Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

It was obvious that all the company had been struck by this resemblance except, perhaps, Lady Braceley, who was uninterested in the Van der Veghels. But nobody ventured to remark on it apart from Sebastian Mailer, who with an extraordinary smirk murmured as if to himself: “How very remarkable. Both .”

The Van der Veghels, busy with flashlights, appeared not to hear him and Alleyn very much doubted if any of the others did. Barnaby Grant was already leading them down a further flight of steps into a church that for fifteen hundred years had lain buried.

In excavating it a number of walls, arches and pillars had been introduced to support the new basilica above it. The ancient church apart from the original apse was now a place of rather low, narrow passages, of deep shadows and of echoes. Clearly heard, whenever they all kept still, was the voice of the subterranean stream. At intervals these regions were most skillfully lit so that strange faces with large eyes floated out of the dark: wall paintings that had been preserved in their long sleep by close-packed earth.

“The air,” Barnaby Grant said, “has done them no good. They are slowly fading.”

“They enjoyed being stifled,” Sebastian Mailer said from somewhere in the rear. He gave out a little whinnying sound.

“More than I do,” Lady Braceley said. “It’s horribly stuffy down here, isn’t it?”

“There are plenty of vents,” Major Sweet said. “The air is noticeably fresh, Lady Braceley.”

“I don’t think so,” she complained. “I don’t think I’m enjoying this part, Major. I don’t think I want—” She screamed.

They had turned a corner and come face-to-face with a nude, white man wearing a crown of leaves in his curls. He had full, staring eyes and again the archaic smile. His right arm stretched towards them.

“Auntie darling, what are you on about!” Kenneth said. “He’s fabulous. Who is he, Seb?”

“Apollo again. Apollo shines bright in the Mithraic mystery. He was raised up from below by recent excavators to garnish the Galalian corridors.”

“Damn’ highfalutin’ poppycock,” Major Sweet remarked. It was impossible to make out in what camp he belonged. So Kenneth, Alleyn noted, calls Mailer “Seb.” Quick work!

“And they are still digging?” the Baron asked Grant as they moved on. “The Apollo had not risen when your Simon came to San Tommaso? He is then a contemporary resurrection?”

“A latter-day Lazarus,” fluted Mr. Mailer. “But how much more attractive!”

Somewhere in the dark Kenneth echoed his giggle.

Sophy, who was between Alleyn and Grant, said under her breath: “I wish they wouldn’t,” and Grant made a sound of agreement that seemed to be echoed by Major Sweet.

They continued along the cloister of the old church.

It was now that Baron Van der Veghel developed a playful streak. Holding his camera at the ready and humming a little air, he outstripped the party, turned a corner and disappeared into shadow.

Mr. Mailer, at this juncture, was in full spate. “We approach another Etruscan piece,” he said. “Thought to be Mercury. One comes upon it rather suddenly: on the left.”

It was indeed a sudden encounter. The Mercury was in a deep recess: an entrance, perhaps, to some lost passage. He was less strongly lit than the Apollo but the glinting smile was sharp enough. When they came up with him, a second head rose over his shoulders and smirked at them. A flashlight wiped it out and the echoes rang with Baron Van der Veghel’s uninhibited laughter. Lady Braceley gave another scream.

“It’s too much,” she cried. “No. It’s too much!”

But the elephantine Van der Veghels, in merry pin, had frisked ahead. Major Sweet let fly anathema upon all practical jokers and the party moved on.

The voice of the subterranean stream grew louder. They turned another corner and came upon another railed well. Grant invited them to look up and there, directly overhead, was the under-mouth of the one they had already examined in the basilica.

“But what were they for ?” Major Sweet demanded. “What’s the idea? Grant?” he added quickly, apparently to forestall any comment from Mr. Mailer.

“Perhaps,” Grant said, “for drainage. There’s evidence that at some stage of the excavations seepage and even flooding occurred.”

“Hah,” said the Major.

The Baroness leant over the rail of the well and peered down.

“Gerrit!” she exclaimed. “L-oo-ook! There is the sarcophagus! Where Simon sat and meditated!” Her voice, which had something of the reedy quality of a schoolboy’s, ran up and down the scale. “See! Down there! Belo-oow!” Her husband’s flashlight briefly explored her vast stern as he gaily snapped her. Heedless she leant far over the railing.

“Be careful, my darlink!” urged her husband. “Mathilde! Not so far! Wait till we descend.”

He hauled her back. She was greatly excited and they laughed together.

Alleyn and Sophy approached the well railing and looked downwards. The area below was illuminated from some unseen source and the end of a stone sarcophagus was clearly visible. From their bird’s-eye position they could see that the stone lid was heavily carved.

As they looked, a shadow, much distorted, moved across the wall behind it, disappeared, and was there again, turning this way and that.

Sophy cried out: “Look! It’s — it’s that woman!” But it had gone.

“What woman?” Grant asked, behind her.

“The one with the shawl over her head. The postcard seller. Down there.”

“Did you see her?” Mr. Mailer said quickly.

“I saw her shadow.”

“My dear Miss Jason! Her shadow! There are a thousand Roman women with scarves over their heads who could cast the same shadow.”

“I’m sure not. I’m sure it was she. It looked as if — as if — she wanted to hide.”

“I agree,” Alleyn said.

“Violetta is not permitted to enter the basilica, I assure you. You saw the shadow of someone in another party, of course. Now — let us follow Mr. Grant down into the temple of Mithras. He has much to relate.”

They had completed their circuit of the cloisters and entered a passage leading to a spiral iron stairway. The ceiling was lower here and the passage narrow. Grant and Mailer led the way and the others trailed behind them. The head of the little procession had reached the stairhead when Lady Braceley suddenly announced that she couldn’t go on.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” she said, “but I want to go back. I’m afraid you’ll think it too dreary of me but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stay in this awful place another moment. You must take me back, Kenneth. I didn’t know it’d be like this. I’ve never been able to endure shut-up places. At once. Kenneth! Where are you ! Kenneth!”

But he wasn’t with them. Her voice flung distorted echoes about the hollows and passages. “Where’s he gone!” she cried out and the whole region replied, “—gone — on — on.”

Mailer had taken her by the arm. “It’s all right, Lady Braceley. I assure you. It’s perfectly all right. Kenneth went back to photograph the Apollo. In five minutes I will find him for you. Don’t distress yourself. No doubt I’ll meet him on his way here.”

“I won’t wait for him. Why’s he suddenly taking photographs? I give him a camera costing the earth and he never uses it. I won’t wait for him. I’ll go now. Now .”

The Baron and Baroness swarmed gigantically about her making consoling noises. She thrust them aside and made for Grant, Major Sweet and Alleyn, who were standing together. “Please! Please !” she implored and, after a quick look round, latched with great determination on the Major. “Please take me away!” she implored. “Please do.”