The six travellers rose, collected themselves and prepared, with evident signs of relief, to go their ways.

Sophy and Barnaby Grant left together and the Van der Veghels followed them.

Lady Braceley with her eye on Alleyn showed signs of lingering.

Kenneth had lounged over to the door and stood there, watching Alleyn with his customary furtive, sidelong air. ‘So that would appear to be that,’ he threw out.

‘You remember,’ Alleyn said, ‘you took a photograph of Mithras when we were all down there?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you had it developed?’

‘No.’

‘Is it in black-and-white or colour?’

‘Black-and-white,’ Kenneth mumbled. ‘It’s meant to be better for the architecture and statues bit.’

‘Mine are being developed by the police expert, here. They’ll only take a couple of hours. Would you like me to get yours done at the same time?’

The film’s not finished. Thank you very much, though.’

Lady Braceley said, ‘No, but do let Mr Alleyn get it done, darling. You can’t have many left. You never stopped clicking all through that extraordinary picnic on the what-not hill. And you must admit it will have a kind of grisly interest. Not that I’ll be in the one Mr Alleyn’s talking about, you know—the bowels of the earth. Do give it to him.’

‘It’s still in my camera.’

‘And your camera’s in the car. Whip down and get it.’

‘Darling Auntie—it’ll wait. Need we fuss?’

‘Yes,’ she said pettishly, ‘we need. Go on, darling!’ He slouched off.

‘Don’t come all the way back,’ Alleyn called after him. ‘I’ll collect it down there. I won’t be a moment.’

‘Sweet of you,’ Lady Braceley said, and kissed her hand. ‘We’ll wait.’

When they had gone Alleyn went out to the lift landing and found the Van der Veghels busily assembling the massive photographic gear without which they seemed unable to move. He reminded the Baroness of the photographs she had taken in the Mithraic insula and offered to have the police develop the film.

‘I think,’ he said ‘that the police would still be very glad to see the shot you took of the sarcophagus, Baroness. I told them I’d ask you for it.’

‘You may have it. I do not want it. I cannot bear to think of it. Gerrit, my darlink, please give it to him. We wish for no souvenirs of that terrible day. Ach, no! No!’

‘Now, now, now,’ the Baron gently chided. ‘There is no need for such a fuss-pot. I have it here. One moment only and I produce it.’

But there was quite a lot to be done in the way of unbuckling and poking in their great rucksacks, and all to no avail.

Suddenly the Baroness gave a little scream and clapped her hand to her forehead.

‘But I am mad!’ she cried. ‘I forget next my own head.’

‘How?’