A Rich Full Death Read Online Free Page B

with unusual intensity.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured at last.
    ‘Don’t know?’
    Talenti had dropped his teasing manner.
    ‘Do you think I can be fobbed off with such stuff, my girl? If you can’t do better than that, I’ll have you locked up in the Bargello until you do know. But first I’ll give you one more chance. Why did you send for this man?’
    Browning made to speak, but the official peremptorily silenced him. The maid started to weep. At length she spoke, almost inaudibly.
    ‘He was a friend.’
    ‘Oh, he was, was he? Your friend?’
    I glanced at Browning, who sat strained forward, the image of a man in an agony of suspense.
    ‘A friend of the family,’ Beatrice replied between sobs.
    ‘But what are you saying, you stupid girl?’ the gate-keeper suddenly burst out. ‘What friend of the family? I see everyone who comes to this house. For example, I know you well enough,’ he said, turning to me. ‘But as for this man’—pointing at Browning ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life!’
    The police official stared bleakly at Beatrice.
    ‘So, you have lied. That much is sure. Do you know the penalty for lying to the authorities?’ He paused, terribly, for a moment. ‘Now then, for the third and last time I ask you—why did you send for this man?’
    The poor girl looked at Browning, and then at the policeman, and then back at Browning. I had not noticed before—one doesn’t, of course, with servants—how beautiful she was, with very distinct features, a full figure, and long raven-black hair. Finally she spoke, in a wavering voice.
    ‘He was a friend … of the signora.’
    And she nodded at the table where Isabel’s body lay stretched out.
    The mocking little smile appeared for an instant on Talenti’s features, and was gone.
    ‘I see,’ he replied blandly. ‘Well, Signor Browning—what have you to say?’
    After a long silence Browning asked if he could speak to the official alone, and to my surprise—and disappointment—this was granted. Browning then quickly scribbled a note, which he handed to me with the following words: ‘Mr Booth, I implore you, as one gentleman to another, to deliver this to my wife as soon as possible. Will you do so much for me? It will prevent much needless suffering. But say nothing of what has happened here, I beseech you! I am, of course, completely innocent—as will very soon be established.’
    I expressed my wholehearted belief in this, and promised to deliver his note immediately. Then, having supplied my address to the police, I reluctantly left the villa.
    On my way home I tried to make some sense of what I had witnessed, and in particular of Browning’s declaration that he was completely innocent—which very naturally provoked the thought ‘innocent of what?’ Of any relationship with the deceased woman? Then why should Beatrice so plainly have tried to conceal this fact? Why struggle to conceal from the police—with all the dangers this entailed—a relationship which did not exist?
    No, surely what Mr Browning must have meant is that there was a connection between him and Isabel, but that it was not a guilty one. The fact remains, however, that it looks bad—and this impression is not diminished by the fact that he is evidently striving to conceal the whole affair from his wife. This was confirmed by his note, which I took the liberty of reading before handing it in—falsehoods were in the air, after all, and I felt justified in knowing just exactly which one I might be taking responsibility for spreading. ‘I have been detained longer than expected—do not wait up for me—will explain all tomorrow’ was the gist of the thing. Fortunately I was spared any need to tell untruths myself, merely handing Browning’s note to the servant and continuing home to bed.
    I slept badly, tormented by doubts, questions, hopes and fears, and was awakened at six o’clock by the characteristic Florentine din of a bullock-cart passing by