A Dead Man in Naples (2 page)

‘Francesca!’

‘That’s the point,’ said Francesca.

‘What!’ cried Maria. ‘To show your ankles?’

‘That’s the point of what she’s wearing. So that she should
not
show her ankles.’

‘Well, don’t let me ever see you wearing anything so indecent,’ said her grandmother.

‘They call them bloomers,’ said Francesca.

‘American decadence!’ sneered old Giuseppi.

‘There’s a point to them,’ insisted Francesca. ‘If you’re riding a bicycle.’

‘Yes, but should you
be
riding a bicycle in the first place? If you’re a woman?’

‘Miss Scampion rides a bicycle.’

‘Yes, but she’s English and probably doesn’t know any better.’

‘And she’s rich,’ said Giuseppi. ‘If you’re rich, you can get away with anything.’

‘Don’t ever –’ began Maria.

‘It’s fashionable,’ cried Francesca. ‘
Fashionable
!’

‘Listen,’ said old Giuseppi, ‘it wasn’t fashion that young Giorgio was interested in when you were sitting on his bicycle showing him your ankles!’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Francesca, and ran off indoors.

Seymour and Richards walked on up the street. The English lady, still holding her bicycle uncertainly, broke into a smile when she saw them arriving.

‘Mr Richards!’ she said with relief.

‘Miss Scampion! Can I be of any assistance?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my way.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my ‘Where are you making for?’

‘The Porta Capuana.’

‘Ah, well, you’ve strayed somewhat from your path, then. But we’ll soon put you back on it.’ He looked at the bicycle. ‘I think, perhaps, you’d better walk. The streets are very narrow here.’

‘May I?’ said Seymour, putting his hand on the bicycle.

‘Thank you.’

‘This is Mr Seymour,’ said Richards. ‘He’s visiting us.’

‘How do you do, Mr Seymour. Are you in Naples for long?’

‘A few weeks, I anticipate.’

‘Seymour is on holiday. With his fiancée.’

‘Oh, how nice! A sort of anticipatory honeymoon?’

‘Sort of.’

Miss Scampion laughed. ‘Well, I hope it goes very nicely for you.’

‘Back at home Seymour is a policeman,’ said Richards.

Miss Scampion looked at him sharply. ‘Really?’

‘He’s from Scotland Yard.’

‘And – and he’s here on
holiday
?’

‘He might look at some other things in passing.’

‘And the fiancée?’

‘Mostly I shall be looking at her,’ said Seymour.

‘She’s a real fiancée, then?’

‘Genuine flesh and blood,’ said Richards. ‘I’ve seen her.’

‘And is she pretty?’

‘Astonishingly so.’

‘I expect you concur, Mr Seymour.’

‘I expect you concur, ‘I do, indeed.’

‘And you are going to marry her?’

‘If she doesn’t change her mind.’

‘You are a fortunate man, Mr Seymour.’ She sighed. ‘Unlike my brother. He never had much luck with women.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ objected Richards. ‘Whenever I saw him, he seemed to be doing pretty well.’

‘Ah, but not in my sense. And not, I think, in Mr Seymour’s sense. Lionel certainly always had a lot of striking women around him when we were in Florence but I think that was a matter less of his own skill than of the skills of others.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that, Miss Scampion?’ asked Seymour.

She smiled. ‘It was the crowd he hung out with. And I don’t think they did him much good. In the end.’

He would have liked to have asked her more but then she stopped.

‘I think I know where I am now. The Porta del Carmine is just over there, is it not? Is the Porta del Carmine where you are taking Mr Seymour?’

‘Well –’

‘I will come with you,’ said Miss Scampion firmly.

‘I will come with you,’ said Miss ‘Are you sure? Will it not . . .?’

‘Prove distressing? Yes. But I would like to see what Mr Seymour makes of it.’

‘The Porta del Carmine was where, sadly . . .’

‘My brother was murdered,’ said Miss Scampion unflinchingly, and led on with her bicycle.

The Porta del Carmine was marked by two strange-looking columns. They were not smooth pillars carved from a simple piece of stone but seemed to have been constructed by piling great, square slabs of stone on top of each other. The slabs in the right-hand column had a reddish tinge, those in the left-hand one a yellowish tinge. Both columns were crowned by further slabs arranged to form a queer kind of hat.

