When in Rome

When in Rome
Ngaio Marsh

Murder, blackmail and drug-dealing on the Tiber combine in one of Ngaio Marsh’s liveliest and most evocative novels.When their guide disappears mysteriously in the depths of a Roman Basilica, the members of Mr Sebastian Mailer’s tour group seem strangely unperturbed.But when a body is discovered in an Etruscan sarcophagus, Superintendent Alleyn, in Rome incognito on the trail of an international drug racket, is very much concerned…

When in Rome

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u6a889d2d-3cd7-5d9b-bcb2-4248c4d85972)

Title Page (#u2e8a1729-f18b-594b-be45-40165bd88064)

Cast of Characters (#u64c8d2f0-c828-52bf-901d-00acfd5c87f7)

CHAPTER 1 Barnaby in Rome (#u8f6a4f66-64ae-582b-b0af-32a202f6817f)

CHAPTER 2 An Expedition is Arranged (#ud4310deb-2516-581c-a9d7-91b7f8a2397f)

CHAPTER 3 Saturday, the Twenty-sixth (#ud54b4b3f-1921-5a12-b105-8064fdac4534)

CHAPTER 4 Absence of Mr Mailer (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 5 Evening Out (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 6 Re-appearance of a Postcard Vendor (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 7 Afternoon (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 8 Return of Sebastian Mailer (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 9 Death in the Morning (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 10 When in Rome (#litres_trial_promo)

By The Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Cast of Characters (#ulink_98f97b42-b885-51a0-b911-45cf5c04ce71)

Patrons of Mr Sebastian Mailer’s conducted tour

Officers of the Roman Police Department

Il Questore Valdarno

Il Vice-Questore Bergarmi

Sundry members of the Questura

Dominicans in charge at S. Tommaso in Pallaria

Father Denys

Brother Dominic

CHAPTER 1 Barnaby in Rome (#ulink_420cfb99-6fc2-5669-86d7-02a135518ab7)

Barnaby Grant looked at the Etruscan Bride and Bridegroom who reclined so easily on their sarcophagal couch and wondered why they had died so young and whether, as in Verona, they had died together. Their gentle lips, he thought, brushed with amusement, might easily tilt into the arrowhead smile of Apollo and Hermes. How fulfilled they were and how enigmatically alike. What signal did she give with her largish hands? How touchingly his hand hovered above her shoulder.

‘—from Cerveteri,’ said a guide rapidly. ‘Five hundred and thirty years before Christ.’

‘Christ!’ said a tourist on a note of exhaustion.

The party moved on. Grant stayed behind for a time and then, certain that he desired to see no more that morning, left the Villa Giulia and took a taxi to the Piazza Colonna for a glass of beer.

II

As he sat at a kerbside table in the Piazza Colonna, Barnaby thought of the Etruscan smile and listened to thunder.

The heavens boomed largely above the noon traffic but whatever lightning there might be was not evident, being masked by a black canopy of low and swollen cloud. At any moment, thought Barnaby, Marcus Aurelius’s Column will prick it and like ‘a foul bumbard’ it will shed its liquor! And then what a scene!

Before him on the table stood a glass and a bottle of beer. His mackintosh was folded over the back of his chair and on the ground, leaning against his leg, was a locked attaché case. Every so often his left hand dropped to the case and fingered it. Refreshed by this contact his mouth would take on an easier look and he would blink slowly and push away the lock of black hair that overhung his forehead.

A bit of a swine, this one, he thought. It’s been a bit of a swine.

A heavy rumbling again broke out overhead. Thunder on the left, Barnaby thought. The gods are cross with us.

He refilled his glass and looked about him.

The kerbside caffè had been crowded but now, under threat of a downpour, many customers had left and the waiters had tipped over their chairs. The tables on either side of his own, however, were still occupied: that on his right by three lowering young men whose calloused hands jealously enclosed their glasses and whose slow eyes looked sideways at their surroundings. Countrymen, Grant thought, who would have been easier in a less consequential setting and would be shocked by the amount of their bill. On his left sat a Roman couple in love. Forbidden by law to kiss in public, they gazed, clung hand-to-hand, and exchanged trembling smiles. The young man extended his forefinger and traced the unmarred excellence of his girl’s lips. They responded, quivering. Barnaby could not help watching the lovers. They were unaware of him and indeed of everything else around them, but on the first visible and livid flash of lightning, they were taken out of themselves and turned their faces towards him.

It was at this moment, appropriately as he was later to consider, that he saw, framed by their separated heads, the distant figure of an Englishman.

He knew at once that the man was English. Perhaps it was his clothes. Or, more specifically, his jacket. It was shabby and out-of-date but it had been made from West Country tweed though not, perhaps, for its present wearer. And then—the tie. Frayed and faded, grease-spotted and lumpish: there it was, scarcely recognizable, but if you were so minded, august. For the rest, his garments were dingy and nondescript. His hat, a rusty black felt, was obviously Italian. It was pulled forward and cast a shadow down to the bridge of the nose, over a face of which the most noticeable feature was its extreme pallor. The mouth, however, was red and rather full-lipped. So dark had the noonday turned that without that brief flash, Barnaby could scarcely have seen the shadowed eyes. He felt an odd little shock within himself when he realized they were very light in colour and were fixed on him. A great crack of thunder banged out overhead. The black canopy burst and fell out of the sky in a deluge.

There was a stampede. Barnaby snatched up his raincoat, struggled into it and dragged the hood over his head. He had not paid his bill and groped for his pocket-book. The three countrymen blundered towards him and there was some sort of collision between them and the young couple. The young man broke into loud quarrelsome expostulation. Barnaby could find nothing smaller than a thousand-lire note. He turned away, looked round for a waiter and found that they had all retreated under the canvas awning. His own man saw him, made a grand-opera gesture of despair, and turned his back.

‘Aspetti,’ Barnaby shouted in phrase-book Italian waving his thousand-lire note. ‘Quanto devo pagare?’

The waiter placed his hands together as if in prayer and turned up his eyes.

‘Basta!’

‘—lasci passare—’

‘Se ne vada ora—’