Michael Dibdin: A Rich Full Death

To my surprise, Mr Browning betrayed the pleasure my praise had given him by blushing.

‘That is not all,’ he continued. ‘By dint of exploring the surface of the soil with my fingers I soon found-directly underneath the body, as I expected-the deep impressions left by the table when it bore the weight of both Mrs Eakin and the person who killed her, thus confirming my theory as to the manner in which she met her death. I might well have discovered some further clues, but unfortunately the policemen arrived and that was the end of that.’

I repeated my compliments.

‘But I cannot by any means understand how the police can persist in viewing the case as one of suicide, as they apparently do, in the face of such overwhelming evidence to the contrary,’ I commented. ‘How did they refute your arguments?’

‘They are not aware of them.’

‘But do you mean to tell me …’

‘I gave them every chance! I did not change or falsify the record in any way. They saw what I saw-or had their chance to, at least. Is it my fault they looked the other way? Am I to be blamed for their limitations? Why should I do their thinking for them?’

I said nothing, stunned by this outburst.

‘Let them do their worse-or their best!’ Browning continued. ‘As a free-born Englishman, I thank heaven that I have no more reason to be afraid of such petty Dogberrys than I have of the tuppenny-ha’penny tyrant who pays their wages.’

‘But if Mrs Eakin has been murdered …’ I protested, allowing this reference to the Grand-Duke Leopold I {to pass without comment.}

‘There is no “if about it, Mr Booth. She was murdered-and I intend to make every effort to identify the person responsible.’

‘You? Alone?’

‘If need be!’

Then an idea seemed to strike him.

That is, unless you would be prepared to assist me. Clearly I cannot drag anyone else into this business, but as fate has already made us confederates …’

As I set all this down now I see clearly for the first time what he meant by this. The reason Mr Browning does not want to involve anyone else in the matter can only be because it is connected-in some way I do not as yet understand-to various private concerns of his which he does not want known. I am thus his ‘confederate’ in the sense that I am aware, however vaguely, of the existence of this secret. Might not his appeal for my assistance have been prompted at least in part by his need to assure himself that I could be trusted to keep it?

My first thought, however, was that to take matters into our own hands in the way Mr Browning appeared to be proposing was to risk putting ourselves in the wrong not only morally but also legally. If he believed that murder had been done, his clear duty was to communicate this belief-together with his reasons for holding it-to the proper authorities, who could achieve far more than two private individuals such as ourselves.

‘Ah, but that is just the point, don’t you see? Could they? In my London, Mr Booth, or your Boston, there would be no question. But here the matter is very different. Crime is rare in Tuscany, violent crime almost unknown. The police here are recruited, trained and employed for purposes of simple repression. Breaking heads is their style, not teasing out the truth. They don’t want the truth; it’s the very last thing they want, for their government is a lie, built of lies, and dependent on force for its survival.

‘But even leaving that out of account, let us not forget that it is a hundred to one that the criminal, like the victim, is a foreigner. Now, where does that leave the police? You know how it is here in Florence: the English and Italian communities are like oil and water; there is no friction, but neither do they mix. What do the Tuscan police know of us exiles? Consider what happened last night, for instance-the official became suspicious of me over a trifle, whilst remaining blissfully ignorant that you were lying to him.’

‘What?’ I bleated weakly.

‘Why, your story of having come up to the villa to visit Mr Eakin, when all their friends knew that Mr Eakin had gone to Siena. Besides, even if he had been at home, in our little community one does not pay social calls at that hour of the evening. But how is a Tuscan police officer to know that, you see? How can he judge what people like us say or conceal, do or leave undone? How can he spot the revelatory fact, the inconsistent detail? In a word, how can he discriminate? Where all is strange nothing is remarkable. No, if I have not informed the Grand-Duke’s constables of my suspicions, it is precisely because I believe that the best hope of catching Mrs Eakin’s murderer lies not with them but with us. At present he thinks that his attempt to mask his crime has been successful: the authorities have given out that Mrs Eakin died by her own hand. Let him go on thinking that no crime is suspected; he will be off his guard and so easier to take. What were you doing there, by the way?’

Once again I was caught completely unawares, and would no doubt have had to admit to Browning that I had been following him, had not our colloquy been interrupted at that moment by the appearance of the police agent. Having observed us enter Doney’s, the spy had presumably set down to mark the entrance and await our reappearance; after some time he had become suspicious, and had determined to search the premises to ensure that we had not given him the slip.

As soon as he caught sight of us the man wished for nothing better than to beat a hasty retreat. But he was not so lucky. Mr Browning rose to his feet and in stentorian tones bade him approach. With a reluctance almost comically marked, the fellow obeyed.

‘Return to your masters,’ Browning pronounced in the most icily correct Italian, ‘and inform them that in the event of this harassment not ceasing instantly I shall contact Her Majesty’s Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Tuscany and ask him to raise the matter with the Grand Duke in person. Is that clear?’

The man muttered something inaudible, and went.

‘I begin to despair of the Italians, Mr Booth,’ Browning commented. ‘What has become of the flame that once burned so bright? Speak to them like dogs and like dogs they obey.’

It seemed to me to be very convenient for Mr Browning that this was the case, and that the English diplomatic corps in Florence are all friends of his-but I said nothing. Instead I enquired what action we were to take to identify Isabel’s murderer, if the police were not to be informed.

There is one suspect whose guilt or innocence must of course be established before we waste time looking elsewhere,’ Browning told me. ‘I refer of course to Mr Joseph Eakin.’

‘Eakin?’ I exclaimed. ‘But he was in Siena! Everyone knows that, as you yourself just pointed out.’

‘Not so. I pointed out that everyone knew he had gone to Siena. It is not at all the same thing. How do we know he did not come back, murder his wife, and return to Siena later the same evening? It is but a few hours’ journey on the new railroad.’

I must admit that I was not unduly distressed to learn that Mr Joseph Eakin was the object of Mr Browning’s suspicions. Although I have hitherto been at proper pains to conceal the fact, my opinion of Isabel’s choice of husband-when at long last she did choose-was by no means of the highest. ‘Pique!’ you will say, and evidently the rejected suitor must always find it difficult to approve of his successful rival. But even discounting any personal animus, there were grounds for thinking-and I was by no means the only one of Isabel’s friends to do so-that her choice of Joseph Eakin had been motivated to some extent at least by-how shall I put it? — expediency.