‘Here,’ said Miss Scampion, stopping at the base of the left-hand column. ‘This is where it happened. He had just dismounted from his bicycle because he did not wish to ride through the piazza.’

‘He was on a bicycle, then?’

‘He was just on his way home after racing. He was a very keen road-racer, Mr Seymour. He went out on his bicycle most evenings and raced with his club on Saturdays. Which was what he had been doing that morning.’

Seymour could understand why Scampion had not attempted to ride through the piazza. Every inch of it was covered. There were carts, barrows and great ox-wagons. There were caravans of mules and herds of goats. Donkeys stood patiently by the stalls and chickens ran around under the feet of the passers-by. The stalls were loaded with fruit – melons, oranges and grapes glowing in the sun – and vegetables: onions as big as children’s heads, tomatoes as big as footballs, aubergines bursting with ripeness, peas, beans and lettuces, cucumbers as big as clubs, chestnuts in great long strings. There were cuts of meat, sausages, black puddings, together with biscuits, cakes and sweets, as well as the usual assortment of haberdashery, knick-knacks and holy images and rosaries.

And, of course, milling in and out of the carts and animals and clustering round the stalls were hundreds, if not thousands, of people talking – well, not talking, shouting – gesticulating, bargaining, gossiping. The square was huge, huge enough to lose any normal amount of noise. Here it hadn’t a chance.

Seymour went over to where Miss Scampion was standing.

‘Right here?’ he said.

‘Right here?’

‘Right here.’

‘Someone stepped out from behind the column,’ said Richards, ‘and stabbed him.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. Apparently.’

‘Did anyone see it?’

‘No. That is not unusual in Naples.’

‘Was anything taken? His wallet, for instance?’

‘He wasn’t carrying one. He never did when he was racing. He didn’t want to be carrying anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. He said it reduced his speed. He carried a few small coins and a single note, in case of emergency.’

‘The coins were found afterwards beside his body,’ said Miss Scampion.

‘That, too, is unusual in Naples,’ said Richards drily.

‘They appear to have come out as he fell.’

‘And the note?’

‘Was still in his pocket.’

‘So it wasn’t money, then?’

‘No.’

‘But what else could it have been?’ cried Miss Scampion passionately. ‘Lionel didn’t have an enemy in the world. He was the most inoffensive of men.’

‘Wouldn’t harm a soul,’ Richards concurred.

‘Try as I might, Mr Seymour, I cannot think of any reason why anyone would want to kill him.’

‘Of course, we can never know all –’ began Richards.

Miss Scampion cut him short. ‘But in this case, Mr Richards, I do know all! He was my brother, Mr Seymour. We have lived together all our lives, or at least since Oxford. We were very close. He had no secrets from me nor I from him. If there was something in any of his relationships to make him uneasy, I would have known. Anything which might lead someone to want to kill him. But there was nothing. Nothing! I am absolutely sure of it.’

‘Of course,’ said Richards, ‘there may have
been
no reason.’

‘I am afraid I do not understand you, Mr Richards.’

‘No
particular
reason, that is.’

‘One does not step out from behind a column and stab someone for no reason at all, Mr Richards!’

‘Well, one might.’

‘If one were mad, you mean?’ Miss Scampion shuddered. ‘That is a terrible thought! But possible, I suppose.’

‘Or if one had some sort of enmity towards foreigners. Naples is an inward-looking city, Miss Scampion, and does not always welcome strangers. It might have been enough that your brother was obviously a foreigner.’

‘That, too, is a terrible thought,’ said Miss Scampion.

‘And possibly completely without foundation,’ said Richards hastily. ‘I mention it only to suggest that there may have been nothing in your brother’s life to bring on this terrible attack.’

‘But if it is as pointless as you suggest, that somehow makes it even worse,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘It seems as bad as what appears to be the popular supposition, or so our cleaner tells me, that it was something to do with the Camorra.’

‘That is always the general supposition when something untoward happens in Naples,’ said Richards. ‘That the Camorra has something to do with it. But, believe me, Miss Scampion, even the Camorra does not kill without reason.’

‘The Camorra?’ asked Seymour.

