Read Online Death of an Englishman by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online
Authors: Magdalen Nabb
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perhaps … Best of luck anyway … Funny chap altogether, really …'
There wasn't room for them to walk side by side so they went one behind the other up Via Maggio to the nearby bridge, and every so often, the Chief would mutter, 'Good God,' as he leaned out to avoid a great baroque cornice or a curly iron grille and then was honked at by the streaming traffic that made him dodge back in again.
'Christmas trees!' remarked Jeffreys, surprised. The trees were stacked along the embankment by the corner of the bridge where the statue of autumn overlooked them. The tallest trees seemed to be leaning over the wall to look down at the fast-flowing greenish-brown current. Smaller trees were lined up in little tubs, and a couple in heavy furs were examining them. The vendor, standing with a coffee in his hand in the bar across the road, watched them through the traffic, calling every now and then, 'I'll be right with you! Just choose what you want!'
The day wasn't too cold but damp and foggy again, and from Santa Trinita only one other bridge could be seen on either side before the yellowish fog swallowed up the river and the grey and ochre stuccoed buildings that flanked and overhung it. Most of the cars coming up the Lungarno still had their lights on and their wipers going.
'Here we are,' said Jeffreys, stopping when he saw 'English Library' engraved on a brass plate. A porter directed them to the first floor. They went along narrow, thickly-carpeted corridors with black and white photographs of the Queen and of previous Directors of the library on the walls. The whole place was dark and there was a faint smell of mould. The reading room overlooked the river and its parchment lamps added their dull yellow light to the olive-coloured gloom of the morning. There were overstuffed, sagging armchairs, stern marble busts, shelves of ancient books and a stronger smell of mould. A very old man was sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, reading yesterday's Times. He looked up, frowning, when the Italian receptionist directed the two policemen to a desk at the far end of the room.
The librarian, to their surprise, was very young. He was sitting behind a high stack of new books and he rose to greet them, holding out a soft, thin hand. He had fine, long black hair and wore a purple velvet suit with all the buttons missing.
'Chief Inspector Lowestoft, Inspector Jeffreys. We're making inquiries about a Mr Langley-Smythe who we think might have been a member here.'
The young man waved his thin fingers about nervously: 'Do … do sit down … yes, Langley-Smythe … he is a member, in fact, yes … he was here the other day.'
'Was a member. He's dead.'
'Dead … ? Oh …'
'He was murdered.'
'But that's ridiculous. I mean …'
'Yes?'
'I'm sorry, I mean, of course if you say he was murdered, it's just that I hadn't heard … You see in Florence—'
'Everyone knows everyone else's business. So I heard. But not this chap's. Do you know anything about him?'
'Well, not exactly, no, I mean, I expect—'
'Used to steal the damned paper!' The ancient man from the overstuffed armchair had stolen up behind them and was listening in. 'Seen the feller do it, walk out with The Times in his overcoat pocket!'
The Chief looked round at the red-faced complainant and then back at the librarian. 'Did he often come here to read the paper?'
'Came every day,' interrupted the old man again. 'Sat in that chair opposite mine. Every morning.'
The Chief turned round. 'I see. So you could say you were friends?'
'Friends?'
'If you sat opposite each other every morning I suppose you chatted? At least exchanged the odd word about the weather?'
'Never spoken to the man in my life!' The old chap was astonished, 'Used to steal the damned paper. The Times ! You ought to keep a bit of order in this place,' he admonished the young librarian. 'Want to keep that blasted woman quiet, too!'
A woman had come in while they were talking and was quarrelling
There wasn't room for them to walk side by side so they went one behind the other up Via Maggio to the nearby bridge, and every so often, the Chief would mutter, 'Good God,' as he leaned out to avoid a great baroque cornice or a curly iron grille and then was honked at by the streaming traffic that made him dodge back in again.
'Christmas trees!' remarked Jeffreys, surprised. The trees were stacked along the embankment by the corner of the bridge where the statue of autumn overlooked them. The tallest trees seemed to be leaning over the wall to look down at the fast-flowing greenish-brown current. Smaller trees were lined up in little tubs, and a couple in heavy furs were examining them. The vendor, standing with a coffee in his hand in the bar across the road, watched them through the traffic, calling every now and then, 'I'll be right with you! Just choose what you want!'
The day wasn't too cold but damp and foggy again, and from Santa Trinita only one other bridge could be seen on either side before the yellowish fog swallowed up the river and the grey and ochre stuccoed buildings that flanked and overhung it. Most of the cars coming up the Lungarno still had their lights on and their wipers going.
'Here we are,' said Jeffreys, stopping when he saw 'English Library' engraved on a brass plate. A porter directed them to the first floor. They went along narrow, thickly-carpeted corridors with black and white photographs of the Queen and of previous Directors of the library on the walls. The whole place was dark and there was a faint smell of mould. The reading room overlooked the river and its parchment lamps added their dull yellow light to the olive-coloured gloom of the morning. There were overstuffed, sagging armchairs, stern marble busts, shelves of ancient books and a stronger smell of mould. A very old man was sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, reading yesterday's Times. He looked up, frowning, when the Italian receptionist directed the two policemen to a desk at the far end of the room.
The librarian, to their surprise, was very young. He was sitting behind a high stack of new books and he rose to greet them, holding out a soft, thin hand. He had fine, long black hair and wore a purple velvet suit with all the buttons missing.
'Chief Inspector Lowestoft, Inspector Jeffreys. We're making inquiries about a Mr Langley-Smythe who we think might have been a member here.'
The young man waved his thin fingers about nervously: 'Do … do sit down … yes, Langley-Smythe … he is a member, in fact, yes … he was here the other day.'
'Was a member. He's dead.'
'Dead … ? Oh …'
'He was murdered.'
'But that's ridiculous. I mean …'
'Yes?'
'I'm sorry, I mean, of course if you say he was murdered, it's just that I hadn't heard … You see in Florence—'
'Everyone knows everyone else's business. So I heard. But not this chap's. Do you know anything about him?'
'Well, not exactly, no, I mean, I expect—'
'Used to steal the damned paper!' The ancient man from the overstuffed armchair had stolen up behind them and was listening in. 'Seen the feller do it, walk out with The Times in his overcoat pocket!'
The Chief looked round at the red-faced complainant and then back at the librarian. 'Did he often come here to read the paper?'
'Came every day,' interrupted the old man again. 'Sat in that chair opposite mine. Every morning.'
The Chief turned round. 'I see. So you could say you were friends?'
'Friends?'
'If you sat opposite each other every morning I suppose you chatted? At least exchanged the odd word about the weather?'
'Never spoken to the man in my life!' The old chap was astonished, 'Used to steal the damned paper. The Times ! You ought to keep a bit of order in this place,' he admonished the young librarian. 'Want to keep that blasted woman quiet, too!'
A woman had come in while they were talking and was quarrelling
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