Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

Violetta, he said, had sold postcards in the entrance to San Tommaso for some months. She was a Sicilian of dubious origins, was not as old as Alleyn may have supposed, and when she first appeared carried upon her the remnants of ferocious good looks. Her story, which she never ceased to pour out, was that her husband had deserted her and in doing so had betrayed her to the police.

“For doing what?” Alleyn asked.

“Ah, she never lets on exactly. Something to do with passing prohibited articles. Likely enough stolen, though she makes out she’d no notion what mischief was in it till the pollis came down upon her and destroyed her. She’s very wild in her conversation and the saints themselves wouldn’t know which was fact and which was fantasy.”

She had behaved herself reasonably well, however, reserving her outbursts for the Dominicans and sticking to her legal postcard vending territory until about two days ago, when he had found her squatting in a corner of the porch letting out the most frightful animadversions in a hissing torrent and shaking her fists. She literally foamed at the mouth and was quite incoherent, but after Father Denys had rebuked her for blasphemy and, Alleyn gathered, sorted her out in a pretty big way, she became slightly more comprehensible. Her rage, it emerged, had been directed at a person who had visited the sacristy to discuss arrangements for sightseeing trips by a newly formed enterprise called—

“Don’t tell me,” Alleyn said as Father Denys paused for dramatic effect. “Let me guess. Called ‘Il Cicerone.’ ”

“Right for you.”

“In the person of Mr. Sebastian Mailer?”

“Right again,” cried Father Denys, clapping his hands together. “And the poor creature’s husband or if he’s not he ought to be God help him.”

It was past five o’clock on that very warm afternoon when two cars arrived at the Palatine Hill. The air smelt of sunny earth, grass, myrtle and resin. In lengthening shadows poppies made little scarlet exclamations and legions of acanthus marched down the contours of the hill. The skies had deepened behind broken columns and arches: the bones of classic Rome.

Giovanni, the driver, had responded with gusto to the role of guide. He said that he had no notion of what had befallen Mr. Mailer but suggested that a sudden onslaught of the affliction known to tourists as Roman Tummy might have overtaken him. By its nature, Giovanni delicately reminded them, it neccessitated an immediate withdrawal. He then led his party across the ruins of Domus Augustana and down a little flight of steps towards a grove of pines. Back again and here and there he led them, giving names to ruins and with sweeps of his arms laying Rome at their feet.

Sophy looked and dreamed and ached with pleasure and did not listen very closely to Giovanni. She was suddenly tired and vaguely happy. Barnaby Grant walked beside her in companionable silence, the Van der Veghels thundered about with cries of appreciation, a thousand enquiries and much photography. Lady Braceley, arm-in-arm with Kenneth and the reluctant Major, trailed and hobbled in the rear and could be heard faintly lamenting the rough going.

“I’ve a low saturation point for sights,” Sophy remarked. “Or rather for information about sights. I stop listening.”

“Well,” Grant said kindly, “at least you admit it.”

“I’d have you know it doesn’t mean that I’m insensible to all this.”

“All right. I didn’t suppose you were.”

“On the contrary, I’m knocked dumb. Or nearly dumb,” Sophy amended. “You may say: visually speechless.”

He looked at her with amusement. “I daresay you’re hungry,” he offered.

“And I daresay you’re right,” she agreed in surprise. “Thirsty, anyway.”

“Look, we’re settling for our tea.”

They had come to a terrain called the Belvedere and looked beyond the tops of a pine grove to the monstrous splendour of the Colosseum. Spires, roofs, gardens, an obelisk, insubstantial in the late afternoon haze, swam into the distance and dissolved against the Alban Hills.

Giovanni and his assistant, having found a place by a fallen column, spread rugs and cloths and opened hampers.

It was, as Sophy said, an exquisite snack: delicate little sandwiches of smoked salmon and caviar, Roman and Neopolitan pastries, fruit and a chilled white wine. There was also, surprisingly, whisky and soda. And tea for anybody who preferred it as Sophy herself did, iced with lemon, and very fragrant.

“What a rum little lot we are,” she thought indulgently. A light breath of air brought a stronger whiff of myrtle and pine needles with it and momentarily lifted her hair from her forehead. She found that Grant looked fixedly at her and she said hurriedly: “We none of us seem to be worrying about poor Mr. Mailer, do we?”

He made a sharp movement of his hands. “No doubt our authoritative friend has coped,” he said.

Major Sweet, having eaten very heartily and made smart work of two whiskies-and-soda, appeared to be in a mollified condition. He said: “Most extraordinary chap. My opinion,” but lazily and without rancour. “ ’Strordinary good tea,” he added.

“ I think,” Lady Braceley said, “we’re all getting along very nicely as we are — with Giovanni,” and gave Giovanni a sufficiently lingering glance. “Although,” she said, “it’s a pity that other gorgeous brute’s deserted us.”

“What exactly,” Kenneth asked restlessly, “is the programme for tonight? Cars at nine — for where? Where do we dine?”

“At the Giaconda, sir,” Giovanni said.

“Good God!” the Major ejaculated. As well he might. The Giaconda is the most exclusive as it is undoubtedly the most expensive restaurant in Rome.

“Really?” Lady Braceley said. “Then I must take up my quarrel with Marco. We had a row about tables last week. He turfed out a Mexican attaché or somebody thought to be rather grand, and gave his table to me. There was almost an international incident. I told him I hated that sort of thing. Actually it was too naughty of him.”

“This time,” Kenneth said, “darling Auntie, you’ll find yourself with a set dinner at a back table near the service door. If I know anything about escorted tours.”

“Excuse me, but no, sir,” Giovanni said. “This is not such an arrangement. The service is in all ways as for the best. You will order, if you please, what you wish.”

“And pay for it?” Kenneth asked rudely.

“On the contrary, sir, no. I will attend to the settlement.” He turned to Grant. “When you are ready to leave, sir,” he said, “will you please ask your waiter to send for me? I will make the tipping also but of course if any of you is inclined—” he made an eloquent gesture. “But it will not be necessary,” he said.

“Well!” the Major ejaculated. “I must say this is — ah — it seems — ah—” he boggled slightly, “quite in order,” he said. “What?”

The Van der Veghels eagerly concurred. “At first,” the Baron confided to Sophy, “my wife and I thought perhaps the charge was too much — a ridiculous amount — but Mr. Mailer impressed us so greatly and then,” he gaily bowed to Grant, “there was the unique opportunity to meet the creator of Simon . We were captured! And now, see, how nicely it develops, isn’t it, providing all is well with the excellent Mailer.”

“Ah, pooh, ah pooh, ah pooh!” cried the Baroness rather as if she invoked some omnipotent Chinese.

“He will be very well, he will be up and bobbing. There will be some easy explaining and all laughing and jolly. We should not allow our pleasures to be dim by this. Not at all.”

“I must tell you,” the Baron waggishly said to Grant, “that I have a professional as well as an aesthetic pleasure in meeting Mr. Barnaby Grant. I am in the publishing trade, Mr. Grant. Ah-ha, ah-ha!”