‘A secret society.
The
secret society in Naples. The Mafia in Sicily, the Camorra in Naples. A distasteful institution, certainly, but rational in its way. It does not kill without reason.’

‘And what reason could there be so far as Lionel was concerned? He had never had anything to do with the Camorra. That I can swear!’

‘Nor any of us, Miss Scampion. In the consulate we steer clear of the Camorra.’

‘But then,’ said Miss Scampion, beginning to tremble, ‘who
would
have wanted to kill such a good, good man?’

‘Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour, ‘I feel you may be disturbing yourself –
we
may be disturbing you – unnecessarily.’

‘Yes, yes, of course!’ said Richards hurriedly. ‘So I am afraid we are. This must be all very painful for you. May I suggest that you continue on to the Porta Capuana? I will escort you there.’

‘Perhaps it would be best,’ said Miss Scampion reluctantly. ‘I do not wish to distract Mr Seymour.’ She smiled bravely. ‘There is nothing worse than an interfering woman. That is what my brother used to say when he was cross with me.’

She began to move away.

But then she looked back over her shoulder.

‘However, I
am
going to interfere, Mr Seymour. Or, if not interfere, be a nuisance. I am going to stay in Naples until I have found out who murdered my brother. I know your superiors are fed up with me, Mr Richards – I know that they would prefer me to go back to England. But I will not. Not until I have found out who killed my brother. And made them pay for it.’

* * *

When Richards was gone, Seymour explored the area around the great Gate. While in front of it stretched the huge open piazza, behind it was a warren of tiny streets. In one of them, just along from the Porta, was a snail shop. It consisted of a large copper cauldron over a charcoal stove right in the middle of the street, almost blocking the way. Around it several men were sitting. Mostly they sat on the ground, which didn’t help passage at all; but there was also a rickety table with two cane chairs. At the table a man was sitting reading a book. He looked up at Seymour and politely indicated the chair opposite him. Seymour sat down and the proprietor put a bowl in front of him and poured some of the contents of the cauldron into it.

‘They are really quite good,’ said the man opposite him. ‘I live just along the street – I am a carpenter, I have a shop there – and come every day for my lunch. It is a change from the shop, and also a relief for my wife. Or so she says.’

Seymour laughed.

‘Don’t let me interrupt your reading,’ he said.

‘Oh, I’m just checking my bets,’ said the man.

‘Checking . . .?’

‘It’s a Smorfia.’

Seeing that Seymour did not understand, he showed it him. It appeared to be a kind of lottery dictionary which gave a numeric value to almost any event which could happen in the city.

‘People use it,’ said the man, ‘to decide on a number to play in the lottery. For example, suppose you saw a woman run over by a cab. You might think that was a lucky sign and want to use it. The problem would be to find a number for it. That’s where the Smorfia helps you. Look, I’ll show you.’

He opened the Smorfia.

‘Woman, that’s 22. Cab, either 41 or 78, depending on whether the cab was empty or had passengers. Street, well, that would, of course, depend on where it was, but let’s say 53. Accident is 17. So now you’ve got the numbers: 22, 78, 53 and 17.

‘Now you have to decide how to play them. For example, if you decide to play on two numbers – that’s an
ambo
– you might pick 22 and 17. But you could go for a
terno
and play three numbers.’

‘Suppose,’ said Seymour, ‘I went for a murder. A man, say. Here, at the Porta Carmine.’

‘That would be 15, 13 and 27. Are you going to play it?’

‘I might,’ said Seymour.

The man looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be drawing the next numbers in about ten minutes. Why don’t you go along?’

The drawing of the numbers was done in public so that everyone could see there was no fraud about it. It started with officials coming out of the Exchequer and sitting in a row on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Ninety paper labels with numbers on them were shown in succession and each one was put in a brass ball, the two halves of which were then screwed together and thrown into a huge glass box shaped like a wheel which revolved at the touch of a handle.

A child dressed in white came forward and drew out one of the balls. It was unscrewed and the number taken out, displayed and proclaimed. Then the handle was worked again and another ball taken out.

‘Well,’ said the carpenter, peering eagerly, ‘did your numbers come up?’

Seymour looked at his tickets.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not this time.’

