Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 3

Chapter 3.

Chapter 3.

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A knot of loungers stood, talking eagerly, round the stove in Piale’s reading-room. It was on the Monday morning following the first Sunday in Advent, and still quite early. None were reading, or attempting to read. The newspapers lay unopened on the tables. Even the last Times contained nothing so exciting as the topic then under discussion.

“It is to be hoped and expected that the Government will bestir itself in earnest this time,” said a bald-headed Englishman, standing with his back to the stove.

“Hope is one thing, my dear sir, and expectation is another,” replied his nearest neighbour. “When you have lived in Rome as long as myself, you will cease to expect anything but indifference from the bureaucracy of the Papal States.”

“But a crime of this enormity . . . ”

“Is more easily hushed up than investigated, especially when the sufferers are in a humble station of life, and cannot offer a large reward to the police.”

“Mr. Somerville puts the question quite fairly,” observed another gentleman. “There is nothing like public spirit to be found throughout the length and breadth of His Holiness’s dominions.”

“Nor justice either, it would seem, unless one can pay for it handsomely,” added another.

“Nay, your long purse is not always your short cut to justice, even in Rome,” said Mr. Somerville. “There was that case of the young bride who was murdered last Winter in the Palazzo Bardello. Her husband offered an immense reward—a thousand guineas English, I believe—and yet the mystery was never cleared up.”

“Ay, that Palazzo Bardello murder was a tragic affair,” said the bald-headed Englishman; “more tragic, on the whole, than . . . ”

A sudden change of expression swept over his face, and he broke off in the midst of his sentence.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I feel as if I were on the brink of a discovery.”

“Plunge away, then, my dear fellow,” laughed Somerville. “What is it?”

“Well, then—what if both these murders had been committed by the same hand?”

“Most unlikely, I should think,” said one.

“Altogether improbable,” added another.

“Do you opine that Othello smothered the princes in the Tower?” asked a third.

“Listen to my premises before you laugh at my conclusions,” said he of the bald head, obviously nettled by the general incredulity. “Look at the details: they are almost identical. In each case the victim is stabbed to the heart; in each case the wound is almost imperceptibly small. There is no effusion of blood; no robbery is committed; and no trace of the assassin remains. I’d stake my head upon it that these are not purely accidental coincidences!”

“I beg your pardon,” said a gentleman, who till now had been standing by a window at the further end of the room with his back to the speakers; “but will you have the goodness to inform me in what part of Rome this—this murder has been committed?”

“Down, I believe, in one of the narrow lanes near the theatre of Marcellus.”

“And the victim is a Roman subject?”

“The child of Roman parents.”

“A child!”

“A child, sir; a little fellow of only eleven years of age, and the son of a baker named Tommaseo.”

The stranger took out his note-book.

“Near the theatre of Marcellus,” he said, scribbling a rapid entry.

“Just so—a most shocking and mysterious affair!”

“And the name, Tommaseo. Many thanks. Good morning.”

With this he lifted his hat, strode from the room, and vanished without another word.

“Humph! an abrupt sort of fellow,” said the first speaker. “I wonder who he is?”

“He looks horribly ill,” said another.

“I’ve met him before,” mused Somerville. “I remember the face quite well, but the name has altogether escaped my memory. Good heavens! it is Mr. Girdlestone—the husband of that very lady who was murdered in the Palazzo Bardello!”

In the meanwhile Hugh Girdlestone was swinging along at his tremendous pace towards that quarter where the murder had been perpetrated. He found the house without difficulty, at the end of a narrow Vicolo about half-way between the Portico of Octavia and the Theatre of Marcellus. There was a crowd before the door, and a dismounted dragoon pacing up and down with his sabre under his arm. Over the shop window was suspended a board, on which were inscribed, in faded red letters, the words “ANTICO FORNO;” and at this window, where still lay unsold some three or four stale rolls of Saturday’s baking, an old woman every now and then made her appearance, and addressed wild lamentations to the bystanders.

“Alas! alas!” she cried, tossing her arms aloft like a withered Cassandra. “He was the light of our eyes! He was our darling, our sunshine, our pride! He was as good as an angel. He never told a lie in his life. Everybody loved him! At this hour yesterday his laugh made music in the house, and our hearts leaped for joy to hear it. We shall never hear that voice again—never, never more, till we hear it in heaven! He is dead! He is dead, and the blessed Virgin has him in her care. But his murderer lives. Oh Dio, hear it! Hear it, O blessed mother of God! Hear it, thou blessed Saint Stefano! Overtake him with your vengeance! Let his tongue wither, and his eyes melt away in blood! Let his hands and feet rot upon his body! Let his flesh drop piece-meal from his bones! Let him die unconfessed and unabsolved, and give him over to the everlasting fire!”

“No stranger is allowed to pass, Signore,” said the dragoon, interposing his person between the Englishman and the door.

But Hugh Girdlestone had only to open his pocket-book and show a certain slip of paper signed by the chief of the police. It was at magical document, and admitted him to all kinds of f*******n places.

He went in. In the outer room, or shop, he found some eight or ten persons assembled, apparently relatives and friends of the family; in a darkened room beyond, the body of a young child was laid out upon a narrow pallet strewn with immortelles and set round with lighted candles. The father, a sickly-looking man, with eyes red and swollen from weeping, was sitting upon a low stool, in a farther corner of the room, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, smoking drearily. The mother lay crouched on the floor beside the bed, in a stupor of misery.

Hugh Girdlestone apologised for his intrusion with a word or two of explanation and sympathy. The woman never stirred. The man took his pipe from his mouth, rose respectfully, and replied to such questions as his visitor thought fit to put to him.

