She began with her remaining traveller’s cheques, went on to Italian banknotes, and ended up with small change. Her husband divided his attention between watching this operation tolerantly – Judith was always extremely businesslike on holidays – and surveying the tourists who thronged the Piazza San Marco. It was the height of the season. There were Germans fathoms deep in guidebooks, Americans obsessively intent on peering into cameras, and English with their brows furrowed in various degrees of that financial anxiety which Judith herself was evincing. There were also some Italians. These, Appleby thought, appeared agreeably carefree. ‘And six days to go,’ Judith said. She had arrived at her grand total. ‘Of course, we have to remember the children’s presents. I’ve got a list.’ She produced a notebook. ‘A mechanical mouse that squeaks and runs; a hunting-crop that turns into a stiletto; an exploding battleship; an atomic submarine; a bone or some other bit of an old saint or martyr; and three caskets in gold, silver, and lead.’ ‘I’m surprised,’ Appleby said, ‘that Bobby didn’t add an heiress: Portia as well as her caskets.