Chapter Two

Seymour divided the contents of Scampion’s desk into three piles. The first pile was consular business. Most of it appeared to be to do with Visitors – important ones, judging by the capital letter in the file. It consisted largely of itineraries he had drawn up for them. Attached to the itineraries were often private notes to himself.

‘Professor Caldicott. Classicist. Wants to see Paestum.
Not
Pompeii Again! Try Baiae.’

‘Mrs Faith Widdorson. Wants to see churches. Angevin ones the first day, Aragonese the second?’

To which was added a later pencilled note: ‘Complains all Catholic! What the hell does she expect in Italy? Note: is there a Plymouth Brethren church in Naples?’

‘The Wainwrights. North country. Manufacturing, I suspect. Stinking rich. Want to see “the sights”. Nightclubs?’

A later note: ‘No. At least, not her, him, perhaps, probably without wife knowing. She, “Something romantic.” Bay of Naples at sunset?’

Yet a later note: ‘How much would it cost to buy the Bay of Naples?!’

And: ‘Miss Daphne Dillacourt. Unattached female of certain age. Watch it! Suggest Capri.’

Added note in pencil: ‘Don’t go with her next time.’

Another note, later: ‘Wants Capri again.
Don’t
go with her!’

And a third, slightly desperate: ‘Capri
again
!
Don’t
go with her. And make it a slow boat.’

Yet a fourth: ‘Make it even slower. And
find someone else
! Antonio?’

There was a lady whose name featured several times.

‘Who is this “Sybil”?’ he asked Richards.

Richards peered over his shoulder. ‘I take it you’re not a classicist, old man?’

‘Well, no . . .’

‘
The
Sybil. Of Cumae. Legendary figure mentioned in Virgil. Had gift of foretelling the future.’

‘Oh!’

‘Every man in Naples has been looking for her ever since. To help him place his bets.’

‘Not around now, I take it?’

‘No. But Cumae is. By Avernus, the legendary entrance to Hell. Go there and you’ll believe it.’

Hell. Go ‘Hmm.’

Richards sat back. ‘Actually, I’m not a classicist, either. Commerce is more my line. And that, as a matter of fact, is more useful in most consulates. Even in Naples.’

Seymour glanced again at the first file.

‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘I haven’t found much apart from visitors.’

‘You wouldn’t. Kept him away from the real work. Too important to let him cock it up.’

‘Like that, was it?’

‘Yes. If you were charitable, you could say his gifts were more for the social. In fact, too much for the social. That’s why they sent him down here. To get him away from the crowd he was with in Florence.’

‘So they posted him to Naples? Well, that was no hardship, was it?’

‘Not for him,’ said Richards.

Seymour looked at him.

‘But it was for me,’ said Richards. ‘I had to do his work. They told me I would be posted away. We’re on the same grade, you see, and there wasn’t room for the two of us. But then the stupid bastard got himself killed!’

‘And you had to stay on? Well, I don’t expect you minded that, did you?’

‘Actually, I did. It doesn’t do in the consular service to get stuck in a post and I wanted to move on.’

The second pile was larger and consisted entirely of matters to do with bicycling. Here, too, there were itineraries in plenty. They took the form now, though, of notes for road races. Routes were listed, starting places and finishes. Again there were the added notes.

‘Long stretch uphill between Valdosa and Berindi. Will sort out the sheep from the goats!’

‘Hairpin. Don’t go into it too fast. Steep drop on one side.
Warn people
!’

‘Paisi. Road suddenly narrows. Will race have thinned out by that time? We don’t want too many people going into that bit together.’

There were more names here, mostly, judging by the fact that sometimes ranks were given, army officers. They were often in connection with race-marshalling, officials to oversee the start and finish of the race, a few posted around to help at significant spots. With one man in particular there was a lot of correspondence. He was referred to only by his Christian name, Vincente, who seemed to be Scampion’s racing alter ego at the nearby army base.

‘A lot here to do with racing and bicycles,’ Seymour said to Richards.

‘At least it got him out of the way,’ said Richards.

The third pile was completely different. It consisted entirely of private letters, all from the same person, a woman. Most of them were on headed – indeed, crested – notepaper. The sender appeared to be a Marchesa. That was not how she signed her letters, though. She signed them simply ‘Luisa’.

