“Thank you,” she said. “There was just one thing inside. Can you please tell me what it is?”

His eyes scanned the page, then he looked up. “It seems to be the deed to a property,” he said. “A lease, you say, sì ?”

“To a property in Venice?”

He nodded.

“My aunt had a property in Venice?” she blurted out.

“The name of your aunt?”

“Juliet Browning.”

“That is what it says on this document, yes.”

She wondered if the lease was long expired. “The lease was for how long?”

He examined it again. “Ninety-nine years,” he said. “The letter is dated nineteen thirty-nine.”

“Gosh.” Caroline blurted out the word. Rapid calculation indicated about forty more years. “And where is this, do you know?”

He examined the sheet of paper again. “It is Dorsoduro 1482.” He looked up and, seeing her blank face, added, “In Venice we do not have street numbers. We have the number within the sestiere . Impossible for foreigners to find, I think. If you like, I can look it up for you.” She followed him out of the vault and up to his desk, where he consulted a big book. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Zattere al Saloni. On the other side of Dorsoduro. Do you know the Zattere? It is the waterfront.”

“Yes,” she said, “I ate there a couple of nights ago.”

“Then you will find it. Zattere al Saloni, and it says the lease is for the apartment on the fourth floor.”

Still, she hesitated. “But do you think this is still good? Still valid?”

He shrugged. “It has the stamps of the city. The deed was registered and notarized. So, unless your aunt sold it to someone else . . .”

Caroline came out into bright sunlight in a daze. Great-Aunt Lettie had a place in Venice. She had lived here. Why did Granny not know? Why did Aunt Lettie herself never talk about it, never go back to visit it? Perhaps she had taken the lease and then sold it to someone else when the war broke out. Mustn’t get too excited, she thought. Mustn’t get my hopes up too much.

From inside a trattoria came enticing smells—garlic and maybe frying fish. Lunchtime. She should eat something. But she was now too excited, too intrigued to eat. She had to see what this property looked like. The thought whispered inside her head that she might be the owner of a flat in Venice—a place she could come to on holiday and rent out the rest of the year. It was an enticing thought.

She stopped to consult her map. The Zattere was on the far side of Dorsoduro—a long walk away—and the sky was now darkening fast again; a great bank of grey clouds hung over distant hills. She checked the water bus routes on her map—yes, one of the routes went all the way around the island and stopped on the Zattere. It might take longer than walking, but it was also more appealing at the moment. She made her way past the campanile to the vaporetto stop, bought a ticket and was told which number to take. When it came, she was lucky enough to get a seat inside. The route took her the entire length of the Grand Canal, then past the unattractive area of the parking garage, the docks and finally around to the far side of Dorsoduro. As they went through open water, the sea became quite choppy, and she was glad to be inside, watching spray hit those standing on the deck. Finally, the boat stopped at the Zattere. She disembarked and started to walk along the waterfront. The first drops of rain were falling, and she cursed leaving her umbrella in the hotel room. At least she was wearing a mac.

The street here was called Zattere Ai Gesuati, and she passed a huge Jesuit church. She crossed a bridge over a side canal. This one was called the Ponti agli Incurabili—the incurables. Beyond it, the waterfront was bordered by what could be an institution of some sort. That was hardly reassuring. But as she went on, she noticed that the houses along the waterfront were tall, attractive buildings, even if some could do with sprucing up and a coat of fresh paint. This put a spring into her step, along with the wind that drove her from behind. She came to the section of the waterfront called the Zattere allo Spirito Santo—of the Holy Spirit—and finally, after another bridge, close to the tip of the island, there was the Al Saloni. She checked the numbers, which weren’t in any kind of order, until she found herself standing outside a tall building with faded blue shutters at the windows. The pale cream stucco was peeling, showing the brickwork underneath, but there were steps leading to an impressive double front door. She double-checked the address. Yes, this was correct.

“Wow,” she said. She reached into her purse and took out the big key. But as she touched the front door, it swung open. She stepped into a dark and gloomy foyer. Doors were open on either side, and there was a distinct smell of new paint. From the back of the building came the sound of hammering. The building was being renovated. A broad marble staircase curved upward. She had only gone up the first few steps when someone shouted, behind her.

“Signora? Cosa vuole? Dove sta andando?”

She turned back to see a man standing in the doorway. The collar of his overcoat had been turned up, and he had raindrops on his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian.”

He came towards her, a finger raised in warning. “I ask what you do here. This is a private house. Not a place for tourists. There is nothing to see here. You must leave now.”