A Rich Full Death (14 page)

‘Why me?’ he wailed. ‘I who have never hurt a fly in my life! Why should Luath do such a thing! I have always given him the best of everything! Why should this happen to me? All I have ever asked is to be let alone to enjoy my innocent pleasures. It isn’t fair! What have I done to deserve this? I do declare that it simply is not fair!’

It was a truly affecting scene—the man was almost in tears. Browning and I naturally expressed our horror and sympathy, and in due course I touched on the letter: it was at once clear that Purdy had no idea what I was talking about—he had written me no such letter, nor had he summoned me or anyone else to the villa that evening.

By now the effects of the sedative were beginning to become apparent, and we prepared to take our leave.

At the door Browning suddenly turned.

‘Does your dog wear a collar, Mr Purdy?’

‘Indeed he does!’ Purdy answered in a singsong voice, as though in a trance—with no apparent awareness of the singularity of the query. The most beautiful thing, all of local leatherwork, with his name worked in bronze.’

‘And this collar is of course attached directly to his chain?’

‘Directly, directly! The clasp was made specially for me … very good man … give you his name … tomorrow … luncheon

We slipped silently out of the room. Outside we found Sergio lounging insolently against the wall.

‘Ciacco!’ called Browning.

Sergio eyes blazed with anger.

‘Who are you calling
“ciacco”?’
he demanded indignantly.

‘I said Giacomo—that is your name, isn’t it?’

‘I’m Sergio!’

‘My apologies. Why, what does it mean,
ciacco?
Something bad, I’ll warrant.’

‘It means a pig.’

The long drive back from Purdy’s villa to the safety of the city walls seemed still longer because of the stony silence which my companion maintained throughout. I could see that he was both fascinated and terrified by these dramatic new developments: terrified of the magnitude and gravity of this affair he had so lightly got himself involved with, and could not now get out of, but also fascinated—as it were despite himself!

When we reached the city we parted without ceremony, merely agreeing to meet the following afternoon.

‘What is happening?’ Browning cried suddenly, at the last moment. ‘What is this terrible curse which has descended on our little community? A paradise of exiles, Shelley called Italy — is it instead to become an inferno?’

I did not know what to say, for my only thought was of the irony of the situation. My most earnest wish had been granted: I had formed a relationship with a man I believed to be truly great—and we must apparently spend our whole energies discussing these gory and depressing crimes. It is
so
maddening! Imagine being magically transported back to Shakespeare’s times—only to discover that you are his lawyer, and he will talk to you of nothing but land values. What of Art? What of Spirit? What of the great ideals that can make human life seem worth the living? It is on them that I would fain dwell with a soul such as Browning’s—instead of which we seem condemned to spend our time contemplating the legs of garden tables, bits of mouldy rope, lamps and pen-knives, and the precise design of dog collars!

And the worst of it is that Browning appears positively to revel in it! It seems that he is in some sense attracted by crime, by diseased and abnormal behaviour of every type, and in the greater detail the better! Indeed, I am very much afraid that there is a danger of his undoubted poetic gifts suffering as a result. In the volume I purchased, for example, I have noticed—despite my enduring enthusiasm for the collection in its entirety—several pieces which display an unseemly fascination with the workings of evil and deranged minds. The one entitled ‘My Last Duchess’ is a particularly repulsive example of the tendency to which I allude.

There is of course much very fine work in the volume—stirring tales of romance and chivalry, touching lyrics, quaint historical scenes and so on. But there is also this other strain — morbid, dark, introspective, unhealthy—which disturbs me; and what disturbs me still more is that it appears to be of relatively recent origin.
Sordello
, the early work he has given me, appears to be completely free of it. Is this some cancer which threatens to consume his genius? I have no way of answering this question as yet, but I am very apprehensive. Of course a great soul must be able to understand evil and madness—but at a distance, so to speak, without itself being contaminated. Whereas Browning seems to roll in the nastiness he handles, like a pig in mud.

We had arranged to meet at a coffee-shop near the Cathedral after dinner—Browning always leaves Casa Guidi for a walk at this hour, and could thus meet me without any risk of arousing suspicion.

He had already been to visit the doctor who was attending Purdy, and the news was grave indeed, for the dog which had made such a meal of the poor
bon vivant
had proved to be infected with rabies!

Thus poor Purdy’s death certificate is in effect already signed, lacking only the date. At some time within the next month or so the hideous symptoms will begin to manifest themselves: the unpredictable shifts from savage excitement to apathetic stupor, culminating in the final death agony lasting for days, in which the throat muscles seize up completely and the sufferer, tormented by extreme hunger and thirst, tries in vain to swallow, unable to bear the sight of food or drink. When I thought of the manner in which Maurice Purdy had lived, this terrible fate put me in mind of some moralistic painting of the Middle Ages. I said as much to Browning, who nodded gravely.

‘Indeed. But I fear that something more than just pure coincidence is involved. I inspected the cadaver of the dog which attacked Mr Purdy at the doctor’s just now. That beast was no wolfhound—although he had some wolf blood in him, I shouldn’t wonder. As for that piece of rope we saw attached to the chain at the villa, the rest of it was still tied roughly round the animal’s neck.

