He squatted painfully by the rails and used his torch. The smears of brown polish were smudged across with equidistant tracks almost as if somebody had tried to erase them with an india rubber.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a fancy to take a shot of this.’ And did so with his particular little camera.
‘Will you look at that, now!’ exclaimed Father Denys.
‘It won’t amount to a row of beans, as likely as not. Shall we go on?’
Back in the vestibule he rang up the Questura and got through to Bergarmi. He had to go warily. As he expected, the Vice-Questore immediately said that the Dominicans should have reported the trouble to him. Alleyn made the most of Father Denys’s reluctance to bother the police with what might well turn out to be the trivial matter of a couple of dead rats. Bergarmi gave this a sardonic reception, muttering
‘Topi, topi,’
as if he used an incredulous slang equivalent of ‘Rats!’ This Alleyn felt to be a little unfair, but he pressed on with his report.
‘You’ll have a difficult job getting the body out,’ he said, ‘but of course you have all the resources and the expertise.’
‘You have communicated this matter, Superintendent Alleyn, to Il Questore Valdarno?’
‘No. I thought best to report at once to you.’
This went down much better. ‘In which respect,’ Bergarmi conceded, ‘you have acted with propriety. We shall deal with this matter immediately. The whole complexion of the affair alters. I myself will inform Il Questore. In the meantime I will speak, if you please, with the Padre.’
While Father Denys talked volubly with Bergarmi, Alleyn washed his hands in a cubby-hole, found them to be rather more knocked about than he had realized, changed back into his own clothes and took stock of the situation.
The complexion had indeed changed. What, he sourly asked himself, was the position of a British investigator in Rome when a British subject of criminal propensities had almost certainly been murdered, possibly by another Briton, not impossibly by a Dutchman, not quite inconceivably by an Italian, on property administered by an Irish order of Dominican monks?
This is one, he thought, to be played entirely by ear and I very much wish I was shot of it.
He had an egg-shaped lump on the back of his head. He was bruised, sore, and even a bit shaky, which made him angry with himself. I could do with black coffee, he thought.
Father Denys came back, caught sight of Alleyn’s hands and immediately produced a first-aid box. He insisted on putting dressings over the raw patches.
‘You’d be the better for a touch of the cratur,’ he said, ‘and we’ve nothing of the kind to offer. There’s a caffè over the way. Go there, now, and take a drop of something. The pollis will be a while yet for that fellow Bergarmi is all for getting on to the Questore before he stirs himself. Are you all right, now?’
‘I’m fine but I think it’s a marvellous suggestion.’
‘Away with you.’
The caffè was a short distance down the street: a very modest affair with a scatter of workaday patrons who looked curiously at him. He had coffee and brandy and forced himself to eat a couple of large buns that turned out to be delicious.
Well, he thought, it was on the cards. From the beginning it was on the cards and I’m glad I said as much to Valdarno.
He began a careful re-think. Suppose, he thought, as a starting point, we accept that the noise we heard while the Baroness was setting up that ludicrous group-photograph was, in fact, the sound of the sarcophagus lid thumping down on its edge, and I must say it sounded exactly like it. This would mean presumably that Violetta had just been killed and was about to be safely stowed. By
Mailer? If by Mailer, then he himself survived to be killed, again presumably—no, almost certainly—before we all reassembled. The only members of the party who were alone were Sweet and young Dorne who found their way up independently, and Lady B. who was parked in the atrium.
The Van der Veghels were with me. Sophy Jason was with Barnaby Grant.
We
met nobody on our way up and
they
say as much for themselves.
Query. If Mailer killed Violetta while we were all having our photographs taken, why did he—not a robust man—go through the elaborate and physically exhausting job of putting the body in the sarcophagus and replacing the lid instead of doing what was subsequently done to him—dispatching it down the well?
I have no answer.
On the other hand, suppose one person killed both of them. Why? I am dumb, but suppose it was so? Why, for pity’s sake, make a sarcophagus job of Violetta and a well job of Mailer? Just for the hell of it?
But. But, suppose, on the third hand, Mailer killed Violetta and hadn’t time to do anything further about it before he himself was knocked off and pushed down the well? How will this fadge? Rather better, I fancy. And why does his killer take the trouble to box Violetta up? That’s an easier one. Much easier.
