What’s up, sir? he said.
We found a cellar. Jerry must have missed it. We’ve been drinking all bloody day. I think I’ve drunk myself sober.
Not yet you haven’t, sir. Sir, this is Miss Evelyn Skinner. Miss Skinner, Captain Darnley.
They shook hands. A pleasure, Miss Skinner, said Darnley.
Likewise, Captain, said Evelyn.
Miss Skinner’s an art historian, said Ulysses. She’s been trying to contact the Monuments officers through the AMG. I thought there was a good chance they’d be here, sir.
Not yet they’re not, Temps, said Darnley. But fear not, Miss Skinner, we shall get you your contact. But first, follow me. Come on Temps, you too.
He led them towards the villa and said, It’s quite a haul. Only uncovered twenty-four hours ago.
And as they crossed the courtyard and passed the guards, Evelyn said, Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Captain Darnley?
In here, said Darnley, and he pushed open the large wooden Baroque doors into the salone. The stink assaulted them.
Oh my word! said Evelyn, covering her nose.
Sorry Miss Skinner, said Darnley, I should’ve warned you. The Germans like to shit everywhere before they retreat. Watch your step. It’s quite a sewer in here.
It was hard to see anything except for the dark shapes of furniture. The shutters were drawn, and the air was lifeless, and the flies were giddy. Underfoot the sound of broken glass and broken tiles, and brick dust swirled. Wait here, said Darnley as he went across the room to a lamp. He bent down, struck a match, and raised the lamp with a theatrical flourish. The room flared with light, and in the middle, rising out of the stink and gloom, was a large undamaged altar panel.
Oh my, whispered Evelyn.
Ulysses Temper, Miss Evelyn Skinner, I’d like you to meet Pontormo’s Deposition from the Cross.
Do you think they’d let us take it now, Captain Darnley, and save them the trouble? asked Evelyn.
Darnley laughed and said, Shall we ask?
What is it exactly, sir?
One of the great altarpieces portraying the life of Christ, Temps. Isn’t that right, Miss Skinner?
You are correct, Captain. Painted to hang above the altar in the Capponi chapel in the church of Santa Felicità. Completed in 1528. Give or take. The style is what we would call early Mannerist, Ulysses – a break in tradition, that’s all – away from High Renaissance classicism and everything associated with it. You can see it’s a deliberate denial of realistic style, calculated, and artificial. The light – you see – theatrical.
And she went on to explain the difference between a deposition and an entombment. The dreamlike use of colour, the sparseness of the image, the dance.
She said, It’s about feeling, Ulysses, that’s all. People trying to make sense of something they can’t make sense of.
（The faint sound of laughter trespassed on the room.）
It’s simply the dead body of a young man being presented to his mother, said Darnley.
Oldest story in the world, said Evelyn.
Which is?
Grief, Temps. Just a lot of fucking grief.
They ventured into the further reaches of the villa. Military guards and Italian custodians marched past, carrying religious relics and statuary. They stood back as Filippo Lippi’s Annunciation was manoeuvred through as if it was a deckchair.
Darnley stopped outside a small wooden door. Here we are, he said. Worst kept secret in Tuscany. Shall we?
Candles threw light onto the scant edges of the stairwell. There was a strong smell of damp stone and tallow, and the level of oxygen thinned as they made their descent. The staircase eventually levelled out into a vast cellar lit by oil lamps. The floor appeared bloodied where dozens of oak casks had met their fate. Documents and books lay scattered and the ceiling was propped up by timber. A pathway had been cleared through the rubble towards a wall of shelving, which was in fact, a magnificent trompe l’oeil. As they got closer, Ulysses could see the incongruous seam of a door.
Abracadabra, said Darnley.
How many more white rabbits can we expect, Captain?
Hat’s empty now, Miss Skinner. After you. Please.
Darnley opened the door and conversation and music spilled out. The room was a long narrow corridor, Caravaggesque shadows in the corners where the throw of candlelight was simply too weak to penetrate. Broken glass littered the floor and two plundered walls of wine disappeared into the furthest reaches. Smoke hovered above tables occupied by Allied officers and Italian superintendents and the only air came from a grille in the ceiling, where the fug was sucked out in sporadic gasps.