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the pages. Nothing. No handwriting anywhere, whether in quill, nib, or even pencil.
    She sighed. ‘I am so sorry, but this is not what I am looking for. It is essential I have the signed edition with its inscription. This has no mark at all.’
    He gave a blank stare and shrugged. ‘But there is no other, signora.’
    ‘But I gathered that there certainly was … Perhaps it got sent to another shop. I was told that—’
    ‘Who told you?’ the man interrupted sharply. ‘A person here in Venice?’ The obsequious tone had assumed a hostile edge.
    ‘Well, no. You see …’ She trailed off, knowing her Italian was not up to explaining the situation and doubting his English could cope. She rather suspected, too, that whatever lingo was adopted such efforts would be futile.
    ‘You want?’ he asked curtly, pointing to the book.
    ‘No, no I do not want,’ she replied firmly.
    He shrugged again, and reverting to Italian said indifferently, ‘
Va bene. Grazie, signora. Buongiorno
.’
    Sensing a dismissal she moved to the door, but as she turned the handle he called out in English: ‘Signora, I assure you no other copy. This one only. Do not look more.’ Rosy gave a brief nod and left the premises.
     
    ‘Lying,’ she muttered to herself as she retraced her steps along the cobbled alley. He might not have stocked the one she sought but how could he possibly be so sure that another did not exist? Of course he couldn’t. And as to his injunction to look no further, she very much doubted it had been prompted by concern for her feet or time. Not so much a piece of advice as an order. Damn cheek!
    She sat on a piece of wall and brooded. Fallen at the first fence. So what now? Presumably Plan B, i.e. visit the Castello establishment. She took out the map and checked its position. Yes, walkable: along the Riva degli Schiavoni in the direction of the Arsenale, on to the Via Garibaldi, turn left at the John Cabot house and with a bit of luck the Calle di Fiori should materialise somewhere on the right with the shop at the far end. Well at least shecould combine business with pleasure. The route passed a whole gamut of famed landmarks: the Doge’s palace, the Bridge of Sighs, the celebrated Danieli, church of the Pietà … and oh, of course, the very house where Henry James had completed
The Portrait of a Lady
! A splendid itinerary, especially as she would have to walk through St Mark’s Piazza to reach the waterfront.
    She stood up, impatient to get going before the shop shut for lunch and to start her acquaintance with so lovely a city.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Rosy’s curiosity had been more than satisfied by her morning ramble, the places she passed stirring her impatience for further pleasures.
    However, such pleasures did not include her time at the Castello bookshop, which lasted for approximately one minute. The place was closed; the notice in the window advising intending browsers that the owner was taking his annual holiday. The blinds were drawn and a mesh covered the door. Rosy was so frustrated that she stamped her foot – twice, an action which made her feel foolish. She glanced around hoping no one had witnessed so absurd a display, and then recalled that this was Italy not England: eyes were less alert to personal oddity. She started to go back the way she had come and then decided to cut to the right to explore more widely – at least something might be gained from the fruitless mission! She crossed a small campo, selected a street displaying a direction for San Zaccaria and found herself beside a narrow canal and a bridge.
    Preoccupied by her recent frustration and envisaging arestorative drink, Rosy did not see the dog at first – but she heard it all right: an explosive throaty woof like a grumpy cannon. She jumped and nearly tripped up the steps of the bridge; and then looking down encountered the mournful eyes of a stout basset hound. It stood four-square gazing up at her, brows furrowed and feet