The implication is only too clear. Maurice Purdy has been—or rather is going to be—the victim of a fiendishly cunning murder; a murder which has not yet occurred, but which cannot be prevented. His dog was removed—and no doubt killed—and a rabid animal substituted. In the dark Purdy did not notice the difference until it was too late.’

‘And what about the writing on the villa wall? The word “pig”—is that some comment on Purdy’s gulosity?’

‘Taken in conjunction with the manner in which the victim will die, I think there can be not the slightest doubt of that. It appears to be a classic case of poetic justice, of the punishment fitting the crime. But what disturbs me is the fact that the writing was in Florentine dialect—the word was
“ciacco,”
not
“porco”.’

‘Are we then dealing with a Florentine murderer? A native? Perhaps some vendetta against the foreign community is intended.’

‘Perhaps. But do not forget the letter you received last night.
That
was certainly not written by an Italian, and yet it obliquely foretold the tragedy at Purdy’s villa, brought us out to witness its effects, and—most strikingly—linked it to the deaths of Mrs Eakin and DeVere. Now if the attack on Purdy was, as I have suggested, a cold-blooded murder, then it brings the number of such crimes to three; and the number three, you will recall, accompanied the word scrawled at the scene of that attack. In short, a pattern begins to emerge—a pattern which I suspect we may equate with that “more ambitious criminal project whose full scope and extent is only beginning to become apparent” mentioned in the letter.’

I suggested that the simplest way of verifying this hypothesis would be to inspect the scenes of the other two crimes which had occurred, and see whether some sort of inscription was not also to be found there—and as it transpired that this was precisely what was in Browning’s mind, we set off without more ado.

As we passed the end of Via Dante Aligheri I thought once again of the strange scene the night before, which the horrors at Purdy’s villa had then thrust out of my memory. Of one thing I was sure: Browning’s tale of charitable visits had been a shift devised on the spur of the moment to forestall further questions. But why? What is the secret of that house in the meanest area of town, which he visits with such regularity? More and more I am convinced that it is connected in some way with that secret of his which continues to stand between us, despite the superficial familiarity we have resumed as a result of his interest in these murders. I must find it out, and soon! Perhaps if I do so, and then confront him with my knowledge of the truth, then I can exorcise this ghost which, till then, must continue to haunt our friendship.

At length we reached the south end of the Ponte Vecchio, and Browning immediately flung out his hand, pointing.

Took!’

I could as yet see nothing beyond a white blur on the undressed stone wall outside the house where a few days before the crowd had gathered at the news of a death. But as we drew nearer to the spot I made out the following writing, scrawled up in white chalk on the wall, as at Purdy’s:

‘“Argenti”
—silverware,’ mused Browning. ‘What possible significance can that have?’

‘It might be a reference to DeVere’s well-known mania for collecting,’ I suggested.

Browning looked happier.

That’s very true. Bravo! I had not thought of that. Yes, indeed. This man had a weakness for
objets d’art
, for precious trinkets. That, then, was his “crime”, as greed was Purdy’s. Are we dealing with a secret society I wonder? Some nasty little terrorist sect who find Mazzini grown too tepid, the Carbonari too moderate, and mean to hack their way to Liberty with a dagger? But then what of the number? Three for Purdy, but five for DeVere. So much for our theory about
that’

I had no idea to suggest, other than to walk up to Bellosguardo, and see whether the inscription at the scene of the first crime—assuming there were one—might not resolve the mystery.

As we walked along, I tried to turn the conversation to something more inspiring than the murky business in hand — in short, to Browning’s own work—and mentioned one of the poems in the volume I had purchased. The verse is entided ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, and is yet another example of that strain which I so strongly deprecate in Browning’s work. If I chose to mention it, it was because the story closely resembles his theory about the manner in which Isabel Eakin was murdered.

The poem—as so often in those pieces where Browning exhibits the darker side of his nature—is narrated in the first person, and is set on an evening just like that of Isabel’s death, with rain and a high wind. But the position here is reversed; it is the woman, Porphyria, who comes to call upon her lover, who is waiting not in a villa but a humble cottage, situated not upon a hill-top but beside a lake. The inversion is so complete, so striking, as to form an exact mirror-image of the real event.

As there are no servants there, Porphyria sets about making a fire, after which she ‘from her form withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, and laid her soiled gloves by, and let the damp hair fall’—no doubt these lines remind you, as they did me, of Isabel laid out on that cold marble tabletop. She sits beside her lover, who does not answer when she speaks to him. And so the woman does a very natural, womanly thing: ‘She put her arm about my waist, and made her smooth white shoulder bare, and all her yellow hair displaced, and, stooping, made my cheek lie there, and spread o’er all her yellow hair’.

We now learn two very interesting things: that Porphyria has come secretly from a dinner party to visit her lover; and that although she loves him, she is not willing to make the final sacrifice, and break the presumably illustrious ties that make their love illicit: ‘She too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, to set its struggling passion free from pride, and vainer ties dissever, and give herself to me for ever.’ At that moment, however, she loves him; ‘happy and proud’—for he too is proud!— ‘I knew Porphyria worshipped me.’

What is he to do, her lover? He knows the moment will not, cannot last, for she must return to the realities of her dreary marriage, contracted for base motives, but which she has not the spirit, or the will—call it what you like—to break. ‘… I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, perfectly pure and good: I found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string I wound three times her little throat around, and strangled her.’