Goddess of Death by Roy Lewis

her commitment to join the
carabinieri
art squad there had always been the memory of her grandfather and the manner of his death.
    ‘So are there others in your family who have felt the same?’ Arnold asked.
    Carmela smiled faintly, and shook her head. ‘No. I have two brothers but they work in the north of Italy: one in marketing,the other engineering. I am the only one to have been touched by obsession.’
    ‘What about your cousin Colonel Messi?’
    Carmela flickered a disturbed glance in his direction. ‘He is a second cousin only. I do not think he was ever close to the family, or my grandfather. He knew him, of course; I believe Arturo Messi sought some form of patronage from him at one time, when Colonel Gandolfini was still a man of consequence.’ She sighed. ‘My cousin, Colonel Messi, has made his own way, in a different branch of the service my grandfather worked in. The
Guardia di Finanza
.’
    ‘But like you he is involved in the hunt for looted antiquities,’ Arnold suggested.
    Carmela shrugged. ‘Interested, rather than involved. It is not part of his mainstream work. And I do not believe his motivation is the same as mine.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But enough of this. We must now look forward. I must consult my colleagues on the committee, make arrangements, before I contact Steiner once more. This could be an interesting time, a breakthrough for my group. And you, Arnold, if you are still interested in joining the ISAC group, there is one thing you must do. I will give you a telephone number. It will be the contact you must make on your return to England.’
    She scribbled a number in the pocket diary she took from her handbag, ripped out the page and handed it to him. ‘You will be required, I believe, to go to London.’
    Arnold looked at the number. He felt a stirring of the blood. The interview with Steiner had raised excitement in his mind. It was all a far cry from the drudgery of his office work in Northumberland. He glanced at Carmela, and nodded.
    He would make the call.
     
    James Hope-Brierley was a tall, thin, middle-aged man whose balding, earnest appearance belied his years. His soft-browneyes and pink-fleshed mouth gave him a babyish, almost pleading expression but Arnold had no doubt that he would be a hard-headed administrator: he would have risen to the position of Assistant Secretary in the Culture Department on the basis of his ability, though there was something in his cut-glass accent that led Arnold to suppose that his background would also be impeccable. He preceded Arnold down the long carpeted corridor with a curiously crablike walk, his head turned over one shoulder to address Arnold the more conveniently.
    ‘We’ll use an office along here, Mr Landon. Should be all right. My own room is being refurbished. Sorry for the inconvenience. Decorators can be an awful nuisance, but there it is.’
    He paused at the entrance to an office at the end of the corridor, hesitated, tapped lightly on the door and waited for a few moments. When there was no answer he smiled at Arnold, opened the door and stood aside to allow his guest to precede him into the room.
    The broad table was dominated by piles of papers, scattered in some disarray: behind the desk wall to wall shelving was lined with volumes whose spines were edged in gilt. Arnold realized some of them were sets of statutes of the realm; others were official reports, blue books, bound copies of pamphlets, a few legal tomes. Hope-Brierley moved behind the desk clucking a disapproving tongue, and tentatively shuffled aside some of the papers to place his own file in front of the leather chair. He gestured to Arnold, intimating he should take the hard-backed chair placed directly opposite.
    After a moment’s hesitation Hope-Brierley went back to the doorway, closed the door quietly. ‘I’m sure Alan won’t mind us using his office,’ he murmured as he returned to the leather chair. ‘I believe he’s around today,