Page 40 of A Death in Cornwall

“By whom?”

Anna laughed quietly. “I miss that sense of humor of yours.”

“But not the smell of my solvents.”

She made a face. “They were atrocious.”

“So was the sound of your endless practicing.”

“Did it really bother you?”

“Never, Anna.”

Smiling, she gazed out her window at the snow-covered streets of Munich’s Old Town. “It wouldn’t have been so terrible, you know.”

“Being married to you?”

She nodded slowly.

“It was too soon, Anna. I wasn’t ready.”

She leaned her head against Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’d watch your step, if I were you, Herr Klemp. My suite is full of vases. And this time I won’t miss.”

16

Altstadt

And what, pray tell, is the young man’s name?”

“Gennaro.”

Anna placed a finger thoughtfully to the end of her slender nose. “I could be mistaken, but it’s possible that I had an affair with a Gennaro once myself.”

“Given your track record,” replied Gabriel, “I’d say the chances are rather good.”

They were seated at opposite ends of the couch in the sitting room of Anna’s luxurious suite, separated by a buffer zone of rich black satin. Her Guarneri violin, enclosed in its protective case, was propped on an opposing Eames chair next to her Stradivarius. A wall-mounted television flickered silently with the latest news from London. Lord Michael Radcliff, the Conservative Party treasurer who had accepted a tainted million-pound contribution from a Russian businessman, had bowed to pressure and resigned. Prime Minister Hillary Edwards, her support within the Party crumbling, was expected to announce her own resignation within days.

“A friend of yours?” asked Anna.

“Hillary Edwards? We’ve never met. But I was quite close to her predecessor, Jonathan Lancaster.”

“Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“I’ve never met the president of Russia.”

“Consider yourself fortunate.” Anna switched off the television and refilled their glasses with wine. They were drinking Grand Cru white burgundy by Joseph Drouhin. “I think we should have another bottle, don’t you?”

“It was eight hundred and forty euros.”

“It’s only money, Gabriel.”

“Says the woman who has an endless supply of it.”

“You’re the one who lives in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal.”

“I happen to own a single floor of the palazzo.”

“Poor you.” Anna rang room service, then carried her glass of wine to the window. The view was westward across the Old Town toward the spire of St. Peter’s Church. “Come here often?” she asked.

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