A Rich Full Death

doubt as to whether or not it had been meant as a threat, I was left in none whatsoever. I did not make any atttempt to respond, however, contenting myself with maintaining a dignified silence.

Of course, it was easier for me to be gracious, for it was not I who was being hauled off to the Bargello like a common criminal this time! On the contrary, if there is one person in Florence other than the Grand-Duke himself who is utterly above suspicion in this affair, then it is your correspondent. How could it be otherwise, when during the entire time from Grant’s disappearance in Via Tornabuoni to the discovery of his corpse in the courtyard I was engaged in conversation with Police Commissioner Antonio Talenti himself! A finer alibi could not be wished for, I think.

Before leaving the scene, I could not help remarking the attention being given by spectators and police alike to an inscription in chalk upon the hull of a nearby wherry. It read:

I might of course leave you to puzzle this out yourself, but to save you hunting out your Dante let me remind you that Bonturo Dati of Lucca was the most notorious of the corrupt public officials who are punished in a lake of boiling pitch in the eighth circle of the Inferno. What this crime has to do with Mr Grant is by no means immediately clear-unless indeed there proves to be any substance in the rumour I have heard that his sojourn on the Continent was not undertaken entirely voluntarily, and that an air of scandal surrounds his period of office as an alderman in the City. But people love to talk ill of their neighbours, and we exiles more than most. On the other hand, he admitted cutting his claret with chianti, and a man who is capable of that is surely capable of anything.

For the rest, I need tell you only the two facts which have emerged in the hours since yesterday’s tremendous events. First of all, most important, Mr Browning was released later the same day, after being questioned. There seems to be no evidence to connect him with the death of Mr Grant other than his having been found near the body. Were he an Italian, that might be enough, but as it is, not only must the letter of the law be observed, but all its dashes and dots as well. But truth, like murder, will out, and thus we live in daily expectation of some clamorous announcement.

The other snip of news is just that a second body was discovered soon afterwards, in an alley some distance away. At first this promised to shed new light upon Grant’s death, but the victim has since proved to be one Giuseppe Petacco-a notorious ne’er-do-well who has been in police hands more than once. It is thought that he most likely met his death in some brawl or act of vengeance unconnected with the atrocious fate of poor Grant.

All may yet be well, as I said at the beginning of this letter, but I do not by any means deceive myself that the danger is past. Nor could I, while my relations with Beatrice continue to be as intimate as they are at present; for she in particular continues to be in a state of morbid anxiety, sure that some calamity is about to befall us. All my attempts to laugh or reason her out of this delusion are to no avail-so much so that I begin to think it may be best for us to leave Florence until this affair is over.

I have accordingly urged Beatrice to give up her post and go south with me-we could take a cottage on Capri or Ischia and live there as happily as Adam and Eve until the summer comes. But she, like a true Florentine, is loth to leave her native city. It is odd that I should care so-why do not I simply go myself, and leave her? That is what I ask myself, and find no answer. All I know is that I have not gone, and will not go without her. For myself, indeed, I scarcely care any longer, but if anything were to happen to this Italian girl I should never forgive myself. Is it not odd?

Yours ever most affectionately,

Booth

21

My dear, dear friend,

You cannot guess what pains it costs me to write. My muscles have all turned traitor, and my body become an Iron Maiden for the poor scrap of spirit which still unwillingly inhabits it-yet still worse is the mental effort, to remember what I have told you and what not, what you know and what you do not know-to say nothing of what you may have guessed. I am terribly afraid I may lose my grip on the story before I finish, at moments everything quivers and shimmers so. Was there not some philosopher-you will know who I mean-who held that the material world is only sustained by God’s attention, and that if that failed for a split second the whole universe would start to curl at the edges, smouldering and shrivelling up like a sketch tossed on the fire?

But I shall finish-I must! This at least I shall achieve, though nothing else.

The week following Grant’s death was like one of those great calms which sailors fear worse than the fiercest storm, when nothing stirs and the very air seems all to have been sucked away, leaving a breathless vacuum beneath which the ocean lies so flat and bland you fancy you could dance quadrilles on it. So it was that week. There was an oppressive absence of event: the police investigation once again came lo nothing; Mr Browning made no attempt to make good his threats.

I had by now convinced Beatrice to leave Florence with me, but she would not quit her post without giving due notice; and while she worked out her time I lay abed, or on the sofa, or at the balcony door, dreaming of those azure depths, the rocky coves, wind-battered centenarian olives, the sky a flawless sheet of polished lapis-lazuli …

Every evening, when she returned, [ordered up supper from the trattoria: first some rounds of fire-charred bread rubbed raw with garlic, salt-sprinkled and drenched in olive oil as green and cloudy as glass on a beach; then a mess of hand-rolled noodles soaking up some rich dark sauce of hare and wild mushrooms; and then a chicken roast on a wood fire, and some fruit, and a flagon of wine.

And so time passed, until it was Friday the 3rd of March, and the last day of her service.

That evening I sat in the room at Via Dante Aligheri awaiting my mistress’s return as usual. A bottle of champagne stood on the table beside a huge bouquet of flowers. I waited, and I waited. The wine grew warm, the flowers began to wilt, and still Beatrice did not come. At length, when ten o’clock sounded without any sign of her, I grew so anxious I could sit there no longer. It was unheard of for her to be so late.

My mind ran riot with unpleasant speculations, which I could do nothing to allay-it was of course out of the question for me to enquire of the family for whom she had been working. I nevertheless left the house and walked to where they lived, to see if I could catch any sight of her, half-hoping to meet her on the way. I knew not what I hoped, or feared-but in the event I saw nothing and nobody.

My next impulse was to return home, in case there might be some message for me there. As I hastened through the dark and empty streets my heart was full of evil forebodings, and I seemed to see the final look Browning had given me, and to hear him say, ‘You’ll be sorry for this-both of you!’ That ‘both’ had puzzled me at the time-had he intended Talenti, who had been present, or Beatrice?

When I opened my front door I looked at once at the silver salver where Piero puts any letters which have been delivered in my absence. There was a long envelope there, bearing my name in a hand I recognised. I tore it open and scanned the contents in a flash. This, word for poisonous word, is what it said:

Dear Mr Booth,

I took the liberty of calling on you this evening, at an hour when I knew you would be from home, to discuss this brave New Life of yours. Your manservant was about to leave, but before doing so was good enough to let me in to await your return, which I gave him to understand was imminent.

I fear I misled him, though, for of course you were wandering ‘pensive as a pilgrim’, as the bard has it: dreaming about everything save that which was under your nose (I quote from memory: consult the original for further details).

R.B.

I walked through to my living-room with this extraordinary composition in my hand-and stopped dead. Books, papers, clothes, and household articles of every description lay strewn about the floor in the most complete disorder. My first thought was that I had been the object of a burglar’s attentions, until I caught sight of several