“All right. Take Lady B. She’s rolling in money. One of her husbands was an Italian millionaire and she may have alimony paid out to her in Rome. She could obviously afford this show. She’s rich, raffish, pretty bloody awful and all for la dolce vita. No doubt she’s paying for the egregious Kenneth, who looks to me very much as if he’s hooked and may therefore turn out to be a useful lead into Mailer’s activities. I gather from something young Sophy Jason, who is an enchanter, let fall that she just suddenly decided to blue fifty quid out of the Italian funds available to her through business connections.

“The Van der Veghels are a couple of grotesques and interest me enormously as I think they would you. Grotesques? No, not the right word. We both go for the Etruscan thing, don’t we? Remember? Remember that male head, bearded and crowned with leaves, in the Museo Barraco? Remember the smiling mouth, shaped, now I come to think of it, exactly like a bird in flight with the thin moustache repeating and exaggerating the curve of the lips? And the wide open eyes? What an amusing face, we thought, but is it perhaps atrociously cruel? I assure you, a portrait of the Baron Van der Veghel. But against this remember the tender and fulfilled couple of that sarcophagus in the Villa Giulia: the absolute in satisfied love? Recall the protective hand of the man. The extraordinary marital likeness, the suggestion of heaviness in the shoulders, the sense of completion. Portrait, I promise you, of the Van der Veghels. They may be Dutch by birth but blow me down flat if they’re not Etruscan by descent. Or nature. Or something.

“The overall effect of the Van der V’s is, however, farcical. There’s always an easy laugh to be won from broken English or, come to that, fractured French. Remember that de Maupassant story about an English girl who became increasingly boring as her command of French improved? The Baroness’s lapses are always, as I’m sure beastly Kenneth would say, good for a giggle.

“I suppose their presence in the set-up is the least surprising. They’re avid and merciless sightseers and photographers and their fund of enthusiasm is inexhaustible. Whether one can say the same of their fund of cash is anyone’s guess.

“Major Sweet. Now, why has Major Sweet coughed up fifty quid for this sort of jaunt? On the face of it he’s a caricature, a museum piece: the sort of Indian Army officer who, thirty years ago, was fair game for an easy laugh shouting Qui-hi at a native servant and saying, By George, what? I find it unconvincing. He’s bad-tempered, I should imagine pretty hard on the bottle, and amorous. As the young Sophy found to her discomfort in the Mithraic underworld. He’s violently, aggressively and confusingly anti-religion. Religion of any kind. He lumps them all together, turns purple in the face, and deriving his impenetrable argument from the sacraments, pagan or Christian, says the whole lot are based on cannibalism. Why should he pay through the neck to explore two levels of Christianity and a Mithraic basement? Just to have a good jeer?

“Finally — Barnaby Grant. To my notion, the prime puzzle of the party. Without more ado I would say, quite seriously, that I can think of no earthly reason why he should subject himself to what is clearly the most exquisite torture, unless Mailer put the screws on him in another sense. Blackmail. It might well be one of Mailer’s subsidiary interests and can tie in very comfortably with the racket.

“And as a bonne bouche we have the antic Violetta. If you could have seen Violetta with her ‘Cartoline? Postacarda?’ and harpy’s face, foaming away under a black headpiece! Il Questore Valdarno can shrug her off with remarks about short-tempered postcard ladies but never trust me again if that one isn’t possessed of a fury. As for Sophy Jason saying it was Violetta’s shadow she saw on the wall by the stone sarcophagus, I think it’s odds-on she’s right. I saw it, too. It was distorted but there was the tray, the shawl and the hitched up shoulder. Clear as mud or my name’s Van der Veghel.

“And I think Valdarno’s right when he says Mailer could have nipped under the noses of Father Denys and his boys. There’s plenty of cover.

“But without any justification for saying so, I don’t believe he did.

“On the same premise Violetta could have nipped in and I do believe she did. And out again?

“That too is another story.

“It’s now a quarter past eight of a very warm evening. I am leaving my five-star room for the five-star cocktail bar where I rather hope to hob-nob with the Lady B. and her nephew. From there we shall be driven to La Giaconda where we shall perhaps eat quails stuffed with pâté and washed down with molten gold. At Mailer’s expense? Well — allegedly.

“More of the continuing story of Anyone’s Guess tomorrow. Bless you, my dear love, my—”

They had dined by candlelight at a long table in the garden. Between leafy branches of trees and far below, shone Rome. It might have been its own model, laid out on a black velvet cloth and so cunningly illuminated that its great monuments glowed in their setting like jewels. At night the Colosseum is lit from within, and at this distance it was no longer a ruin but seemed so much alive that a mob might have spewed through its multiple doorways, rank with the stench of the circus. It was incredibly beautiful.

Not far from their table was a fountain, moved there at some distant time from its original site down in Old Rome. At its centre lolled Naptune: smooth, luxurious and naked, idly fingering the long ringlets of his beard. He was supported by tritons and all kinds of monsters. They spouted, jetted and dribbled into basins that overflowed into each other making curtains of water drops. The smell of water, earth and plants mingled with cigar smoke, coffee, cosmetics and fumes of wine.

“What is all this like?” Sophy asked Grant. “All this magnificence? I’ve never read Ouida, have you? And anyway this is not at all Victorian.”

“How about Fellini?”

“Well — all right. But not La Dolce Vita. I don’t think I get any whiffs of social corruption, really. Do you?”

He didn’t answer and she looked across the table at Alleyn. “Do you?” she asked him.

Alleyn’s glance fell upon Lady Braceley’s arm, lying as if discarded on the table. Emeralds, rubies and diamonds encircled that flaccid member, veins stood out on the back of the hand, her rings had slipped to one side and her talons — does she have false ones, he wondered, and saw that she did — made little dents in the tablecloth.

“Do you” Sophy persisted, “sniff the decadent society?” and then, evidently aware of Lady Braceley and perhaps of Kenneth, she blushed.

Sophy had the kind of complexion Jacobean poets would have praised, a rose-blush that mounted and ebbed very delicately under her skin. Her eyes shone in the candlelight and there was a nimbus round her hair. She was as fresh as a daisy.

“At the moment,” Alleyn said, smiling at her, “not at all.”

“Good!” said Sophy and turned to Grant. “Then I needn’t feel apologetic about enjoying myself.”

“Are you liking it so much? Yes, I see you are. But why should you apologize?”

“Oh — I don’t know — a streak of puritan, I suppose. My Grandpapa Jason was a Quaker.”

“Does he often put in an appearance?”

“Not all that often but I thought he lurked just now. ‘Vanity, vanity’ you know, and the bit about has one any right to buy such a sumptuous evening the world being as it is.”

“Meaning you should have spent the cash on doing good?”

“Yes. Or not spent it at all. Grandpapa Jason was also a banker.”

“Tell him to buzz off. You’ve done a power of good.”

“I? How? Impossible.”