Michael Dibdin - A Rich Full Death

‘I received a note this morning, hinting that some attempt might be made to disrupt the Carnival as it passed along Via Tornabuoni,’ he murmured. ‘It is most likely a hoax, but I am bound to take every precaution.’

Since Talenti appeared to be in a confiding mood, I asked him if any further progress had been made in apprehending those responsible for the murder of Mr Tinker. But it appeared that the police were baffled, principally because of the apparent absence of any motive for the crime.

‘Motive is what always traps the criminal in the end, Signor Boot!’ the official told me. ‘CW bono? as our ancestors put it. Find that out, and ten to one you have your man. But in this case there appears to be no answer to this question, and so for the moment we remain in the dark.’

While we had been talking the procession had come in sight at the end of the street, along which it proceeded towards us at crawling pace, at length rolling past to some rather desultory cheers. To the Commissioner’s evident relief no incident occurred, and the crowd began to disperse to seek further diversion at one of the many public and private functions which enliven the final evening of the Carnival.

I looked around, but could not see the figure of the portly jester anywhere, although until then he had been as conspicuous as a circus elephant. Talenti had already taken his leave of me and was walking away, but I went after him and asked if he had noticed Mr Grant leaving; he had not. My companion seemed to have been there one moment and gone the next.

Then, suddenly, one of the constables came running up to Talenti and gabbled out some news so quickly that I could catch only two words. But that was enough, for the words were ‘terrible’ and ‘murder’!

I was of course quite forgotten as the Commissioner barked orders at his men and ran off down an ancient street leading off into the slum quarters. I followed as fast as I could, but what with one thing and another it was five minutes before I caught sight of a knot of people huddled about the entrance to a little courtyard. I pushed my way forward, and by dint of much ruthless elbowing and peering over shoulders was able to make out what they were looking at.

The yard was occupied by a workshop where boats are brought from the nearby Arno to be repaired and recaulked. Several of these vessels lay about, together with a prodigious quantity of timber-and an enormous cauldron of pitch, with a fire of wood-shavings smouldering underneath it, on which all attention was fixed. Or rather not on the kettle itself, but on the pair of legs that were hanging over the side of it.

Two constables were endeavouring manfully, but without apparent success, to raise the remainder of the body out of the molten pitch in which it was entirely submerged. But neither I nor Commissioner Talenti-who was seemingly engaged in a heated altercation with one of the bystanders-needed any further clue as to the identity of the victim. Those dangling shanks told their own pathetic tale, clad as they were in tight-fitting gaily-coloured jester’s motley.

Suddenly I heard my name called out-and realised in the same instant that the man quarrelling with Talenti was none other than Robert Browning.

There he is!’ cried Browning. ‘God be praised-it is the man himself! Mr Booth, kindly explain to this overbearing official that you did indeed write me that letter! Come, all will soon be clear!’

Talenti motioned to me to come forward. Browning, I was told, claimed to have received a letter from me, urging him at all costs to meet me that afternoon just a few steps from where we were standing. It was for that reason that he had been at the spot where the police had arrrested him a few minutes before.

‘Well, Signor Boot?’ Talenti demanded. ‘Did you send this man such a letter?’

Browning was looking at me with the calm confidence of one who is about to be vindicated at last.

‘I am sorry, Browning,’ I said to him. ‘I cannot continue to lie to the police.’

Then, turning to the Commissioner: ‘I know nothing of any letter, and certainly did not ask this man, or anyone else, to meet me here this afternoon.’

‘That will do!’ cried Talenti in a voice of triumph. And he directed his constables to take Browning away.

My former associate, for his part, shot me a look of infinite contempt.

‘You will be sorry for this!’ he hissed. ‘Both of you!’

The formula was the same-deliberately so, I felt-as he had used to Beatrice. But while she had been in some doubt as to whether or not it had been meant as a threat, I was left in none whatsoever. I did not make any atttempt to respond, however, contenting myself with maintaining a dignified silence.

Of course, it was easier for me to be gracious, for it was not I who was being hauled off to the Bargello like a common criminal this time! On the contrary, if there is one person in Florence other than the Grand-Duke himself who is utterly above suspicion in this affair, then it is your correspondent. How could it be otherwise, when during the entire time from Grant’s disappearance in Via Tornabuoni to the discovery of his corpse in the courtyard I was engaged in conversation with Police Commissioner Antonio Talenti himself! A finer alibi could not be wished for, I think.

Before leaving the scene, I could not help remarking the attention being given by spectators and police alike to an inscription in chalk upon the hull of a nearby wherry. It read:

I might of course leave you to puzzle this out yourself, but to save you hunting out your Dante let me remind you that Bonturo Dati of Lucca was the most notorious of the corrupt public officials who are punished in a lake of boiling pitch in the eighth circle of the Inferno . What this crime has to do with Mr Grant is by no means immediately clear-unless indeed there proves to be any substance in the rumour I have heard that his sojourn on the Continent was not undertaken entirely voluntarily, and that an air of scandal surrounds his period of office as an alderman in the City. But people love to talk ill of their neighbours, and we exiles more than most. On the other hand, he admitted cutting his claret with chianti, and a man who is capable of that is surely capable of anything.

For the rest, I need tell you only the two facts which have emerged in the hours since yesterday’s tremendous events. First of all, most important, Mr Browning was released later the same day, after being questioned. There seems to be no evidence to connect him with the death of Mr Grant other than his having been found near the body. Were he an Italian, that might be enough, but as it is, not only must the letter of the law be observed, but all its dashes and dots as well. But truth, like murder, will out, and thus we live in daily expectation of some clamorous announcement.

The other snip of news is just that a second body was discovered soon afterwards, in an alley some distance away. At first this promised to shed new light upon Grant’s death, but the victim has since proved to be one Giuseppe Petacco-a notorious ne’er-do-well who has been in police hands more than once. It is thought that he most likely met his death in some brawl or act of vengeance unconnected with the atrocious fate of poor Grant.

All may yet be well, as I said at the beginning of this letter, but I do not by any means deceive myself that the danger is past. Nor could I, while my relations with Beatrice continue to be as intimate as they are at present; for she in particular continues to be in a state of morbid anxiety, sure that some calamity is about to befall us. All my attempts to laugh or reason her out of this delusion are to no avail-so much so that I begin to think it may be best for us to leave Florence until this affair is over.