A Rich Full Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

be watched?
    We strolled up Via Tornabuoni as far as the famous Doney’s, where somewhat to my disappointment—for I naturally had no wish to make any secret of my familiarity with Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s husband—he insisted on taking a table in a small room at the rear of the premises, where the scions of noble Tuscan families fallen on hard times come to read the news-sheet and drink coffee strained from grounds that have served already for the brew of rich barbarians. In the end, however, it all worked out as well, or even better, for some half dozen of my friends saw us pass through the main saloon together, and then retire to the intimacy of the back room to pursue matters we did not wish to have overheard.
    On our way from the bridge I had mentioned to Browning that there seemed to be no word of Isabel’s death in the news-sheet, and asked if he knew what conclusions the police had arrived at concerning her death. He said that he had no idea, beyond the fact that they were trying to trace the mysterious woman who had called at the villa at four o’clock, on the theory that her visit might in some way have occasioned this tragic and unnecessary act of self-destruction.
    As soon as we were seated and had been served I pressed my companion more closely. What of his questioning by the police, for example?
    ‘Bah! A formality,’ replied Browning dismissively. ‘I quickly explained the situation to the official, who apologised profusely for having detained me. The whole incident was an absurd misunderstanding and nothing more.’
    I could not help feeling that the presence of the police spy rather gave the lie to these bland assurances, but I merely asked my companion how this ‘misunderstanding’ had arisen.
    He gave me a pained look.
    ‘The authorities have accepted my explanation, Mr Booth,’ he replied in a distinctly frosty tone. ‘I must beg you please to do the same.’
    ‘I shall be happy to,’ I cried, expectantly.
    But Mr Browning did not continue. After a long moment’s silence, he added: ‘I mean, to accept that the explanation I gave the police last night was accepted by them.’ Another silence, longer than the last, fell. Then, relenting slightly, he went on: ‘I can assure you, however, that what Mrs Eakin’s maid said was utterly and completely untrue. No relations of any nature ever existed between her mistress and me. You have my word for that.’
    ‘I never doubted it for an instant,’ I hastened to affirm. ‘But that being so, have you any idea why the girl should have made such an absurd claim?’
    It seemed that I had once again unwittingly touched a raw nerve.
    ‘Mr Booth, I hoped that I had already made it clear that I do not wish to be subjected to a second interrogation on this matter, which I can assure you has no bearing whatsoever on the principal issue at stake here: namely, the murder of Isabel Eakin.’
    So curious had I been to learn why any reference to the maid’s testimony should embarrass Mr Robert Browning to such a very marked degree, that it was not for a moment that I realised exactly what he had just said. When I did, I repeated the word in a cry of anguish.
    ‘Murder?’
    Browning hissed urgently to silence me, and looked anxiously around the room. But none of the other people there, being Italian, had taken the slightest notice of the word.
    ‘Please forgive me!’ he said. ‘I had not meant to tell you so brutally. But the fact remains, I fear, that Isabel Eakin did not take her own life. She was killed—cold-bloodedly murdered.’
    It cost me a long and bitter effort to master the waves of horror that threatened to overwhelm me at the repetition of that ghastly word! Isabel’s death was still a fresh wound; to have it dressed thus!
    ‘But how on earth can you know that?’ I demanded, when I could at length express myself with some degree of equanimity.
    Browning looked at me with keen appreciation.
    ‘An interesting question, Mr Booth. You