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far.
    ‘Not at all. It is the second turning on the right and then straight ahead to the end of the cul-de-sac. If you permit me I will be your companion.’
    ‘Be my companion?’ she thought. ‘No fear!’ And then realised that of course he was merely suggesting he should show her the way. She smiled her thanks and they set off.
    As they walked he enquired whether the signora was looking for something special; what was her interest in this particular shop? ‘Since his old father’s demise not many serious tourists come to Giuseppe – he caters for what one might call esoteric tastes.’ He eyed her quizzically and for a moment Rosy felt that something was being implied that she didn’t entirely understand … or rather she hoped she didn’t.
    ‘My boss has sent me to look for some poems by Horace,’ she explained stiffly. ‘It’s a rather special edition.’
    ‘Really? A special edition?’ He frowned and seemed to look puzzled. But after a slight pause gave a laugh: ‘Ah Horace! Yes of course: “
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus tam cari capitis? Praecipe lugubris cantus
…” Yourboss must share my tastes: I used to read a lot of Horace at Eastbourne, I became quite a specialist.’
    Rosy stopped in her tracks. ‘At
Eastbourne
! Why on earth should one want to read Horace at Eastbourne?’
    ‘Ah but not the town itself, some miles outside. I was a prisoner of war in the area for three years. One had to do something.’
    ‘Oh – yes. Yes I see …’ She didn’t particularly but by this time they had reached the bookshop doorway, and wishing her a happy and fruitful time in Venice her guide took his leave.
     
    Anyone less like the pope would be hard to imagine. Giuseppe Pacelli possessed neither the height nor the El Greco features of his namesake. Squat, bald and snub-nosed, he resembled rather Charles Laughton playing Quasimodo – though judging by the speed at which he rushed to greet his new customer, without the latter’s handicap. He beamed unctuously. ‘
Signora – bellissima donna – c’e cosa posso fare per lei?
’
    Taken aback both by the speed and effusiveness, Rosy stammered, ‘Er …
per favore, parla Inglese?
’
    The smile broadened and the voice took on an ingratiating lilt. ‘A leetle, a leetle, my lady.’
    Rosy cleared her throat and spoke slowly and firmly, as befitted an Englishwoman explaining something to a foreigner. ‘Good, because I am trying to find a book of poems by the Latin author Horatius Flaccus.’ She took a card from her pocket and laid it on the counter. ‘These are the details and I gather this bookshop may once have had such a copy.’
    He glanced down at the card. The smile waned somewhatand there was a brief silence. Then picking it up for closer scrutiny, he said, ‘Of course, of course, we do have such a book. You would like to buy?’
    ‘Very likely,’ she answered.
    Without a word he disappeared into a back room and was gone for some time, presumably raking the dusty shelves. ‘Well,’ she said to herself, ‘couldn’t be simpler. Just shows, occasionally things do work. With a delayed report to Dr Stanley I can spin out another four days here in art and fun.
And
return with the goods!’ Grinning in triumph she glanced casually at the titles on a nearby table. These were not quite as she had expected – translations of Hank Janson, Frank Harris, Henry Miller, a lavishly illustrated Marquis de Sade, something called
Tales My Mother Should Not Have Told Me
and a book with no author but entitled
Histoire d’O
. She was about to see who O was but was interrupted by the return of Giuseppe with the Horace. He flourished the volume under her nose and immediately began to wrap it.
    ‘Just a moment, signor,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘if you don’t mind I’d like to take a look.’ She started to give it a cursory scan, and then stopped. The editor’s name was certainly Bodger but there was no sign of a signature or an inscription. She trawled