The child’s name, he said, was Stefano—Stefanino, they used to call him. He was their only child, and would have been eleven years of age in the course of a few more days. He was a particularly good boy, and as clever as he was good. He was a great favourite with the Padre Lorenzo—the famous Padre Lorenzo of whom the Signore had doubtless heard. This Padre Lorenzo had taken an especial affection for the little Stefanino, and had himself prepared the boy for his first communion. And he took it only yesterday morning—took it at the church of Il Gesù, from the hands of Monsignore di Montalto. It was a long ceremony. There were six hundred children present, and their Stefanino was among the last who went up. When it was over they came home and dined, and after dinner they went for a walk on the Monte Pincio. Coming back they hired a vettura, for the child was very tired; and as soon as they reached home his mother gave him a cup of soup and a piece of bread, and put him to bed. This was about half-past six o’clock.

A little later in the evening—perhaps about a quarter past seven—he and his wife and his wife’s mother went over to see a neighbour in the Via Fiumara close by. They left the child asleep. They had often left him so before, especially on Sunday evenings, and no harm had come of it. The wife of the shoemaker who occupied the first floor had promised to listen if he should wake or call for anything; and she was a good soul, and had children of her own. Ebbene, they stayed out somewhat late—later than usual, for the neighbour in the Via Fiumara had her married daughter spending the evening with her, and they stayed gossiping till past ten o’clock. Then they came home. The Shoemaker and his family were gone to bed; but the house-door was left, as usual, on the latch, and the matches and candle were in their accustomed corner in the passage. So they lit the candle, and fastened the door, and stole in very softly; for little Stefanino was a light sleeper, and apt to lie awake for hours if accidentally roused.

However, this time, although the grandmother stumbled over the scaldino on first going into the room, he never turned or stirred. He slept in a little crib beside their own bed, and after a few minutes they went to look at him. He was very pale; but then he had gone through a day of great fatigue and excitement, and was unusually tired. They never dreamed, at first sight, that all was not well with him. It was his mother who discovered it. She first saw that no breath parted his dear lips—she first touched his cheek, and found it cold!

When he reached this point in his narrative, the poor baker fairly broke down, and covered his face with his hands.

“Eccolo, Signore,” he sobbed. “He was our only little one!”

“He is with God,” said Hugh Girdlestone.

He could think of nothing else to say. He was not a religious man. He was, on the contrary, a worldly, a careless, perhaps even a somewhat hard man; and he had no words of ready comfort and sympathy at command. But he was moved, and his emotion showed itself in his voice.

“Alas! God did not want him so much as we wanted him,” was the naïve reply.

The mother, who till now had lain huddled on the floor, apparently unconscious of all that was going forward, here suddenly lifted up her head.

“The good God and our Blessed Lady had him always,” she said, hoarsely. “He was in their hands from the hour when I brought him into the world, and he is not more theirs in heaven than he was theirs on earth. But they did not call him from us. It is not God but man who has bereaved us, and left us desolate. Behold!”

And with this she rose to her feet, turned down the sheet, and uncovered the wound—just such a tiny puncture, with just such a ghastly halo spreading round it, as Hugh Girdlestone had awful cause to remember.

He could not bear to look upon it. He shuddered and turned his face aside.

“Is there—is there anyone whom you suspect?” he faltered.

“No one.”

“Have you an enemy?”

The baker shook his head.

“I think not,” he replied. “I am at peace with all my neighbours.”

“Was no one seen to enter the house in your absence?”

“No one, Signore.”

“Did the shoemaker’s wife hear no sound?”

“None whatever.”

“And you have been robbed of nothing?”

“Not to the value of a quattrino.”

The Englishman’s heart sank within him. He felt profoundly discouraged. The double mystery seemed doubly impenetrable, and his double task doubly hopeless. He turned again to the little bed, and took one long, last look at the waxen figure with its folded hands and funeral chaplets.

“What is this?” he asked, pointing to a white silk scarf fringed with gold which lay folded across the feet of the corpse.

The mother snatched it up, and covered it with passionate kisses.

“It is the scarf he wore yesterday when he went up to take his first communion,” she replied. “The Padre Lorenzo gave it to him. Alas! alas! how beautiful he looked, dressed in all his best, with new buckles in his shoes and this scarf tied over one shoulder! The little angels painted over the altar did not look more beautiful!”

“The Padre Lorenzo!” repeated Hugh Girdlestone. “He taught the child, you say, and loved him. Does he know this?”

“Yes, he knows it.”

It was the man who replied. The woman had sunk down again upon the floor, and hidden her face.

“Has he been to see you since?”

“He sent a priest this morning to pray for the repose of our little one’s soul.”

“Humph!”

Tommaseo’s quick Italian ear detected the shade of disapproval in his visitor’s voice.

“The Padre Lorenzo is a saint,” he said, eagerly. “All Rome flocks to hear him preach.”

“Where is he to be found, amico?”

“At the convent of the Gesuiti close by.”

“So!—a Jesuit?”

“A Jesuit, Signore; so eloquent, so learned, so holy, and yet so young—so young! A holier man does not live. Though his body still walks upon earth, his soul already lives in heaven.”

“I should like to see him,” mused the Englishman. “He might suggest something—these Jesuits are keen and far-sighted; at all events, it is worth the effort. I will go round to the Gesuiti, amico, to hear if your good padre can help us.”

“Our blessed Lady and all the saints reward you, dear Signore!” exclaimed the poor father, humbly attempting to kiss the hand which Hugh Girdlestone extended to him at parting.

But the Englishman snatched it hastily away.

“Nay, nay,” he said, roughly. “I have my own motive—my own wrong. No thanks—no thanks!”

And with a quick gesture, half deprecation, half farewell, he was gone.