bound it up with a napkin, and sat her down with a brandy as well. His pronouncement that she would live – it was obvious, but it is always good to have an expert opinion – lightened the atmosphere considerably. Then he turned his attention to Cort, who had collapsed and was sitting on the floor by the wall, hunched up, his arms around his legs, his head on his knees. I felt, at that moment, total loathing for him.

'He needs to be sedated,' he said. 'And he needs to sleep. Then we can see what is to be done with him. I assume no one wishes to involve the authorities?'

There was a chorus agreeing that this would be a bad idea. Marangoni looked almost satisfied, as though his predictions about Cort had come spectacularly true. But at least he knew what to do, could propose some course of action. He was, suddenly, a commanding presence and I realised for the first time why he was in a position of authority. He was good at it.

He gave his orders. Cort would be taken to his hospital for the night; Drennan would accompany him there, to make sure there were no further problems. In the morning he would begin a proper examination.

'And Mrs Cort? Someone must escort her home.'

'Of course you must not! You must stay with us, my dear Mrs Cort,' Longman said kindly.

'Or here. I have more room,' the Marchesa interrupted, seemingly a little annoyed at Longman's offer.

Louise nodded. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 'You are all very kind . . .'

Everybody was attempting to comfort her. Only Marangoni said nothing, but watched her carefully; I could see his eyes flickering to me as well. That annoyed me. Even at a moment like that, all he could do was diagnose, watch and interpret.

'And your son?' he said eventually.

Louise looked at him, and hesitated for a moment. 'He is at home with the nurse. No harm will come to him,' she said.

And so it was arranged; Longman offered to come back if any further assistance was needed and took his leave. I also made my excuses and retired to my rooms.

An hour later Louise came to me. I was waiting for her. By the time she slipped away at dawn I had told her I would never leave her, that I wanted her for ever. That I loved her, would protect her.

CHAPTER 11

I met Signor Ambrosian on his return; the meeting was arranged swiftly, and I waited on him at his bank close to the Piazza San Marco. Not at all like the palaces of London, where Rothschilds and Barings hold court to Europe and the world. The Banco di Santo Spirito (quite a charming name, I thought, implying that all this usury was to serve God the better rather than to enrich a few families) could not be compared to one of the great houses of London. Nonetheless, it showed ambition in the way it had cleaned out a Renaissance palace, and refitted it in the dark wood and heavy veined marble that was the necessary indicator of solidity in every serious financial centre.

Ambrosian matched his building. Venetians, of all Italians, are the most difficult to read; they do not show their emotions easily. Life is a serious business for them and many have a natural melancholy which makes social intercourse quite difficult. Ambrosian was very reserved; perfectly polite, but with no openness or welcome about him. He was a handsome man, immaculately dressed with a shock of silver grey hair which was matched by a grey necktie and (a foreign touch) large pearl cufflinks, and a vase of silvery flowers on his desk. He was a fine fellow, a shrewd businessman, more than ready to exploit the gullibility of others, as was only proper for a man in his position. I hoped very much that he would be quite merciless in his dealings with me. A great deal depended on it.

I expressed my pleasure in meeting him, and explained my current circumstances. 'I have identified several possibilities for investment in Venice, and wish to consult you as to their practicality,' I said, once the preliminaries were disposed of. These were the usual sort of thing, questions and answers so that he could determine whether I was someone to take seriously. The name of Joseph Cardano served me well here. He was known amongst financiers throughout much of Europe, even if only by name or reputation. But not outside that circle. The fact that I realised mentioning his name meant something was enough to make Ambrosian accept I was a man of purpose. He slowly became more attentive, more careful in his speech. He was too vain to think he was talking to an equal, but intelligent enough to realise that some consideration was required. That, at present, was exactly as I desired. His triumph at exploiting me would be all the greater, and thus less easy to resist.