Death of an Englishman by Magdalen Nabb Read Free Book Online Page B

received in an austere, book-lined room that looked as though it were never used. The Judge himself was a tall, dry-looking man, severe, almost morose. It didn't seem possible that he could be the owner of the robust voice they had heard from outside. Nevertheless, when they found themselves once again on the broad stone staircase the voice was warbling Bella figlia del amore with as much sweetness and passion as ever. They began the climb to the top floor.
    Miss White's door was wide open.
    'Don't be frightened! Come in!' a voice instructed them loudly in English. Its owner remained invisible. The two men looked at each other.
    'She's telling us to come in,' explained Carabiniere Bacci, mystified. 'Perhaps she's heard that we're here.'
    Hesitantly, they took off their hats and stepped into the entrance hall of polished terracotta tiles.
    'Carry on, carry on! I'll be with you in a minute. No charge! Ha ha!'
    The Captain looked at Carabiniere Bacci for an explanation.
    'I'm not sure what …'
    They moved further in and looked about them. There was an oil painting hung in the hall of a pink-faced old man with snowy hair and beard. A brass plate below informed them: 'Walter Savage Landor, Poet, born Warwick 1775, died Florence 1864.' They were looking at the painting when a head popped suddenly out at them from a doorway next to it. A small lady in her mid-sixties, smartly dressed but wearing running shoes, leaped forward, beaming.
    'Carabinieri!' she squealed, delighted. 'Never had one of you before! Judge came up once, of course, but that's not the same thing, being neighbours, nice of him to come, all the same —I always think it's nice when the Italians take an interest, had everything translated and they do come—school parties, and so on, but not Carabinieri, ha ha! You're the first! Delighted to see you, I'm Miss White, curator—not really a curator, I mean I live here—did it all myself. If you want anything done, as they say, and keep away from committees, I say, lot of old bores—what's the matter with you?' She suddenly peered into Carabiniere Bacci's stunned face.
    'I-I …'
    'Well, for goodness' sake come in, no point in standing out in the entrance hall, nothing to see, ought to have a chair or two out here, I suppose, but then everybody'd think they were his chairs and I'd have to keep explaining—have got one or two things that were his but you can't have everything and it's all my own money-came over here for a holiday and fifteen years later here I still am, ha ha! Carabinieri! You'd better sign my visitors' book. A judge is very nice of course but not the same thing, being a neighbour, if you see what I mean and then no uniform. I do like a uniform, don't you? Well, of course you do, that's obvious or you wouldn't be wearing one, stupid of me—and do you admire Landor?' She glared brightly at the Captain who opened his mouth, then shut it and looked to Carabiniere Bacci for some sort of translation.
    'Bet you don't know what to say! I never do. My English mistress at school used to say never say "nice", so I never dol "Nice" is what you say about puddings, not poetry, is what she used to say and I bet this young man agrees!' She patted Carabiniere Bacci's elbow. 'He looks intelligent and goodness he's tall—well, you both are. D'you read a lot of peotry? I suppose you do or you wouldn't have come, ha ha! Well, I'll take you round. I've had everything translated, of course, because I do think it's nice when the Italians take an interest—I don't speak a word, of course, not a word, but I like to take people round myself if I can—now, through here, I'll speak up—through here it's mostly manuscripts and copies of manuscripts where I haven't got the real thing. I've had some of them framed on the walls, cheaper than buying cases, I've got some cases, of course, very good cabinet-maker, Signor Lorenzini, marvellous man, he made all these. Now, you'll recognize this poem, I should think, if you can make