When in Rome ra-26 Read online

  “Of course, Signore. Our pleasure.”

  “You are very good,” Alleyn said and instantly whipped back the sheet and took four photographs of Mailer, deceased, with special attention to the right foot. He then removed the cassette and handed it with a bow to Bergarmi.

  The body was re-shrouded and taken away.

  Bergarmi said irritably that this was a bad evening for such an event. Student demonstrations had broken out in Navona and its surrounding district and threatened to become serious. The Agenti were fully occupied. A mammoth demonstration was planned for the morrow and the police expected it to be the worst yet. He must get this job through as quickly as possible. He suggested that nothing further could be done at the moment but that in view of the grossly altered circumstances his chief would be glad if Alleyn would wait on him in the morning at 9:30. It seemed advisable to call the seven travellers together again. Bergarmi’s officers would attend to this. A car was at Alleyn’s disposal. No doubt he would like to go home.

  They shook hands.

  When Alleyn left he passed Father Denys, who came as near to tipping him a wink as lay within the dignity of his office.

  Sophy Jason and Barnaby Grant met for breakfast on the roof garden. The morning sparkled freshly and was not yet too hot for comfort. From the direction of Navona there came vague sounds of singing, a discordant band and the rumour of a crowd. A detachment of police marched down their street. The waiter was full of confused chatter about riots. It seemed unreal to Sophy and Barnaby.

  They talked of the blameless pleasures of the previous evening when they had walked about Roman streets until they tired and had then taken a carriage drive fraught with the inescapable romanticism of such exercise. Finally, after a glass of wine in Navona, they had strolled home. When they said good night Grant had kissed Sophy for the first time. She had taken this thoughtfully with a nod as if to say, “Well, yes, I suppose so,” had blushed unexpectedly and left him in a hurry. If they could have read each other’s thoughts they would have been surprised to find that they were so nearly identical. Each, in fact, speculated upon immediate as opposed to past emotions under like circumstances and each, with a kind of apprehensive delight, recognized an essential difference.

  Sophy had arrived first for breakfast and had sat down determined to sort herself out in a big way but instead had idly dreamed until Grant’s arrival set up a commotion under her ribs. This was quickly replaced by a renewed sense of companionship unfolding like a flower in the morning air. “How happy I am,” each of them thought. “I am delighted.”

  In this frame of mind they discussed the coming day and speculated about the outcome of the Violetta affair and the probability of Mr. Mailer being a murderer.

  “I suppose it’s awful,” Sophy said, “not to be madly horrified, but truth to tell I’m not much more appalled than I would be if I’d read it in the papers.”

  “I’ll go one worse than you. In a way I’m rather obliged to him.”

  “Honestly! What can you mean!”

  “You’re still hanging about in Rome instead of flouncing off to Assisi or Florence or wherever.”

  “That,” Sophy said, “is probably a remark in execrable taste although I must say I relished it.”

  “Sophy,” said Grant, “you’re a sweetie. Blow me down flat if you’re not.”

  He reached out his hand and at that moment the waiter came out on the roof garden.

  Now it was Grant who experienced a jolt under the diaphragm. Here he had sat, and so, precisely here, had the waiter appeared, on that morning over a year ago when Sebastian Mailer was announced.

  “What’s the matter?” Sophy asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You looked — odd.”

  “Did I? What is it?” he asked the waiter.

  It was the Baron Van der Veghel hoping Mr. Grant was free.

  “Ask him to join us, please.”

  Sophy stood up.

  “Don’t you dare,” Grant said. “Sit down.”

  “Yes, but — Well, anyway, you shut up.”

  “Siddown.”

  “I’ll be damned if I do,” said Sophy and did.

  The Baron arrived: large, concerned and doubtful. He begged their forgiveness for so early a call and supposed that, like him, they had received a great shock. This led to some momentary confusion until, gazing at them with those wide open eyes of his, he said: “But surely you must know?” and, finding they did not, flatly told them.

  “The man Mailer,” he said, “has been murdered. He has been found at the bottom of the well.”

