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“How did he hold up?”
“As well as could be expected.” Gabriel reclaimed the photograph. “You’re next.”
“When?”
“Thursday night. A quick phone call only. I want you to give her a time and a place and then hang up before she can ask any questions.”
“What’s the time?”
“Nine p.m. on Friday.”
“And the place?”
“Beneath thearconein the Piazza della Repubblica. You won’t have any difficulty spotting her.” Gabriel slipped the photograph into his briefcase. “What year did he go to England?”
“Who?”
“Orazio Gentileschi.”
“He traveled from Paris to Rome in 1626.”
“Was Artemisia with him?”
“No. Only his three sons.”
“When did he return to Italy?”
“He never did. He died in London in 1639.”
“Where is he buried?”
Rossetti hesitated.
“The Queen’s Chapel of Somerset House.” Gabriel frowned. “Does this sled of yours go any faster? I’d like to get to Umbria while it’s still light.”
Rossetti put his foot to the floor.
“Better,” said Gabriel. “You’re a criminal now, Signore Calvi. Don’t drive like a cop.”