I suppose there’s a fourth hand. We approach Indian god status. Suppose Violetta killed Mailer and heaved him overboard and was then—no, that I refuse to entertain.
How long were we all boxed up together under the blank eyes of Mithras? Sweet arrived first and about five minutes later, young Dorne. Then there was the business of the photographs. The discussion, the groping and the grouping. Sophy and I being funnymen and Grant cursing us. He had just said ‘Serve you bloody well right’ to Sophy, who was having trouble with the Major, when the lid, if it was the lid, thudded. After that came the failure of the flashlight, the interminable wait while the Baroness set herself up again. At least ten minutes, I would think. Then Dorne took his photo of Mithras. Then the Baroness loosed off, this time successfully. Then she took two more shots, not without further re-arrangements and palaver. Another four minutes? All of that. And finally the Baron changed
places with the Baroness and blazed away on his own account. Then Grant read his piece. Another five minutes. And then the party broke up. After that Dorne and Sweet are again odd men out. So it looks as if we were all together in that bloody basement for about twenty-five minutes, give or take the odd five. So everybody’s got an alibi for the salient time. Everybody? No. No, not quite. Not…Sit still, my soul. Hold on to your hats, boys—
A great rumpus of sirens broke out in the distance, drew rapidly nearer and exploded into the little street. The police. The Squadra Omicidi in strength. Three large cars and a van, eight Agenti and four practical-looking characters in overalls.
Alleyn paid his bill and returned to the church, stiffer now about the shoulders and ribs and painful as to the head, but in other respects his own man again.
A large amount of equipment was being unloaded: two pairs of waders, ropes, pullies, an extension ladder, a winch, a stretcher. Il Vice-Questore Bergarmi watched the operation with an air of tetchy disdain. He greeted Alleyn ceremoniously and with a fine salute.
Patrons from the little caffè, some groups of youths and a car or two quickly collected and were bossed about by two of the Agenti who were otherwise unoccupied. Brother Dominic came out, surveyed the assembly, and opened the main doors.
‘Il Questore Valdarno, Signor Alleyn,’ said Bergarmi fairly stiffly, ‘sends his compliments. He wishes me to express his hopes that you will continue to interest yourself in our investigations.’
‘I am very much obliged to him,’ Alleyn replied, groping about in his Italian for the correct phrases, ‘and will be glad to do so without, I trust, making a nuisance of myself.’
‘Mente affalto,’
Bergarmi replied. Which was as much, Alleyn thought, as to say ‘Don’t let that worry you,’ or even, ‘Forget it.’ Somehow it sounded a good deal less cordial.
It was after ten o’clock when Bergarmi’s men landed Sebastian Mailer’s body in the insula.
It lay on a stretcher not far from the sarcophagus, an inconsequential sequel to a flabby, fat man. It wore a ghastly resemblance to Violetta. This was because Mr Mailer, also, had been strangled.
His body had been knocked about; both before and after death, said the medical man—presumably a police surgeon—called in to make an
immediate examination. His face had been scored by fangs of the broken grille. There was a heavy livid mark across the neck quite apart from the typical stigmata of manual strangulation. Alleyn watched the routine procedure and spoke when he was spoken to. There was a certain hauteur in the attitude of the investigating officers.
‘We shall, of course, perform an autopsy,’ said the doctor. ‘He was a man of full habit. No doubt we shall find he was killed not so very long after he had eaten.
Ecco!
We find certain manifestations. You may cover the cadaver.’ They did so. ‘And remove it,’ added the doctor. ‘Unless, of course—’ he bowed to Alleyn who had moved forward ‘—the Signor Superintendent wishes—?’
Alleyn said, ‘Thank you. I am sure, gentlemen, you have already taken every possible photograph required for the investigation, but unfortunately, as we all know, under such difficult conditions there can be accidents. When I found the body I did get a shot of it
in situ.’
He produced his very special minuscule camera. ‘It seems to have survived a rather rough passage,’ he said. ‘If by any chance you would like a print I shall of course be delighted to give you one.’
He knew at once by a certain momentary stillness that no photographs had been taken down below by the recovery team. He hurried on. ‘Perhaps I may be allowed to finish my film and then—a further favour. Signor Bergarmi—perhaps your laboratories would be kind enough to develop it.’
‘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 equipped. 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 goodnight 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 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.’