Michael Dibdin - A Rich Full Death

‘And so, to probe these fearful suspicions of his, DeVere invented the story of having seen someone prowling about in the garden. If you were convinced that Mrs Eakin’s death was a clear case of tragic self-destruction, you would have no interest in tales of an interloper having been seen in the garden some eighteen hours later: some busybody satisfying his morbid curiosity, you would think, and nothing more. But suppose that on the contrary you knew, or at least suspected, that Isabel Eakin had been foully murdered-then the story would become so extremely interesting that you must have been a monster of deviousness not to show it! I am certain you did show it, and that DeVere read the truth.

‘Consider his position now. Already stricken by guilt and remorse, no doubt, he learns that it is not merely the pangs of conscience which he has to fear, but also the rigours of the law. His crime has been discovered, and it is plainly but a matter of time-and not very much time, at that-before it is known that Mrs Eakin was killed by a secret lover with whom she had an assignation that afternoon, whom she admitted through the garden gate so that he would not be observed-hence her nervousness when Isa Blagden unexpectedly called-and who removed from her body the locket he had given her, lest its presence reveal that she was expecting him at the hour of her death.

‘In short, it is but a matter of time before the accusing finger points at him -a man whose illicit relations with the victim are already a matter for rumour and speculation. In a flash he seems to see the inevitable arrest, the trial, the shame and scandal, his family’s name besmirched for ever! And then, like a blessing, he spies his way clear out of it all, and ends his wretched life — leaving those two pieces of evidence on the table to reveal, to those who could read their cipher, the reasons for his action.

‘As for why I removed the paper with Eakin’s name, that was a quite possibly unnecessary precaution on my part. I doubt very much if the police would have made anything of it-they do not know about the knife, after all. But it seemed as well to be sure that DeVere’s good work would not be undone. The locket is of no importance. On the contrary-they will no doubt assume that some belle dame sans merci returned it to DeVere, and that this rejection prompted his tragic plunge into the Arno. Or they will ignore it totally and blame it all on DeVere’s tardiness in having his balcony railing repaired. All I know is that they will never suspect the truth now, and that justice is best served so.’

Such was the eloquent manner in which Mr Browning so satisfactorily explained all the many mysteries which have been perplexing us. I complimented him profusely on his achievement, and then turned the subject to his poetry, mentioning the volume of his which I had purchased, and my high opinion of his work.

Unfortunately we were interrupted at this moment by a party of Americans-some resident, some in transit-among whom were several friends of mine. They were bound for the studio of Mr Powers, and had stopped in to admire the astonishing Entombment of Christ by Pontormo which lurks, like some fierce caged animal, behind the railing of a nearby chapel.

I merely nodded and looked away, for I sorely wished to prolong my conversation with Mr Browning. But my friends insisted on coming to speak to me, and thus introductions had to be effected. When one of the visiting ladies discovered that my companion was none other than the Mr Browning, the real live husband of her favourite poetess, there was no containing her effusions-indeed, it was only with some difficulty, and a deal of tact, that Browning was able to make her comprehend that the Casa Guidi was not, like the Capponi Chapel, a shrine which could be viewed by tipping the custodian the appropriate sum. And thus our colloquy broke up amid scenes of confusion and near-farce.

As far as these grim events are concerned, there is thankfully little more to add. Despite Browning’s idea about the locket suggesting a romantic suicide, DeVere’s death-possibly as the result of discreet pressure from the British authorities-has been recorded as due to misadventure. He is to be buried tomorrow. Joseph Eakin has already wound up his affairs here and taken passage from Leghorn to Genoa, whence he continues to New York. Isabel’s remains travel with him, and will be interred, I understand, in beautiful Mount Auburn cemetery. The public accounts of her death make no mention of self-violence, and I understand that the Allen family is doing its utmost to sustain the fiction that Isabel was one of the many victims of the influenza epidemic which has swept Italy this winter. The villa stands empty once more, awaiting the arrival of the next wealthy foreigner.

As for Browning’s explanation of the mystery, while its logic seems irresistible in its broad outlines, I am unable-or at least do not wish-to believe that it was correct in every detail. In particular, I refuse to accept his implication that Isabel’s behaviour towards Cecil DeVere was anything other than unfailingly correct. What his may have been towards her is of course quite another matter. The more I think of it, the more that languid Britisher seems to me to have had all the makings of a smooth cunning scoundrel of the worst variety. I can well imagine such a villain unscrupulously taking advantage of the artless and unsophisticated nature of a girl like Isabel, whose candid New England heart had no notion of the devious twists of which the European mind is capable.

I am prepared to grant that DeVere had obtained some hold over her; but we who knew her will surely find it easier to believe that this was based not on any amorous passion, but rather some low and cowardly form of blackmail. It is notorious that DeVere lived beyond his means; how he contrived to do so is not. Various possibilities suggest themselves, but is it not conceivable that he had obtained, through his diplomatic connections, some information about Joseph Eakin which might have seriously compromised that gentleman?

He would of course be too clever to approach Eakin himself. Instead he sneaked to Isabel, insinuating what might happen if he were forced to publish what he knew. And she-yes, this must be it-she agreed to pay in order to shield her husband. But DeVere was insatiable-he demanded more, always more; until on that fatal Sunday Isabel cast caution to the winds and summoned him to the villa. All her native pride and disdain rose up, and she boldly threatened the vile leech with exposure! Now the tables were turned, and it was DeVere’s turn to cower! But the heroic woman had risked too much! The stakes were high, and DeVere killed her, the poor defenceless child-killed her brutally, in cold blood!!

It turns my stomach to think that he is to be interred with all due pomp and honour, like a proper Christian, and no one any the wiser. But no doubt it has all turned out for the best, for who stands to gain by having these horrors made public? Our business now must be to bury the dead, to forgive and forget — though it be more than his base heart deserves.

The most important thing is that it is all over, and that now my friendship with Mr Browning-for I believe I can now give it that sacred title; he calls me ‘Booth’ tout court , and takes my arm, and is most free and easy with me-can emerge at last from these shadows which have darkened it right from the beginning. I look forward to a time when we can meet openly, without this terrible secret between us; when I can be invited back to Casa Guidi, as Mrs Browning plainly wished; when our talk will be not of death and crime and sin but of his work and himself, of Life and Art, Truth and Beauty!

Of his stature both as a man and a writer I have no further doubts. He is the real thing, and in his presence I hope to feel once again that signifying power which can fix the formless flux of being into a lattice as perfectly structured and coherent as a crystal.