When in Rome by Ngaio Marsh Page A

went on, to say a few words about the basilica in its relation to his book which, as they would hear from him, was largely inspired by it.
    Throughout this exposition Barnaby Grant, Alleyn noticed, seemed to suffer the most exquisite embarrassment. He stared at the ground, hunched his shoulders, made as if to walk away and, catching perhaps a heightened note in Mr Mailer’s voice, thought better of this and remained, wretchedly it appeared, where he was.
    Mr Mailer concluded by saying that as the afternoon was deliciously clement they would end it with a picnic tea on the Palatine Hill. The guests would then be driven to their hotels to relax and change for dinner and would be called for at nine o’clock.
    He now distributed the guests. He, with Lady Braceley, Alleyn and Barnaby Grant would take one car; the Van der Veghels, Sophy Jason and Kenneth Dorne would take the other. The driver of the second car was introduced. ‘Giovanni is fluent in English,’ said Mr Mailer, ‘and learned in the antiquities. He will discourse upon matters of interest en route. Come, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Mailer, ‘let us embark. Pronto!’
II
    The four arches that lead into the porch of S. Tommaso in Pallaria are of modest proportion and their pillars, which in classic times adorned some pagan temple, are slender and worn. The convolvulus tendrils that their carver twined about them have broken in many places but the work is so delicate that the stone seems to tremble. In the most shadowed corner of the porch sat a woman with a tray of postcards. She wore a black headscarf pulled forward over her face and a black cotton dress. She shouted something, perhaps at Mr Mailer. Her voice was strident which may have caused her remark to sound like an insult. He paid no attention to it.
    He collected his party about him and looked at his watch. ‘Major Sweet,’ he said, ‘is late. We shall not wait for him but before we go in I should like to give you, very shortly, some idea of this extraordinary monument. In the fourth century before Christ—’
    From the dark interior there erupted an angry gentleman who shouted as he came.
    ‘Damned disgusting lot of hanky-panky,’ shouted this gentleman. ‘What the hell—‘ He pulled up short on seeing the group and narrowed his blazing eyes in order to focus upon it.
    He had a savage white moustache and looked like an improbable revival of an Edwardian warrior. ‘Are you Mailer?’ he shouted. ‘Sweet,’ he added, in explanation.
    ‘Major Sweet, may I—’
    ‘You’re forty-three minutes late. Forty-three minutes!’
    ‘Unfortunately—’
    ‘Spare me,’ begged Major Sweet, ‘the specious excuses. There is no adequate explanation for unpunctuality.’
    Lady Braceley moved in. ‘All my fault, Major,’ she said. ‘I kept everybody waiting and I’ve no excuses: I never have and I always do. I dare say you’d call it “ladies’ privilege”, wouldn’t you? Or would you?’
    Major Sweet turned his blue glare upon her for two or three seconds. He then yapped ‘How do you do’ and seemed to wait for further developments.
    Mr Mailer with perfect suavity performed the introductions. Major Sweet acknowledged them by making slight bows to the ladies and an ejaculation of sorts to the men. ‘Hyah,’ he said.
    ‘Well,’ said Mr Mailer. ‘To resume. When we are inside the basilica I shall hand over to our most distinguished guest of honour. But perhaps beforehand a very brief historical note may be of service.’
    He was succinct and adequate, Sophy grudgingly admitted. The basilica of San Tommaso, he said, was one of a group of monuments in Rome where the visitors could walk downwards through the centuries into Mithraic time. At the top level, here where they now stood, was the twelfth-century basilica which in a moment they would enter. Beneath it, was the excavated third-century church which it had replaced. ‘And below that—imagine it—’ said Mr Mailer, ‘there has lain