Some were from Florence, a few from Rome. The recent ones were from Bessandro, which was the nearby army base. The most recent letter said:

So, my dear, at last I am here. What a hell-hole! I shall escape to Naples at every opportunity. Vincente feels the same but at least he has his bicycle. No such respite for me! Thank God you, at least, are here. I miss the old crowd. Gabrieli has been obliged to fly to France. For ‘sexual misdemeanours’! How can a man be exiled for sexual misdemeanours? It is ridiculous. I said so to Alessandro but he doesn’t take that view. He says there is a point beyond which one should not go, especially if one is active in politics, where they are always looking for an excuse to do one down. Of course, he would take that view, being himself a politician. At least no one is ever likely to accuse
him
of sexual misdemeanours. But that is not enough: Caesar’s wife, too, should be above suspicion, which I am definitely not!

And so, my dear, I, too, am sent into exile and told not to come back until I am spotless. This, I am afraid, could take some time. I have complained to Vincente but he is unsympathetic. Of course, he has his bicycling. And he still hopes to be sent to Libya. Listen, I told him, I am definitely not going there!

‘At least, for the moment, he is here, and so are you. You must take care, both of you, not to come to grief on these mountainous roads. My heart rises into my mouth every time I think of you both hurtling round these frightening bends. Do take care, my dear. I hope to see you soon.

Yours, as ever affectionately,

Luisa.

While Seymour was at the consulate checking through Scampion’s desk a message came from Miss Scampion asking for Chantale’s name and the name of their hotel as she would like to invite her to tea. And perhaps he himself would join them?

‘Good heavens!’ said Miss Scampion when she saw Chantale. ‘She’s . . .’

‘Moroccan,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Scampion, recovering. ‘Of course, Moroccan.’ Then, still slightly flustered: ‘I thought from the name that . . .’

‘De Lissac,’ said Seymour. ‘It’s a French name. Her father was French.’

‘Oh, how interesting!’ said Miss Scampion bravely. ‘French, is it?’

‘My father was stationed in Morocco,’ said Chantale.

‘An army officer? Well, that’s good. Very good. And . . . French.’

Seymour had never really thought of Chantale as dark. She was dark, of course, in the way that Arabs and many southern Europeans are dark. Her eyes were brown and she had black hair and her skin was brownish. In the East End of London, where Seymour lived and worked, and where so many of the inhabitants were immigrants and Italians were at every street corner, she did not stand out at all. But Miss Scampion had at once made the identification.

‘De Lissac,’ she said now, stressing the ‘de’. ‘And does that mean that your father was a . . . of a good family?’

‘They think so,’ said Chantale shortly.

In fact, her father had never got on with his family and had broken from them when he had married Chantale’s mother.

‘A military family, I expect,’ said Miss Scampion with approval.

‘Yes.’

‘It runs in families,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘English ones, too. We have soldiers in our family, but mostly on a different branch. My brother always regretted that he had not been a soldier. Indeed, he wanted to be attached to the Italian army when he heard they were going to Libya. But our Foreign Office was furious. I don’t know why. After all, in India, which was where my relatives served, there was considerable movement between the army and the civil administration.’

She led them through the house to a small patio where a table was laid for an English tea.

‘How delightful!’ said Chantale.

‘One does try to maintain standards,’ said Miss Scampion, ‘no matter where one is. That was what my uncle, my army uncle, always used to say. One mustn’t let things slip. Of course, that was very important in India. You had to keep up to the mark and see that other people kept up to the mark. It was like that when he came back to England, too. As children, we found him very severe. He would fly into a rage over the smallest thing. If the cucumber were not quite crisp, for example. “It’s the servants,” he would say. “They don’t know their job. Now, in India . . .”

‘We used to laugh at him, of course, but I really think he would have been happier in India. He had been out there for so long. But then, as I’m sure you found, Miss de Lissac, life in a military garrison has such a special flavour.’

Chantale had not, in fact, spent any time in a military garrison. She had been brought up by her mother among the souks and bazaars and mosques of Tangier, which was very different. But she thought it best not to say this. It was evidently easier for Miss Scampion to come to terms with the unpalatable fact of Chantale’s colour by dwelling on the other side of her origins, the army side, with which she seemed more at home and for which she seemed to have particular esteem.

