Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

Alleyn pushed his translation across the table. “There is just one thing I’d like to suggest.”

“Yes? And that is?”

“The Van der Veghels took photographs in the Mithraeum and the insula. Flashlights. Two by the Baroness and one by the Baron. Kenneth Dorne also took one. After that, when we were returning, the Baroness photographed the sarcophagus. I thought you might like to produce these photographs.”

“Ah. Thank you. The sarcophagus, yes. Yes. That might be interesting.”

“If it shows the piece of shawl?”

“Quite so. It would limit the time. To some extent that is true. It would show that the woman Violetta was murdered before you all left the Mithraeum. By Mailer, of course. There can be no doubt, by Mailer. It would not help us — not that we need this evidence — to fix a precise time for Sweet’s attack upon Mailer. We have, my dear Signor Super,” said Bergarmi with evident pleasure in discovering this new mode of address, “motive. From your own investigation of Sweet.” Alleyn made a wry face. “Intent. As evidenced in suspicious behaviour noted by Vecchi. Opportunity. Apart from Signor Dorne and his Aunt Baroness (this latter being a ludicrous notion) he is the only one with opportunity.”

“With the greatest respect — the only one?”

“Signore?”

“Well,” Alleyn said apologetically, “it’s just that I wonder if Giovanni was speaking all of the truth all of the time.”

After a considerable pause Bergarmi said: “I find no occasion to doubt it.” And after an even longer pause. “He had no motive, no cause to attack Mailer.”

“He had every reason, though, to attack Sweet. But don’t give it another thought.”

Alleyn’s translation was typed, with copies, by a brisk bilingual clerk. During this period Bergarmi was rather ostentatiously busy. When the transcription was ready he and Alleyn went to the lesser office, where for the second and last time the travellers were assembled. At Bergarmi’s request Alleyn handed out the copies.

“I find this a correct summary of our joint statements,” Alleyn said, “and am prepared to sign it. What about everyone else?”

Lady Braceley, who was doing her face, said with an unexpected flight of fancy: “I’d sign my soul to the devil if he’d get me out of here.” She turned her raffish and disastrous gaze upon Alleyn. “You’re being too wonderful,” she predictably informed him.

He said: “Lady Braceley, I wonder — simply out of curiosity, you know — whether you noticed anything at all odd in Sweet’s manner when he took you up to the atrium. Did you?”

He thought she might seize the chance to tell them all how responsive she was to atmosphere and how she had sensed that something was wrong or possibly come out with some really damaging bit of information. All she said, however, was: “I just thought him a bloody rude, common little man.” And after a moment’s thought: “And I’ll eat my hat if he was ever in The Gunners.” She waited again for a moment and then said: “All the same, it’s quite something, isn’t it, to have been trotted about by a murderer, however uncivil? My dear, we’ll dine on it, Kenny and I. Won’t we, darling?”

Her nephew looked up at her and gave a sort of restless acknowledgement. “I just don’t go with all this carry-on,” he complained. “It’s not my scene.”

“I know , darling. Too confusing. Three dead people in as many days, you might say. Still it’s a wonderful relief to be in the clear oneself.” She contemplated Bergarmi, smiling at him with her head on one side. “He really doesn’t speak English, does he? He’s not making a nonsense of us?”

Bergarmi muttered to Alleyn: “What is she saying? Does she object to signing? Why is she smiling at me?”

“She doesn’t object. Perhaps she has taken a fancy to you, Signor Vice-Questore.”

“ Mamma mia !”

Alleyn suggested that if they were all satisfied they would sign and Lady Braceley instantly did so, making no pretence of reading the statement. Kenneth followed her — mulishly. The Van der Veghels were extremely particular and examined each point with anxious care and frequent consultations. Barnaby Grant and Sophy Jason read the typescript with professional concentration. Then they all signed. Bergarmi told them, through Alleyn, that they were free to go. They would be notified if their presence at the inquest was required. He bowed, thanked them and departed with the papers.

The six travelers rose, collected themselves and prepared, with evident signs of relief, to go their ways.

Sophy and Barnaby Grant left together and the Van der Veghels followed them.

Lady Braceley, with her eye on Alleyn, showed signs of lingering.

Kenneth had lounged over to the door and stood there, watching Alleyn with his customary furtive, sidelong air. “So that would appear to be that,” he threw out.

“You remember,” Alleyn said, “you took a photograph of Mithras when we were all down there?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you had it developed?”

“No.”

“Is it in black-and-white or colour?”

“Black-and-white,” Kenneth mumbled. “It’s meant to be better for the architecture and statues bit.”

“Mine are being developed by the police expert, here. They’ll only take a couple of hours. Would you like me to get yours done at the same time?”

“The film’s not finished. Thank you very much, though.”

Lady Braceley said: “No, but do let Mr. Alleyn get it done, darling. You can’t have many left. You never stopped clicking all through that extraordinary picnic on the what-not hill. And you must admit it will have a kind of grisly interest. Not that I’ll be in the one Mr. Alleyn’s talking about, you know — the bowels of the earth. Do give it to him.”

“It’s still in my camera.”

“And your camera’s in the car. Whip down and get it.”

“Darling Auntie — it’ll wait. Need we fuss?”

“Yes,” she said pettishly, “we need. Go on , darling!” He slouched off.

“Don’t come all the way back,” Alleyn called after him. “I’ll collect it down there. I won’t be a moment.”

“Sweet of you,” Lady Braceley said, and kissed her hand. “We’ll wait.”

When they had gone Alleyn went out to the lift landing and found the Van der Veghels busily assembling the massive photographic gear without which they seemed unable to move. He reminded the Baroness of the photographs she had taken in the Mithraeic insula and offered to have the police develop the film.

“I think,” he said, “that the police would still be very glad to see the shot you took of the sarcophagus, Baroness. I told them I’d ask you for it.”

“You may have it. I do not want it. I cannot bear to think of it. Gerrit, my darlink, please give it to him. We wish for no souvenirs of that terrible day. Ach, no! No!”

“Now, now, now,” the Baron gently chided. “There is no need for such a fuss-pot. I have it here. One moment only and I produce it.”

But there was quite a lot to be done in the way of unbuckling and poking in their great rucksacks, and all to no avail.

Suddenly the Baroness gave a little scream and clapped her hand to her forehead.

“But I am mad!” she cried. “I forget next my own head.”

“How?”

“It was the young Dorne. Yesterday we arrange he takes it with his own development.”

“So,” said the Baron. “What a nonsense,” and began with perfect good humour to re-assemble the contents of his rucksack.

“He hasn’t done anything about it,” Alleyn said. “If I may I’ll collect your film with his.”

“Good, good,” agreed the Baron.