  At that moment all the clocks in Rome began to strike nine and Sophy was appalled to hear a voice in her head saying: “Ding, dong bell, Mailer’s in the well.”

  “No doubt,” the Baron said, “you will receive a message. As we did. This, of course, changes everything. My wife is so much upset. We have found where is a Protestant church and I have taken her there for some comfort. My wife is a most sensitive subject. She senses,” the Baron explained, “that there has been a great evil amongst us. That there is still this evil. As I do. How can one escape such a feeling?”

  “Not very readily,” Grant conceded, “particularly now when I suppose we are all much more heavily involved.”

  The Baron glanced anxiously at Sophy. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should—”

  “Well, of course we’re involved, Baron,” she said.

  Clearly, the Baron held that ladies were to be protected. “He goes through life,” she thought, “tenderly building protective walls round that huge, comical sex-pot of his and he’s got plenty of concern left over for extra-mural sympathy. Who says the age of chivalry is dead? He’s rather a dear, is the Baron.” But beneath her amusement, flowing under it and chilling it, ran a trickle of consciousness: “I’m involved in a murder,” thought Sophy.

  She had lost track of the Baron’s further remarks but gathered that he had felt the need for discussion with another man. Having left the Baroness to pursue whatever Spartan devotions accorded with her need, he had settled upon Grant as a confidant.

  Deeply perturbed though she was, Sophy couldn’t help feeling an indulgent amusement at the behaviour of the two men. It was so exclusively masculine. They had moved away to the far side of the garden. Grant, with his hands in his pockets, stared between his feet and then lifted his head and contemplated the horizon. The Baron folded his arms, frowned portentously and raised his eyebrows almost to the roots of his hair. They both pursed their lips, muttered, nodded. There were long pauses.

  How different, Sophy thought, from the behaviour of women. “We would exclaim, gaze at each other, gabble, ejaculate, tell each other how we felt and talk about instinctive revulsions and how we’d always known, right along, that there was something.”

  And she suddenly thought it would be satisfactory to have such a talk with the Baroness though not on any account with Lady Braceley.

  They turned back to her, rather like doctors after a consultation.

  “We have been saying, Miss Jason,” said the Baron, “that as far as we ourselves are concerned there can be only slight formalities. Since we were in company from the time he left us, both in the Mithraeum and when we returned (you with Mr. Grant and my wife and I with Mr. Alleyn) until we all met in the church portico. We cannot be thought of either as witnesses or as — as—”

  “Suspects?” Sophy said.

  “So. You are right to be frank, my dear young lady,” said the Baron, looking at Sophy with solemn and perhaps rather shocked approval.

  Grant said: “Well, of course she is. Let’s all be frank about it, for heaven’s sake. Mailer was a bad lot and somebody has killed him. I don’t suppose any of us condones the taking of life under any circumstances whatever and it is, of course, horrible to think of the explosion of hatred or alternatively the calculated manoeuvring, that led to his death. But one can scarcely be expected to mourn for him.” He looked very hard at Sophy. “I don’t,” he said. �
��And I won’t pretend I do. It’s a bad man out of the way.”

  The Baron waited for a moment and said quietly: “You speak, Mr. Grant, with conviction. Why do you say so positively that this was a bad man?”

  Grant had gone very white but he answered without hesitation. “I have first-hand knowledge,” he said. “He was a blackmailer. He blackmailed me. Alleyn knows this and so does Sophy. And if me, why not others?”

  “Why not,” Van der Veghel said. “Why not, indeed.” He hit himself on the chest and Sophy wondered why the gesture was not ridiculous. “I too,” he said. “I who speak to you. I too.” He waited for a moment. “It has been a great relief to me to say this,” he said. “A great relief. I shall not regret it, I think.”

  “Well,” Grant said, “it’s lucky we are provided with alibis. I suppose a lot of people would say we have spoken like fools.”

  “It is appropriate sometimes to be a fool. The belief of former times that there is God’s wisdom in the utterances of fools was founded in truth,” the Baron proclaimed. “No. I do not regret.”

