‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘You will remember that when we removed the lid it made a considerable noise. Two minutes or more before that, we heard a confused sound that might have been that of a woman’s voice. It was greatly distorted by echo and stopped abruptly.’

‘Screaming?’

‘No.’

‘One would expect the woman Violetta to scream.’

‘Perhaps not, do you think, if she was there unlawfully? When she abused Mailer on the earlier occasion she didn’t scream: she whispered. I got the impression of one of those harridan-voices that have worn out and can no longer scream.’

Valdarno surveyed Bergarmi. ‘You realize what all this implies, no doubt?’

‘Certainly, Signor Questore.’

‘Well?’

‘That if this was the woman Violetta and if the sound was the sound of the sarcophagus lid and if the person Mailer killed the woman Violetta and was himself killed soon afterwards—’ here Bergarmi took a breath ‘—then, Signor Questore, the field of suspects is confined to such persons as were unaccompanied after the party left the Mithraeum. These were the Major Sweet, the Baronessa Braceley, the nephew Dorne.’

‘Very well.’

‘And that in fact the field of suspects remains the same,’ Bergarmi said, fighting his way out, ‘whether the woman Violetta was killed by the person Mailer or by the killer of the person Mailer.’

Valdarno turned to Alleyn and spread his hands.

‘Ecco!’ he said. ‘You agree?’

‘A masterly survey,’ Alleyn said. ‘There is—if I may?—just one question I would like to ask.’

‘Ah?’

‘Do we know where Giovanni Vecchi was?’

‘Vecchi?’

‘Yes,’ Alleyn said apologetically. ‘He was by the cars when we came out of the basilica but he might have been inside while we were in the nether regions. He wouldn’t attract notice, would he? I mean he’s a regular courier and must often hang about the premises while his customers are below. Part of the scenery, as it were.’

Valdarno gazed in his melancholy way at nothing in particular. ‘What,’ he asked Bergarmi, ‘has the man Vecchi said?’

‘Signor Questore—nothing.’

‘Still nothing?’

‘He is obstinate.’

‘Has he been informed of Mailer’s death?’

‘Last night, Signor Questore.’

‘His reaction?’

Bergarmi’s shoulders rose to his ears, his eyebrows to the roots of his hair and his pupils into his head.

‘Again nothing. A little pale, perhaps. I believe him to be nervous.’

‘He must be examined as to his movements at the time of the crimes. The priests must be questioned.’

‘Of course, Signor Questore,’ said Bergarmi, who had not looked at Alleyn.

‘Send for him.’

‘Certainly, Signor Questore. At once.’

Valdarno waved a hand at his telephone and Bergarmi hurried to it.

An Agente came in and saluted.

‘The tourists, Signor Questore,’ he said.

‘Very well. All of them?’

‘Not yet, Signor Questore. The English nobildonna and her nephew. The English writer. The Signorina. The Olandese and his wife.’

‘Admit them,’ said Valdarno, with all the grandeur of a Shakespearean monarch.