Read Online My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier - Free Book Online Page B

Doors were closed and windows shuttered. Even my footsteps sounded hollow on the cobbled stones.
    I came at last to the house, and rang the bell. A servant opened the door within a moment, and without inquiring my name led me upstairs and along a passage, and knocking upon a door showed me into a room. I stood blinking at the sudden light, and saw a man seated in a chair beside a table, looking through a pile of papers. He rose as I came into the room, and stared at me. He was a little less than my own height, and of some forty years perhaps, with a pale, almost colorless face, and lean aquiline features. There was something proud, disdainful about his cast of countenance, like that of someone who would have small mercy for fools, or for his enemies; but I think I noticed most his eyes, dark and deep-set, which at first sight of me startled into a flash of recognition that in one second vanished.
    “Signor Rainaldi?” I said. “My name is Ashley. Philip Ashley.”
    “Yes,” he said, “will you sit down?”
    His voice had a cold hard quality, and his Italian accent was not strongly marked. He pushed forward a chair for me.
    “You are surprised to see me, no doubt?” I said, watching him carefully. “You were not aware I was in Florence?”
    “No,” he answered. “No, I was not aware that you were here.”
    The words were guarded, but it may have been that his command of the English language was small, so that he spoke carefully.
    “You know who I am?” I asked.
    “I think I am clear as to the exact relationship,” he said. “You are cousin, are you not, or nephew to the late Ambrose Ashley?”
    “Cousin,” I said, “and heir.”
    He took up a pen between his fingers, and tapped with it on the table, as if he played for time, or for distraction.
    “I have been to the villa Sangalletti,” I said, “I have seen the room where he died. The servant Giuseppe was very helpful. He gave me all the details, but referred me to you.”
    Was it my fancy, or did a veiled look come over those dark eyes?
    “How long have you been in Florence?” he asked.
    “A few hours. Since afternoon.”
    “You have only arrived today? Then your cousin Rachel has not seen you.” The hand that held the pen relaxed.
    “No,” I said, “the servant at the villa gave me to understand that she had left Florence the day after the funeral.”
    “She left the villa Sangalletti,” he said, “she did not leave Florence.”
    “Is she still here, in the city?”
    “No,” he said, “no, she has now gone away. She wishes me to let the villa. Sell it possibly.”
    His manner was oddly stiff and unbending, as if any information that he gave me must be considered first, and sorted in his mind.
    “Do you know where she is now?” I asked.
    “I am afraid not,” he said. “She left very suddenly, she had made no plans. She told me she would write, when she had come to some decision about the future.”
    “She is with friends perhaps?” I ventured.
    “Perhaps,” he said. “I do not think so.”
    I had the feeling that only today, or even yesterday, she had been with him in this room, that he knew much more than he admitted.
    “You will understand, Signor Rainaldi,” I said, “that this sudden hearing of my cousin’s death, from the lips of servants, was a very great shock to me. The whole thing has been like a nightmare. What happened? Why was I not informed that he was ill?”
    He watched me carefully, he did not take his eyes from my face. “Your cousin’s death was sudden too,” he said, “it was a great shock to us all. He had been ill, yes, but not, as we thought, dangerously so. The usual fever that attacks many foreigners here in the summer had brought about a certain weakness, and he complained too of a violent headache. The contessa—I should say Mrs. Ashley—was much concerned, but he was not an easy patient. He took an instant dislike to our doctors, for what reason it was hard to discover. Every day Mrs. Ashley