Free The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham Page B

wife? Is that the lady who showed us in?’ Jerry spoke involuntarily.
    The Italian nodded.
    â€˜Yesterday I saw her for the first time for seven years,’ he said simply. ‘But monsieur shall hear … However one can disguise the body and force the mind into a new shape and quality, one cannot control one’s powers of resisting disease. The beggars of Paris live hard lives. From children they are inured to cold but I was not – I became ill.’ He stopped for a moment and regarded W.T. solemnly.
    The detective nodded comprehendingly, and the Italian went on. ‘I caught some cold which laid me open to an attack of fever brought by another beggar from the East. It overcame me completely. I dare not return to my home, however, for I knew I was being watched, and bring suspicion upon the society I dare not … as you will understand, monsieur?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said W.T., ‘I understand.’
    The Italian looked at him gratefully. ‘So I crawled back to my tenement attic,’ he continued, ‘and lay upon my bed. Then began the tortures of long fits of delirium, from which I used to awake gasping with fear, icy cold and convinced in my mind that I was about to die. This misery continued for some time – how long I never knew – it may have been days or merely hours. But as I awakened from one of the worst fits of delirium, my mind frozen with the fear of death and the purgatory to come, I saw a man bending over me. A big man, wide-shouldered and heavy-faced, with small bright eyes round and cruel and a little mad …’
    He paused, and W.T. spoke. ‘That was Eric Crowther?’
    The Italian nodded, and there came into his face the same indescribable expression of mingled fear and loathing that Jerry had noticed on the faces of Christensen and Gale and old Estah when they had spoken of the dead man.
    â€˜It was he,’ he said. ‘The devil in man’s guise. But I will tell you – you shall judge. When I saw him I cried out to him that I was dying, and he nodded. I was terrified – I am a member of the true Church, monsieur – a good Catholic, and in the hour of death I was afraid to die unabsolved. I begged him therefore to fetch a priest to me, and in my madness I said there was much I had to confess. I can see his face now as he looked at me. I was very ill, monsieur; mad with fever and the awful fear of dying with my sins unconfessed.’
    The man was speaking passionately, his dull eyes glowing, and the two men who listened had a sudden insight into his superstitious soul. They saw a little of his belief – his faith that absolution would protect him from the fire and everlasting torment of the damned.
    â€˜He laughed at me,’ the Italian continued, his voice sinking into a monotone. ‘I saw him grinning down at me. “There is not time,” he said. “You will die before he comes.” This was the one thing needed to drive the last sane thought out of my mind. I became raving – hysterical – and he – as though to quiet me – suddenly offered to hear my confession. “I will be secret,” he said, “and I will pray for you.” ‘Cellini paused to draw breathfor a moment, but went on again immediately, his words gathering speed. ‘I was mad,’ he said; ‘the fever had heated my brain until I could think of nothing clearly; my whole being was frozen with the terror of death. I confessed,’ he added slowly, while W.T. stared at him, a glimmer of understanding in his face. ‘I confessed everything.’
    W.T. stirred, and his voice sounded dry and quiet after the Italian’s emotional outburst.
    â€˜About the society?’
    Cellini bowed his head.
    â€˜I thought they were my last words on earth,’ he said after a pause. ‘I looked upon him as a confessor. I was too ill to …’ W.T. nodded.
    â€˜And then?’ he said.
    â€˜He