Edward Moxon amp; Son, 172, Fleet St; 9, Capel St, Dublin; amp; Derby MDCCCXL (his dad paid the costs, he told me) in search of the teasing reference I had found neatly penned on a slip of paper inserted into the right hand glove:
Quench thirst at this, then seek next ….-……
When at length I found the missing word it was like a needle through my heart, confirming all my fears. But at least I had done with Browning’s damned drivel for ever-and with a great hoot of glee kicked the volume like a punctured football about the courtyard of the Pitti Palace, till I woke the guard, who shouted at me to desist. Then I set off almost at a run through the slums of the Oltrarno round the Santo Spirito and Carmine churches, towards the San Frediano gate.
As I passed down a narrow street near the latter church, I heard an unearthly wailing, and the strange chant of many voices united in a barbaric rhythm, and the next moment six tall figures masked in black appeared, their faces hidden, trailing sable robes behind them and carrying a heavily draped coffin. I staggered back into a doorway and covered my eyes to keep the awful spectacle away-although I knew very well it was only the Fraternity of the Misericordia on their way to bury some pauper.
Yet I felt that it was also a bad omen, and wished I knew some spell to keep its baneful breath at bay.
Long, hard, steep and hot was the lane that winds up to the pleasant villas of Bellosguardo that day; still and silent as a tomb between the high stone walls which seemed to shimmer like veils in the heat. Four o’clock struck from a church somewhere as I neared the massive iron gates at the front of the villa, which I found ostentatiously locked with a length of heavy chain secured with several padlocks. I hardly paused in my step, but turned down the lane which skirts the villa to the north. The garden gate was also locked, but I soon found the key in its niche where lizards sport in summer, and let myself in.
The word I had finally found in the last Book of
I peered down into the dank depths, without being able to make out anything of interest other than the fact that the mouldy green rope hung limp, the bucket which normally hung from it having been removed. Then, without the slightest warning, my ankles were grasped and raised and my whole body tipped forward and held helplessly poised above those horrid depths!
Of all the shocks I had sustained so far that day this was by far the worst-I seemed to hang there like a man above the gallows-trap, with the noose about his neck. Oh, I fought, of course-just as those about to be hanged do. I kicked, I screamed, I struggled-but all along I knew that if my assailant chose to tip me forward, head first down that narrow stone chute into the water far below, then I was doomed!
How long I remained thus I know not-merciful time had been abolished, as it is in hell. Then I was hauled up again, and released, and fell to the ground. I already knew, of course, who I would find standing there behind me.
23
‘Please forgive me!’ cried Browning, with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘How often we used to play such pranks at Eton! Such jolly fun! Of course it would sometimes go too far. One fellow fell thirty feet into the quad. Landed on his head, luckily, so it didn’t do him any harm. He’s an eminent member of the Cabinet now.’
‘You were never at Eton,’ I returned coldly, when I could trust myself to speak. ‘You told me you had a private tutor.’
‘Did I? Did I? Well, well-I must have imagined it all. But why waste time here in one of the least conspicuous and attractive parts of the garden, when from the belvedere we may enjoy the fabled view as the sun sets? It is this way-but of course you know that!’
Thus burbling, thus chirruping, Browning led the way across the garden. It occurs to me now that I might have blown his head off there and then. But there was something so irresistibly easy and unsuspicious about his manner-whoever would have thought that such a man intended any harm?
The sun was by now low in the sky, bathing the fluted columns of the Classical summer-house in a warm pink glow. Before us stretched the famous prospect over the Arno valley, where little Florence lies dense and compact within its walls amid the isolated farmsteads and winding tracks of the plain. The belvedere itself was completely bare of furniture at that season-a mere empty shell. The only extraneous object stood near the foot of one of the columns. It was a large bucket, brim full of water; the well-bucket, in fact. For a moment I felt a stab of alarm. But what possible threat could a bucket of water, of all things, pose?
Browning turned to me.
‘Do you know why I have brought you here?’ he asked. ‘It is to hear my confession, before I do away with my worthless self. I have sinned greatly, Booth. I killed them all, of course. I admit it. That’s why I did not want the police involved. Yes, I duped you cruelly in more ways than one, I fear. I am the murderer we have sought for so long! Not only that-my poems are all written by my wife! I am a nothing! Worse than nothing: a dream, a nightmare …’
No, of course he did not say that. He did not say anything at all, in fact, but just stood there admiring the view, for all the world like a man without a thought on his mind or a care in the world.
‘Where is Beatrice?’ I demanded at last.
‘She is in a safe place, in good hands.’
‘What have you done with her?’
‘She is in the keeping of the sisters of the convent of Santa Maria Maddalena delle Convertite at Pistoia. They make a speciality of caring for fallen women.’
‘You sanctimonious bastard!’
I reached into my pocket-and Browning threw himself at me, like a football player. Taken utterly by surprise, I fell awkwardly, hurting the hip I had already bruised that morning and striking my head on the base of one of the pillars of the belvedere.
I have no notion how long I lay there on the marble, dazed from the blow. Then something struck me like a whiplash, and I sat up to find myself drenched in cold water. Browning stood over me, carefully shaking the last drops out of the bucket he had just emptied all over my recumbent form.
He produced a large revolver from his coat pocket.
‘I have this from Powers,’ he explained. ‘He is under the impression that I wish to shoot rabbits with it. I did not disabuse him, although I should not dream of doing anything of the sort. He mentioned that it was the product of a certain Colonel Cold or Colt-the name means nothing to me, but may perhaps to you. Apparently the shells it emits, being of an unsually large calibre, inflict such extensive damage to anything they strike that even a glancing wound is quite likely to prove fatal. I therefore advise you to make no rash movements.’
I listened in silence. The water ran down my neck and throat in little rivulets, and was soaking through the clothing on my chest and side, where it had already penetrated to the skin in several places.
‘Put your hand into your pocket and empty out everything in it,’ Browning went on. I did so, and my travelling-pistol fell to the floor with a clatter. Browning directed me to push it across towards him, and he picked it up and pocketed it.
‘As I was saying,’ he continued discursively, ‘Beatrice is in very good hands. It is true that she was somewhat unwilling to see reason at first. But when it was made clear to her that she had a choice between the convent and the police she came quietly enough.’
‘She has committed no crime,’ I croaked.
‘What!’ cried Browning. ‘A girl of nineteen who lies to her family, runs away from home, and allows herself to be maintained by a man-and a foreigner, at that! She would have been gaoled for five years at least. The convent is no luxury hotel, it is true, but it is a great deal better than a cell in the Murate.’
‘You blackguard!’ I spat out.