  A silence fell between them and into it there was insinuated the sound of a distant crowd and a shrilling of whistles. A police car shot down the street with its siren blasting.

  “And now, my dear Baron,” said Grant, “having to some extent bared our respective bosoms, perhaps we had better, with Sophy’s permission, consider our joint situation.”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” said the Baron politely.

  Alleyn found a change in the atmosphere of Il Questore Valdarno’s splendid office and in the attitude of Valdarno himself. It was not that he was exactly less cordial but rather that he was more formally so. He was very formal indeed and overpoweringly polite. He was also worried and preoccupied and was constantly interrupted by telephone calls. Apparently the demonstrations were hotting up in Navona.

  Valdarno made it perfectly clear that the discovery of Mailer’s body altered the whole complexion of the case: that while he had no intention of excluding Alleyn from the investigation and hoped he would find some interest in the proceedings, they would be absolutely in the hands of the Roman Questura which, he added with an unconvincing air of voicing an afterthought, was under the direct control of the Minister of the Interior. Valdarno was very urbane. Alleyn had his own line of urbanity and retired behind it and between them, he thought, they got exactly nowhere.

  Valdarno thanked Alleyn with ceremony for having gone down the well and for being so kind as to photograph the body in situ. He contrived to suggest that this proceeding had, on the whole, been unnecessary if infinitely obliging.

  The travellers, he said, were summoned to appear at 10:30. Conversation languished but revived with the arrival of Bergarmi, who had the results of the postmortems. Violetta had been hit on the back of the head and manually strangled. Mailer had probably been knocked out before being strangled and dropped down the well, though the bruise on his jaw might have been caused by a blow against the rails or the wall on his way down. He had drowned. The fragment of material Alleyn had found on the inner side of the top rail matched the black alpaca of his jacket and there was a corresponding tear in the sleeve.

  At this point Valdarno, with stately punctilio, said to Bergarmi they must acknowledge at once that Signor Alleyn had advanced the theory of Mailer’s possible disappearance down the well and that he himself had not accepted it. They both bowed, huffily, to Alleyn.

  “It is of the first importance,” Valdarno continued, “to establish whether the sound which was heard by these persons when they were in the Mithraeum was in fact the sound made by the lid of the sarcophagus falling upon its edge to the floor where, it is conjectured, it remained, propped against the casket while the body of the woman was disposed of. Your opinion, Signore, is that it was so?”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “You will remember that when we removed the lid it made a considerable noise. Two minutes or more before that, we heard a confused sound that might have been that of a woman’s voice. It was greatly distorted by echo and stopped abruptly.”

  “Screaming?”

  “No.”

  “One would expect the woman Violetta to scream.”

  “Perhaps not, do you think, if she was there unlawfully? When she abused Mailer on the earlier occasion she didn’t scream: she whispered. I got the impression of one of those harridan voices that have worn out and can no longer scream.”

  Valdarno surveyed Bergami. “You realize what all this implies, no doubt.”

  “Certainly, Signor Questore.”

  “Well?”

  “That if this was the woman Violetta and if the sound was the sound of the sarcophagus lid and if the person Mailer killed the woman Violetta and was himself killed soon afterwards—” here Bergami took a breath—“then, Signor Questore, the field of suspects is confined to such persons as were unaccompanied after the party left the Mithraeum. These were the Major Sweet, the Baronessa Braceley, the nephew Dorne.”

  “Very well.”

  “And that in fact the field of suspects remains the same,” Bergami said, fighting his way out, “whether the woman Violetta was killed by the person Mailer or by the killer of the person Mailer.”

  Valdarno turned to Alleyn and spread his hands.

  “Ecco!” he said. “You agree?”

  “A masterly survey,” Alleyn said. “There is-if I may? — just one question I would like to ask.”

  “Ah?”

  “Do we know where Giovanni Vecchi was?”