Chantale, primed by Seymour, exclaimed on the niceness of the house and asked if she could be shown round it.

‘Small, of course,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘But, then, consular salaries are small. And while in a place like Florence you get an allowance, here, in Naples, for some reason you don’t.’

‘It has charm,’ said Chantale, ‘and that is important.’

‘I think so, too, my dear,’ said Miss Scampion.

Over the tea table, and once she had recovered from the shock, her manner towards Chantale had thawed and she was now calling her ‘my dear’. ‘Delightfully young,’ she whispered at one point to Seymour. ‘And a good family,’ said Seymour, who had never previously been known to offer any observation at all on Chantale’s family; at least, not on the distant military part of it. ‘It shows,’ said Miss Scampion approvingly.

‘And this is my brother’s room,’ she said.

‘May I go in?’ said Seymour.

Scampion had allowed his sister the better of the two bedrooms. Hers looked out over a small garden with orange trees, his merely on to the opposite side of the street. The walls were covered with pictures of bicycles and bicyclists. Some of them were group photographs which included Scampion himself. Seymour studied them carefully.

‘Of course you did not know Lionel,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘You cannot really tell what he looked like from these – all helmets and goggles. This one gives you a better impression of him as a person.’

A round, pleasant, innocuous face. Thinning hair. A little plump despite what must be a lot of exercise. Hard to judge his height. In some of the other photographs he looked quite small. In this one, with his arm around the other man, he seemed quite big.

‘That is, of course, Gabrieli,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘Gabrieli D’Annunzio.’

She said it as if Seymour would at once know him.

‘D’Annunzio, of course,’ said Seymour.

‘A good man!’ said Miss Scampion with emphasis. ‘No matter what they say. Oh, he had his faults, I won’t deny that. And there have been peccadilloes. But is there any great man without faults?’

‘Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour, ‘would you mind if I glanced inside his desk? In the interests of – you know, the police may have missed something.’

‘Very likely,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘No, please go ahead. I am sure he would have had no secrets to hide.’

Good heavens, yet
more
stuff to do with cycling! Brochures, catalogues, road maps, bicycling magazines. Two of them were in French,
Le Vélo
and
L’Auto-Vélo
. There were dozens of numbers of each. Miss Scampion opened one and showed an article to Seymour, pointing to the name of its author.

‘He only did the one,’ she said proudly. ‘I urged him to do more. I felt he had a knack for it. And it might have opened up a door to another profession for him. You know, if he had been obliged to leave the service over that silly business about the war.’

‘Certainly there seems to be talent there,’ agreed Seymour, but I wouldn’t give up the day job, he thought.

‘Gabriel thought so, too. At least, I think he did. “I’d stick to prose if I were you,” he said, when Lionel showed it him. Meaning, I think, that he should not go in for poetry. Well, of course, Gabriel would know about that, being such a great poet himself.’

‘And you like his poetry yourself?’ asked Chantale, ‘D’Annunzio’s, I mean?’

‘Well, I can see it has great feeling,’ said Miss Scampion, slightly flustered. ‘But I have never entirely understood . . . The poetry is in the ideas, that’s what my brother used to say. But I didn’t quite understand that, either. Of course, the ideas are tremendous, sweeping – inspired, you may say.’

Apart from the magazines, which spilled over from the desk to some nearby shelves, there wasn’t a lot in Scampion’s desk. A few letters from the family at home, correspondence with the Foreign Office relating to his pay, papers connected with the renting of the house, that was about all. Seymour tried the bank statements. Often when a man is murdered there is some reflection of it in his bank balance, but there appeared to be none in Scampion’s case. There wasn’t much money, but there weren’t many debts, either. Scampion seemed to have looked after his financial affairs with the same precise attention that he had given to organizing road races.

A few personal letters, mostly from school friends; but nothing very intimate. There weren’t any further letters from the Marchesa. Was that accidental? Seymour wondered. Or did Scampion keep that side of his life separate from his sister? Or – another thought – had his sister, guardian of her brother’s flame, destroyed all the evidence of that side of his life after his death? Not, now that it was in her power to do so, admitting any other rivals for his affection?