and evidently habitués of the establishment, though there were a couple of young Germans who spent most of their time gazing at each other in rapt absorption. Clearly honeymooners.
‘Is this just a pleasure trip or are you here on dreary business?’ Mr Downing asked. ‘Last week we had a chap staying whose firm had something to do with London drains. Apparently he had been sent on a fact-finding mission connected with the Venice sewerage system. He said it was for purposes of comparison. I don’t think he saw a thing of the city above ground – a somewhat subterranean sojourn I should think; or, as the punsters might say, a bit of a waste!’
Rosy laughed. ‘Yes I am on business in a way, but mypursuits are entirely above ground. I’m trying to trace a book of Latin verse for my boss at the British Museum.’
‘Ah, a
literary
mission; certainly more edifying than drains one would imagine.’ Mr Downing sniffed and helped himself to the last of the zucchini and shovelled up the penultimate tomato. Rosy felt sorry for his prep-school charges: poor little brats, probably all starving.
‘You don’t mean the Bodger book do you?’ Miss Witherington asked.
Rosy was surprised. ‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘I know
of
it, most people do – well a few at any rate. But it’s all such nonsense.’
‘What, the poetry? Oh but I should have thought … Though of course I gather the translation is unremarkable.’
‘No, no. Not the content; the price on its head. Well over a million I believe. Is that your interest?’
Rosy nearly dropped her fork. A
million
pounds for that book? She was astounded. Whatever was the woman talking about?
‘Er, well no,’ she stammered. ‘It’s Dr Stanley, my head of department. He’s mounting an exhibition of rare nineteenth-century first editions and wants to include it. He told me to offer twenty pounds for it – well guineas actually. I doubt that he had anything much higher in mind.’ She giggled. ‘So where is it and why does it cost a million?’
‘Its whereabouts are not known and much disputed. As to its value, that is not the price-tag but the amount of reward offered to the lucky finder.’
‘How extraordinary. So who on earth is offering such a sum?’
‘A man called Berenstein. Rather eccentric – as also, given the association, is his first name. It is a bold parent who christens his son Farinelli, but his did and he seems happy enough with it. The boy is now an elderly recluse living in Padua with warped tastes and childish humour. Hence the nonsense of a million pounds.’
‘What’s wrong with Farinelli?’ Rosy asked.
‘Nothing at all, in fact a very illustrious name – though as a schoolboy in the playground the bearer stands the risk of being dubbed Il Castrato. Evidently you are not a follower of opera, Miss Gilchrist.’
Rosy acknowledged that she wasn’t; and was about to ask why Farinelli Berenstein was so ready to dispense a million pounds for a poorly translated volume of Latin poems, when Miss Witherington exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, I must flee: the orange soufflés will have hit the ceiling!’ She leapt to her feet and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.
‘She’s good at those soufflés,’ observed Downing musingly, ‘but frankly I prefer the tortiglione … although of course her great triumph is the Monte Bianco. Now that really does take the biscuit! Unfortunately they don’t make it in England, it’s a speciality of …’
But Rosy was as indifferent to Mr Downing’s culinary preferences as she was to Signor Farinelli’s deficiencies. What mattered was the Horace and the man’s involvement with it. She must find out more. Perhaps after supper with the drama of the soufflés subsided she could pin her hostess down to further revelation.
And then of course she remembered. No she couldn’t buttonhole Miss Witherington after supper, she was due at Florian’s to meet Felix and Cedric. Still, with luck she could
‘Is this just a pleasure trip or are you here on dreary business?’ Mr Downing asked. ‘Last week we had a chap staying whose firm had something to do with London drains. Apparently he had been sent on a fact-finding mission connected with the Venice sewerage system. He said it was for purposes of comparison. I don’t think he saw a thing of the city above ground – a somewhat subterranean sojourn I should think; or, as the punsters might say, a bit of a waste!’
Rosy laughed. ‘Yes I am on business in a way, but mypursuits are entirely above ground. I’m trying to trace a book of Latin verse for my boss at the British Museum.’
‘Ah, a
literary
mission; certainly more edifying than drains one would imagine.’ Mr Downing sniffed and helped himself to the last of the zucchini and shovelled up the penultimate tomato. Rosy felt sorry for his prep-school charges: poor little brats, probably all starving.
‘You don’t mean the Bodger book do you?’ Miss Witherington asked.
Rosy was surprised. ‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘I know
of
it, most people do – well a few at any rate. But it’s all such nonsense.’
‘What, the poetry? Oh but I should have thought … Though of course I gather the translation is unremarkable.’
‘No, no. Not the content; the price on its head. Well over a million I believe. Is that your interest?’
Rosy nearly dropped her fork. A
million
pounds for that book? She was astounded. Whatever was the woman talking about?
‘Er, well no,’ she stammered. ‘It’s Dr Stanley, my head of department. He’s mounting an exhibition of rare nineteenth-century first editions and wants to include it. He told me to offer twenty pounds for it – well guineas actually. I doubt that he had anything much higher in mind.’ She giggled. ‘So where is it and why does it cost a million?’
‘Its whereabouts are not known and much disputed. As to its value, that is not the price-tag but the amount of reward offered to the lucky finder.’
‘How extraordinary. So who on earth is offering such a sum?’
‘A man called Berenstein. Rather eccentric – as also, given the association, is his first name. It is a bold parent who christens his son Farinelli, but his did and he seems happy enough with it. The boy is now an elderly recluse living in Padua with warped tastes and childish humour. Hence the nonsense of a million pounds.’
‘What’s wrong with Farinelli?’ Rosy asked.
‘Nothing at all, in fact a very illustrious name – though as a schoolboy in the playground the bearer stands the risk of being dubbed Il Castrato. Evidently you are not a follower of opera, Miss Gilchrist.’
Rosy acknowledged that she wasn’t; and was about to ask why Farinelli Berenstein was so ready to dispense a million pounds for a poorly translated volume of Latin poems, when Miss Witherington exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, I must flee: the orange soufflés will have hit the ceiling!’ She leapt to her feet and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.
‘She’s good at those soufflés,’ observed Downing musingly, ‘but frankly I prefer the tortiglione … although of course her great triumph is the Monte Bianco. Now that really does take the biscuit! Unfortunately they don’t make it in England, it’s a speciality of …’
But Rosy was as indifferent to Mr Downing’s culinary preferences as she was to Signor Farinelli’s deficiencies. What mattered was the Horace and the man’s involvement with it. She must find out more. Perhaps after supper with the drama of the soufflés subsided she could pin her hostess down to further revelation.
And then of course she remembered. No she couldn’t buttonhole Miss Witherington after supper, she was due at Florian’s to meet Felix and Cedric. Still, with luck she could
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