The taxi screeched to a halt as the man crammed on his brakes. The police car drew alongside and Sweet hurled himself through the opposite door.

For a moment he showed up in the sea of traffic: a well-dressed man in an English overcoat and tweed hat. Then he went down under an oncoming van.

“He is not expected,” Bergami said, “to recover consciousness.”

Since Sweet’s escape had been reported, less than half an hour had elapsed. During the interval, while Valdarno and his Vice-Questore were still at blast-off potential, Giovanni had been brought in. He was unshaven, pale and dishevelled and had looked round the group of tourists as if he saw them for the first time. When his glance fell on Lady Braceley he half closed his eyes, smirked and bowed. She had not looked at him.

He was questioned by Bergami with occasional interjections from Valdarno. This time there was no translation and only Alleyn knew what was said. The travellers leant forward in their chairs and strained and frowned as if they were physically rather than intellectually deaf. It was difficult, indeed, to think of any good reason why their presence was supposed to be desirable. “Unless,” Alleyn thought, “we are to become bilingual again and some sort of confrontation is envisaged.”

The official manner with Giovanni was formidable. Bergami shot out the questions. Valdarno folded his arms, scowled and occasionally threw in a demand if not a threat. Giovanni alternately sulked and expostulated. A good deal of what went on, Alleyn reflected, would be meat and drink to defending counsel in Great Britain. The examination was twice interrupted by reports of further violence in the streets and the Questore flung orders into the telephone with the precision of a souped-up computer. Alleyn could not escape the feeling that they all three greatly relished running through this virtuoso performance before their baffled and uncomprehending audience.

After a prolonged skirmish leading nowhere in particular Giovanni suddenly flung out his arms, made a complicated acknowledgement of his own stainless integrity and intimated that he was prepared to come clean.

This turned out to be the overstatement of the day. What he was prepared to do, and did, was accuse Major Sweet of murdering Sebastian Mailer. He said that while he himself was innocent of all knowledge of Mailer’s side activities and had merely acted in good faith as a top-class courier for Il Cicerone it had come to his knowledge that there was some kind of hanky-panky going on between Mailer and Sweet.

“Something told me it was so,” said Giovanni. “I have an instinct in such matters.”

“For ‘instinct,’ ” Il Questore said, “read ‘experience.’ ” Bergami laughed rather in the manner of deferential junior counsel.

“And what steps,” Valdarno asked nastily, “did this instinct prompt you to take?” He glanced at Alleyn.

Giovanni said he had observed, when Violetta attacked Mailer in the portico, that Sweet watched with a certain eagerness. He became even more interested in Sweet. When the party went below he strolled into the basilica and said a prayer to San Tommaso, for whom he had a devotion. Major Sweet, he said in parenthesis, was an atheist and made several abominable remarks about the holy saints.

“His remarks are unimportant. Continue.”

Giovanni was still in the basilica when Major Sweet returned with Lady Braceley, he said, and slid his eyes in her direction. Sweet’s behaviour was peculiar and far from polite. He planted her in the atrium and hastened to return below. Giovanni — filled, if he was to be believed, with nameless misgiving — had gone to the top well-head in the basilica and looked down — to his astonishment upon Major Sweet who (against the holy fathers’ regulations) had mounted the rails of the well-head directly underneath and seemed to strain over the top and peer into the Mithraeic insula below. There was something extraordinarily furtive about the way he finally climbed down and darted out of sight.

“This is nothing,” said Valdarno, flicking it away with his fingers.

Ah, said Giovanni, but wait. Wait, as he had, for the return of the party. First to arrive was Signor Dorne, who went immediately to his aunt in the atrium. And then, alone, the Major. White. Trembling. Agitated. A terrible expression in the eyes. He had passed Giovanni without seeing him and staggered into the porch. Giovanni had gone to him, had asked him if he was unwell. He had cursed Giovanni and asked him what the hell he meant and told him to get out. Giovanni had gone to his car and from there had seen the Major fortify himself from a pocket flask. His recovery was rapid. When the others appeared he was in full command of himself.

“At the time, Signor Questore, I was at a loss to understand — but now, now I understand. Signor Questore. I,” said Giovanni slapping his chest and shaking his finger and making his point with the greatest virtuosity, “had looked upon the face of a murderer.”

And it was at this point that the telephone had rung. Bergarmi answered it, received the news of Sweet’s catastrophe and informed his superior.

“He is not expected,” he had said, “to recover consciousness.”

“And while we’re on the subject of expression,” Alleyn thought, “if ever I’ve seen incredulous delight flash up in anybody’s face it’s now. And the face is Giovanni’s.”

Five minutes later came the information that Hamilton Sweet had died without speaking.

Valdarno unbent so far as to convey this news to the travellers. And again relief, decently restrained, was in the air. Barnaby Grant probably voiced the majority’s reaction when he said: “For God’s sake don’t let’s go through the motions. He was a disastrous specimen and now it seems he was a murderer. It’s beastly but it’s over. Better for them — all three of them — by a long chalk and for everybody else that it should be so.”

Alleyn saw Sophy look steadily at Grant for a moment and then frowningly at her own clenched hands. The Baron made sounds of agreement but his wife, disconcertingly, broke into protest.

“Ah, no, ah no!” cried the Baroness. “We cannot so coldly dismiss! Here is tragedy! Here is Nemesis! Behind this denouement what horror is not lurkink?”

She appealed from one to another of the hearers and finally to her husband. Her eyes filled with tears. “No, Gerrit, no! It is dreadful to think,” she said. “The Violetta and this Mailer and the Sweet: between them was such hatred! Such evil! So close to us! I am sick to think of it.”

“Never mind, my darling. It is gone. They are gone.”

He comforted her in their own language, gently putting one of her large hands between his own two enormous ones as if to warm it. He looked round at the others with that winged smile inviting them to indulge a childish distress. They responded awkwardly.

Valdarno said that they would all perceive, no doubt, that the affair now wore an entirely different complexion. It would be improper, until legal pronouncements had been made and the case formally wound up, for him to make a categorical pronouncement but he felt, nevertheless, that as representative of the Minister for the Interior he might assure them they would not be unduly troubled by further proceedings. They would be asked to sign a statement as to their unfortunate experience. Possibly they would be required to give formal evidence and should hold themselves in readiness to do so. And now, perhaps, they would be kind enough to wait in the next room while Vice-Questore Bergarmi prepared a statement. He greatly regretted—

He continued in this strain for a few more rounded periods and then they all stood up and responded as best they could to a ceremonial leave-taking.

Alleyn remained behind.

“If it would save trouble, Signor Questore,” he said, “I’m at your service — you’ll want an English transcription of this statement for instance. And perhaps — as I was there, you know—?”