Michael Dibdin: A Rich Full Death

‘All the time in the world,’ he replied.

And indeed all his earlier haste, his sense of purpose and bustle, had quite evaporated. Where had he been headed so urgently, I could not help wondering, that he would not go now he knew himself to 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 go straight to the heart of the matter, I see. The answer is simple. I am a collector of life’s ephemera-an amateur of the odd. I am interested in exceptions, not because they prove a rule, but for themselves; because they exist, and sometimes-more often than you might think! — they disprove one. In a word, I notice. Always have, nothing to be done-the thing’s a disease with me. Now last night, up at the villa, I happened to notice some very odd things. And instead of pushing them to one side, as so many tiresome irregularities, I let them tell me their tale. What they told me was-that Mrs Eakin did not take her own life.’

I lit a cigar in an attempt to calm my nerves.

‘“Things”? What things?’ I demanded somewhat testily.

Browning drank his coffee off in a single gulp and settled back at his ease.

‘It is difficult to know where to start,’ he said. ‘From the very beginning, the whole business seemed wrong, and the closer I looked the more wrong it seemed. Why should an elegant young lady choose to hang herself in the depths of a cold and windy garden when she has an entire house and more convenient methods of self-destruction at her disposal? Or, if that question seems frivolous, where did she get the rope, and what became of the knife that was used to cut it? How is it that this rope is green with damp mould, so that it marks the hands of anyone who touches it, but the victim’s hands are spotless? These and other oddities worried me; I felt the thing was impossible. And when I saw the feet of the table Mrs Eakin is supposed to have jumped from I knew I was right-it was impossible.’

I recalled the strange scene I had observed the night before: Mr Browning crouching down beneath the swinging corpse to examine the clawed feet of the garden table. I also recalled that he did not know that I had been there.

‘The feet of the table?’ I queried cautiously. ‘Why-what was so odd about them, then?’

‘Nothing-apart from the fact that I could see them. Just think for a moment! That table was standing on soft earth, yet the feet had not sunk into it to even the smallest degree. That makes nonsense of the idea that Mrs Eakin had ever climbed up on it, tied one end of the rope round her neck, the other to the tree, and then jumped off the table to hang herself. That is what we are expected to believe, but it is patent nonsense.’

‘Then what did happen?’ I burst out impatiently.

‘This is what I set myself to reason out last night in the garden. Let us work back from what we know. Mrs Eakin is found dead, hanging from a tree. If she did not hang herself then plainly someone else must have hanged her there, and used some support such as the table to do so. Now just imagine for a moment that you were standing on a table to attach a heavy weight to the branch of a tree, Mr Booth. Would you position the table directly underneath, or to one side?’

‘Directly underneath, evidently.’

‘Which is precisely what our murderer did. But then he realised that if the table were left there it would give the game away, for he wanted to disguise his crime as suicide-and you cannot very well hang yourself with your feet resting on a table. So he moved it back clear of the body- setting it down lightly on the ground . To have thought to force the feet down into the ground would have been an act of genius.’

‘It is surely no less an act of genius to have read the whole story from such obscure indications, as clearly as though you had been present when it happened!’ I cried in unfeigned admiration.