“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, I 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, pulleys, an extension ladder, a winch, a stretcher. Il Vice-Questore Bergarmi watched the operations 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. Its 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 attitudes 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 occupied. 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 good night 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 have 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.