The Journey
The story began in the last years of the reign of Her Majesty Elizabeth II (this much I may reveal as chronicler for the chronology of the case). Dr Achille Corso, who had set up his own business as a private investigator a few years ago, was staying at the Machiavelli Palace Hotel. A pretty middle-class hotel with a fabulous view of Florence Cathedral. He and his fiancée, Dr Pentesilea Orsini, commonly known as"Pen", had successfully completed the last assignment and were treating themselves to two days of rest. Achille and Pen were having a late breakfast on the hotel's roof terrace when a hotel employee cautiously approached and cleared his throat.
"Probably they want to clear up..." speculated Corso, after glancing at his Reverso wristwatch. It was five to eleven.
"Mi scusi, signore, è arrivato un messaggio per lei alla reception..." whispered the valet in a professional voice.
"A message for me?" said Corso, slightly astonished. He asked the servant to take the message to him on the terrace, which he did.
Corso took the message and opened the letter.
Then Corso read, his eyes widening the more he read.
"Something exciting, my dear?" whispered Pen across the table.
"You won't believe it. Mirko Kovacs, who we worked with on a case last year, is inviting us to a pathology conference in his home country - and even sending us the tickets and hotel reservations." opened Corso, with excitement, like unwrapping a present.
"Yet, I had quit university research and gone into the private sector..." grumbled Corso.
"Oh, let's go there - maybe we'll meet some old acquaintances and such conferences are always instructive. Where is it being held exactly?" asked Pen.
"In Split and then in an old palace recently converted into a luxury hotel on a small Adriatic Island," said Corso.
Pentesilea gave them a pouty look and tossed back her blonde long hair. Achille guessed that it was probably better to follow her fiancée's wishes.
"Then I can finally see Diocletian's palace..." he admitted to give the idea of travelling to Croatia a motivational boost.
"Brilliant!" Pen cheered.
Then they finished their late breakfast and Corso hurried to the reception. He had the clothes they were carrying washed at the hotel and the hotel organised a flight to Split.
Back in the room, he explained to Pen that there was no direct flight from Florence and that they would have to fly to Zurich with Swiss shortly before three o'clock in the afternoon the next day and would not be able to fly on with Air Croatia until around seven in the evening.
"We're arriving late, but Kovacs had a room reserved for us at the Hotel Antique in Split," Corso explained.
"Sounds good to me. Where is it?" asked Pen, getting ready for the afternoon walk.
"Inside the ancient palace of Diocletian with a view of
