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‘You know Tullia Gemella, Marcus?’ Perilla said. She was looking a bit chewed. ‘Ah… yeah.’ I gave the lady sitting across from her a nod. An overstatement there: I knew the name, sure – one of the recent and extremely keen recruits, with a thing, according to Perilla, for lyric pieces involving shepherdesses, rustic swains and a general atmosphere of bosk – but I’d never actually seen her in person. The adjectives ‘large’ and ‘imposing’ sprang to mind. Also the phrase ‘a strong personality’: even although the lady hadn’t opened her mouth yet, she just radiated self-possession, confidence, and a knowledge of her own considerable worth. So must Hannibal have looked when he was faced with the Alps and muttered: ‘I’ll bloody have you lot for a start!’ Well, it explained Perilla’s chewed look, anyway; in the time between the end of the poetry-klatsch meeting and my arrival, Things must’ve been Fraught. ‘Pleased to meet you, Tullia Gemella,’ I said. ‘I’ll just –’ I turned to go. ‘No, don’t leave, dear,’ Perilla said quickly. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to get back. Gemella wanted a word.’ ‘Yeah? What about?’ ‘Her brother’s been murdered.’