Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

“For ‘instinct,’ ” Il Questore said, “read ‘experience.’ ” Bergami laughed rather in the manner of deferential junior counsel.

“And what steps,” Valdarno asked nastily, “did this instinct prompt you to take?” He glanced at Alleyn.

Giovanni said he had observed, when Violetta attacked Mailer in the portico, that Sweet watched with a certain eagerness. He became even more interested in Sweet. When the party went below he strolled into the basilica and said a prayer to San Tommaso, for whom he had a devotion. Major Sweet, he said in parenthesis, was an atheist and made several abominable remarks about the holy saints.

“His remarks are unimportant. Continue.”

Giovanni was still in the basilica when Major Sweet returned with Lady Braceley, he said, and slid his eyes in her direction. Sweet’s behaviour was peculiar and far from polite. He planted her in the atrium and hastened to return below. Giovanni — filled, if he was to be believed, with nameless misgiving — had gone to the top well-head in the basilica and looked down — to his astonishment upon Major Sweet who (against the holy fathers’ regulations) had mounted the rails of the well-head directly underneath and seemed to strain over the top and peer into the Mithraeic insula below. There was something extraordinarily furtive about the way he finally climbed down and darted out of sight.

“This is nothing,” said Valdarno, flicking it away with his fingers.

Ah, said Giovanni, but wait. Wait, as he had, for the return of the party. First to arrive was Signor Dorne, who went immediately to his aunt in the atrium. And then, alone, the Major. White. Trembling. Agitated. A terrible expression in the eyes. He had passed Giovanni without seeing him and staggered into the porch. Giovanni had gone to him, had asked him if he was unwell. He had cursed Giovanni and asked him what the hell he meant and told him to get out. Giovanni had gone to his car and from there had seen the Major fortify himself from a pocket flask. His recovery was rapid. When the others appeared he was in full command of himself.

“At the time, Signor Questore, I was at a loss to understand — but now, now I understand. Signor Questore. I,” said Giovanni slapping his chest and shaking his finger and making his point with the greatest virtuosity, “had looked upon the face of a murderer.”

And it was at this point that the telephone had rung. Bergarmi answered it, received the news of Sweet’s catastrophe and informed his superior.

“He is not expected,” he had said, “to recover consciousness.”

“And while we’re on the subject of expression,” Alleyn thought, “if ever I’ve seen incredulous delight flash up in anybody’s face it’s now. And the face is Giovanni’s.”

Five minutes later came the information that Hamilton Sweet had died without speaking.

Valdarno unbent so far as to convey this news to the travellers. And again relief, decently restrained, was in the air. Barnaby Grant probably voiced the majority’s reaction when he said: “For God’s sake don’t let’s go through the motions. He was a disastrous specimen and now it seems he was a murderer. It’s beastly but it’s over. Better for them — all three of them — by a long chalk and for everybody else that it should be so.”

Alleyn saw Sophy look steadily at Grant for a moment and then frowningly at her own clenched hands. The Baron made sounds of agreement but his wife, disconcertingly, broke into protest.

“Ah, no, ah no!” cried the Baroness. “We cannot so coldly dismiss! Here is tragedy! Here is Nemesis! Behind this denouement what horror is not lurkink?”

She appealed from one to another of the hearers and finally to her husband. Her eyes filled with tears. “No, Gerrit, no! It is dreadful to think,” she said. “The Violetta and this Mailer and the Sweet: between them was such hatred! Such evil! So close to us! I am sick to think of it.”

“Never mind, my darling. It is gone. They are gone.”

He comforted her in their own language, gently putting one of her large hands between his own two enormous ones as if to warm it. He looked round at the others with that winged smile inviting them to indulge a childish distress. They responded awkwardly.

Valdarno said that they would all perceive, no doubt, that the affair now wore an entirely different complexion. It would be improper, until legal pronouncements had been made and the case formally wound up, for him to make a categorical pronouncement but he felt, nevertheless, that as representative of the Minister for the Interior he might assure them they would not be unduly troubled by further proceedings. They would be asked to sign a statement as to their unfortunate experience. Possibly they would be required to give formal evidence and should hold themselves in readiness to do so. And now, perhaps, they would be kind enough to wait in the next room while Vice-Questore Bergarmi prepared a statement. He greatly regretted—

He continued in this strain for a few more rounded periods and then they all stood up and responded as best they could to a ceremonial leave-taking.

Alleyn remained behind.

“If it would save trouble, Signor Questore,” he said, “I’m at your service — you’ll want an English transcription of this statement for instance. And perhaps — as I was there, you know—?”

“You are very kind,” Valdarno began and broke off to deal with yet another report of violence. Bergarmi had gone to some inner office and for a moment or two Alleyn and Giovanni were confronted. The Questore’s back was turned to them as he apostrophized the telephone.

“You too,” Alleyn said, “will no doubt sign a statement, will you not?”

“But certainly, Signore. On my conscience and before the saints. It is my duty.”

“Will it include an account of your talk with Major Sweet yesterday afternoon, at the Eremo?”

Giovanni, snake-like, retracted his head. Almost, Alleyn thought, you could hear him hiss. He half closed his eyes and whispered disgustingly.

For the hundredth time that morning Valdarno shouted, “ E molto seccante! Presto !” He clapped down the receiver, spread his hands for Alleyn’s benefit and caught sight of Giovanni. “You! Vecchi! You are required to make a written statement.”

“Of course, Signor Questore,” Giovanni said. The intercom buzzed. Valdarno took another call.

An officer came in and removed Giovanni, who darted a look at Il Questore’s back and as he passed Alleyn rapidly mimed a spit into his face. The officer barked at him and pushed him out. “Violetta,” thought Alleyn, “would not have stopped short at pantomine.”

“These students!” cried Valdarno, leaving the telephone. “What do they suppose they achieve? Now, they burn up Vespa motorcycles. Why? Possibly they are other students’ Vespas. Again, why? You were speaking of the signed statement. I would be greatly obliged if you would combine with Bergarmi.” The buzzer sounded. “ Basta !” shouted Il Questore and answered it.

Alleyn joined Bergarmi, who received him with a strange blend of huffishness and relief. He had written out a résumé in Italian, based on his own notes of the now desperately familiar experiences of the travellers in the depths of San Tommaso. Alleyn found this accurate and put it into English. “Would you like a check of the translation by a third person, Signor Vice-Questore?” he asked. Bergarmi made deprecatory noises. “After all,” he said, “it is no longer of the first importance, all this. Giovanni Vecchi’s evidence and the fact that this,” he slapped the statement, “does nothing to contradict it and, above all, Sweet’s attempt to escape, are sufficient, for our purpose. The case is virtually closed.”