  “Vecchi!”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said apologetically. “He was by the cars when we came out of the basilica but he might have been inside while we were in the nether regions. He wouldn’t attract notice, would he? I mean he’s a regular courier and must often hang about the premises while his customers are below. Part of the scenery, as it were.”

  Valdarno gazed in his melancholy way at nothing in particular. “What,” he asked Bergami, “has the man Vecchi said?”

  “Signore Questore — nothing.”

  “Still nothing?”

  “He is obstinate.”

  “Has he been informed of Mailer’s death?”

  “Last night, Signor Questore.”

  “His reaction?”

  Bergarmi’s shoulders rose to his ears, his eyebrows to the roots of his hair and his pupils into his head.

  “Again nothing. A little pale perhaps. I believe him to be nervous.”

  “He must be examined as to his movements at the time of the crimes. The priests must be questioned.”

  “Of course, Signor Questore,” said Bergarmi, who had not looked at Alleyn.

  “Send for him.”

  “Certainly, Signor Questore. At once.”

  Valdarno waved a hand at his telephone and Bergarmi hurried to it.

  An Agente came in and saluted.

  “The tourists, Signor Questore,” he said.

  “Very well. All of them?”

  “Not yet, Signor Questore. The English nobildonna and her nephew. The English writer. The Signorina. The Olandese and his wife.”

  “Admit them,” said Valdarno with all the grandeur of a Shakespearian monarch.

  And in they came: that now familiar and so oddly assorted company.

  Alleyn stood up and so did Valdarno, who bowed with the utmost formality. He said, merely, “Ladies and gentlemen,” and motioned them to their seats.

  Lady Braceley, who was dressed, with an overdeveloped sense of occasion, in black, ignored this invitation. She advanced upon Valdarno and held out her hand at the kissing level. He took it and kissed his thumb.

  “Baronessa,” he said.

  “Too shattering,” she lamented. “I can’t believe it. That’s all. I simply cannot believe it.”

  “Unfortunately it is true. Please! Be seated.”

  The Agente hastened to push a chair into the back of her knees. She sat abruptly, gazed at Valdarno and shook her head slowly from side to side. The others regarded her with dismay. T
he Van der Veghels exchanged brief, incredulous glances. Kenneth made a discontented noise.

  Bergarmi finished his orders on the telephone and seated himself at a little distance from the administrative desk.

  “We shall not wait for the assembly to complete itself,” said Valdarno. He explained, loftily, that under the normal and correct form of procedure the interview would be in charge of his Vice-Questore but that as this would necessitate an interpreter he proposed to conduct it himself.

  Alleyn thought that little time was saved by this departure as Il Questore continually interrupted the proceedings with translations into Italian from which Bergarmi took notes.

  The ground that had been so laboriously traversed before was traversed again and nothing new came out except a rising impatience and anxiety on the part of the subjects. When Kenneth tried to raise an objection he was reminded, icily, that with the discovery of Mailer’s body they were all much more deeply involved. Both Kenneth and his aunt looked terrified and said nothing.

  Il Questore ploughed majestically on. He had arrived at the point of the departure from the Mithraeum when Grant, who had become increasingly and obviously restive, suddenly interrupted him.

  “Look here,” he said, “I’m very sorry but I simply cannot see the point of all this reiteration. Surely by now it’s abundantly clear that whether the noise we heard was or was not this bloody lid it would have been quite impossible for the Baron, the Baroness, Alleyn, Miss Jason or me to have killed this man. I imagine that you don’t entertain the idea of a conspiracy and if you don’t, you have irrefutable proof that none of us was ever, throughout the whole trip, alone.”

  “This may be so, Signor Grant. Nevertheless, statements must be taken—”

  “All right, my dear man, all right. And they have been taken. And what are we left with, for pity’s sake?”

  He looked at Alleyn, who raised an eyebrow at him and very slightly shook his head.

  “We’re left,” Grant said, raising his voice, “as far as the touring party is concerned with a field of three. Lady Braceley in the atrium. I’m sorry, Lady Braceley, but there you were and I’m sure nobody supposes you left it. Dorne—”