A Rich Full Death by Michael Dibdin Read Free Book Online Page B

before—Cecil DeVere, instantly recognisable amid the mob of slouch-hatted locals with cloaks draped operatically over their shoulders.
    He was going home, and although it was out of my way I offered him a lift, which he was glad to accept. As we drove along we talked about poor Isabel’s death, and I was surprised to discover that this event seemed to have hit DeVere very hard — he spoke of it in a manner unusually agitated for one normally so suave, and then abruptly changed the subject, as though the matter was too painful, and told me a very interesting story.
    It seemed that the previous morning he had driven up to the villa at Bellosguardo to offer his condolences to Mr Eakin. As the latter had not yet returned from Siena, DeVere left his card and was leaving, when he noticed someone prowling about the garden in a suspicious skulking manner at the very spot where Isabel’s body had been found!
    DeVere promptly walked out and around the side of the villa to investigate. When he reached the garden, however, the mysterious figure had disappeared, despite the fact that the only two other ways out—the gate at the end of the garden, and the large glass doors leading into the villa—both proved to be locked.
    I was careful not to betray to DeVere my extreme interest in this incident, and changed the subject in my turn, asking my passenger when he had last seen Mr and Mrs Browning. He appeared utterly bewildered by my remark.
    ‘The Brownings?’ DeVere replied. ‘Why, I hardly know them—and don’t really care to know them better. All Literature and Liberalism, from what I hear, and each in rather more substantial quantity than appeals to me, to be perfectly honest.’
    All this, as you may imagine, has done nothing to diminish my impatience to see Mr Browning again—I expect him at any moment.
    But what do you make of it all? Could Isabel’s death really have been murder, as Mr Browning claims? Or is there some detail we have overlooked, or some other way of arranging the known facts which would make matters look quite different? The police should surely be trusted in these affairs, and they apparently see no evidence of foul play.
    And supposing they are wrong, whom are we to suspect now that Joseph Eakin’s innocence is proven? Where can we begin to look? What about the mysterious woman who called at the villa shortly before Isabel’s death? But could a woman have done such a deed?
    And what of DeVere’s name, which keeps cropping up in this affair with the most inexplicable frequency? Yes—might not the solution to our problems lie in that direction?
    The bell! It is he!
    Ever yrs affectionately,
     
    Robert N. Booth

 
    Friday 10th
    Dear Prescott,
    It is over! Thank God, we have come out of it safely, and if so terrible an affair can be said to have ended well, then this has. This has ended, and another has begun—one as full of light as that was of darkness, as rich in promise and the hope of worthy achievement as that was heavy with terror and despair and sinful sordid squalor. You may imagine which I had rather make my theme—but the bad news must be told first, for as I close that door the other opens. But guard this letter well, Prescott! It is intended for no eyes but yours, for it contains secrets which must be buried with those they concern, as you will appreciate once you have read it.
    I ended my last letter just as Robert Browning called on me following my return from Siena. Subsequent events have necessarily coloured my view of much of what was said at that meeting, but nothing can dim or diminish the memory of my feelings when at four o’clock precisely my door-bell mixed its humble strains with the majestic chimes of Santa Maria Novella and—was it real? was I dreaming? No!—there was Mr Robert Browning, in person, walking in at my door, standing on my carpet, looking down from my windows and commenting on the scene in the square below! I could hardly believe my eyes.
    Sitting, it must