The following story is inspired by Robert Browning's poem, "My Last Duchess."
Inspector Radcliffe stroked his mustache meditatively. “Friar Pandolf,” he said; sunlight beamed into Radcliffe’s office, lighting up a stream of dancing dust motes. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. As you may have heard, I am investigating the circumstances of the death of the late Duchess of Ferrara. I understand that you recently painted her portrait?”
“That is correct,” Friar Pandolf replied. His fiery beard twitched, and he clasped his hands together as his eyes met Inspector Radcliffe’s.
“That is correct,” Friar Pandolf replied. His fiery beard twitched, and he clasped his hands together as his eyes met Inspector Radcliffe’s.
“Well, sir, there is reason to suspect that the duchess may have been murdered.”
Pandolf’s hands unclasped as his red eyebrows shot upward and he leaned forward. “You don’t say? That is sad news. Very, very sad. She was such a pleasure to paint, too!” He fingered his beard.
“Since you are one of the last people outside of the household to see the duchess, I thought I’d ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Inspector Radcliffe said.
“What? You don’t think that I killed that sweet lady, do you?”
Pandolf’s hands unclasped as his red eyebrows shot upward and he leaned forward. “You don’t say? That is sad news. Very, very sad. She was such a pleasure to paint, too!” He fingered his beard.
“Since you are one of the last people outside of the household to see the duchess, I thought I’d ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Inspector Radcliffe said.
“What? You don’t think that I killed that sweet lady, do you?”
“Certainly not, Friar. I’ve already made inquiries and your alibi seems airtight. No, I want to ask you about your impressions, both of the victim and her husband.”
“Quite a devoted couple, I’d say,” Friar Pandolf said, glancing down at his hand on his chin before clasping his hands again.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. You would have thought they were newlyweds, even though he is a bit older than she—was.”
“What made you think so?”
“Well, she was pale and demure as I first started painting her portrait. We were alone then, you see. But when he walked into the room, she lit right up and started smiling at him, at me, and at everything. I had also complimented her on her beauty a few times before the duke came, but when I made some similar comments in front of him, she kept looking at him as if to see if he felt the same way. Then she’d blush prettier than ever. As a painter, I noticed and appreciated this effect right away. So I kept complimenting her as long as the duke was around, just so that I could paint those spots of joy on her cheek and the depth and passion in her earnest eyes.” Friar Pandolf nodded and smiled as he stared into the air. “Her beauty and love were a delight to depict.”
“And what of her husband?”
“Oh, he noticed her blushes too. I only assume that he knew they were all for him—how could he not? He was certainly dedicated to her, though. He kept pacing behind me and watching her keenly, as if he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight. I don’t blame him. If I had a treasure like that, I would want to feast my eyes on her as much as possible.” Friar Pandolf reddened slightly. “I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”
“Quite a devoted couple, I’d say,” Friar Pandolf said, glancing down at his hand on his chin before clasping his hands again.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. You would have thought they were newlyweds, even though he is a bit older than she—was.”
“What made you think so?”
“Well, she was pale and demure as I first started painting her portrait. We were alone then, you see. But when he walked into the room, she lit right up and started smiling at him, at me, and at everything. I had also complimented her on her beauty a few times before the duke came, but when I made some similar comments in front of him, she kept looking at him as if to see if he felt the same way. Then she’d blush prettier than ever. As a painter, I noticed and appreciated this effect right away. So I kept complimenting her as long as the duke was around, just so that I could paint those spots of joy on her cheek and the depth and passion in her earnest eyes.” Friar Pandolf nodded and smiled as he stared into the air. “Her beauty and love were a delight to depict.”
“And what of her husband?”
“Oh, he noticed her blushes too. I only assume that he knew they were all for him—how could he not? He was certainly dedicated to her, though. He kept pacing behind me and watching her keenly, as if he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight. I don’t blame him. If I had a treasure like that, I would want to feast my eyes on her as much as possible.” Friar Pandolf reddened slightly. “I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”
“Of course,” Inspector Radcliffe bowed his head and smiled, the corners of his thin lips just touching the tips of his mustache. “Just one more question, Friar. You couldn’t possibly imagine the duke wanting to murder his duchess, could you?”
“Him—murder her?” Pandolf’s flame-like eyebrows leaped to singe his hairline before he shook his head. “Certainly not. He obviously loved her.”
“Yet even love makes us do strange things,” the inspector murmured. He smiled again. “Thank you, Friar Pandolf, for lending me your valuable time.”
Friar Pandolf nodded and rose. He gazed at Inspector Radcliffe’s jet black mustache as his hand fidgeted for his own chin, but then his hand dropped and he strode majestically from the room, his head held a little too high.
“Roberto,” Inspector Radcliffe inclined his head as he shook hands with a tall man entering his office. Roberto’s fingers were hard and strong. “Thank you for coming,” Radcliffe added as he ushered Roberto into a straight-backed, wooden chair. He resumed a seat opposite him.
“It is no problem,” Roberto’s teeth flashed in a brief smile that failed to match the strength of his grip.
“I understand that you were recently employed by the Duke of Ferrara?”
“I was. I was his gardener.”
“But you no longer work there? You were fired?”
Roberto’s jawline hardened. “I resigned,” he said.
“Of course. And why did you resign, may I ask?”
“Him—murder her?” Pandolf’s flame-like eyebrows leaped to singe his hairline before he shook his head. “Certainly not. He obviously loved her.”
“Yet even love makes us do strange things,” the inspector murmured. He smiled again. “Thank you, Friar Pandolf, for lending me your valuable time.”
Friar Pandolf nodded and rose. He gazed at Inspector Radcliffe’s jet black mustache as his hand fidgeted for his own chin, but then his hand dropped and he strode majestically from the room, his head held a little too high.
“Roberto,” Inspector Radcliffe inclined his head as he shook hands with a tall man entering his office. Roberto’s fingers were hard and strong. “Thank you for coming,” Radcliffe added as he ushered Roberto into a straight-backed, wooden chair. He resumed a seat opposite him.
“It is no problem,” Roberto’s teeth flashed in a brief smile that failed to match the strength of his grip.
“I understand that you were recently employed by the Duke of Ferrara?”
“I was. I was his gardener.”
“But you no longer work there? You were fired?”
Roberto’s jawline hardened. “I resigned,” he said.
“Of course. And why did you resign, may I ask?”
“You may ask, but I would prefer not to answer,” Roberto answered. “The duke asked me to do something—that was outside my job description. Very far outside it.”
“I see. How would you describe your employer? Would you say he was devoted to his wife?”
“Very devoted,” Roberto laughed bitterly. “He watched her every move like some greedy animal. Wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Though he was, I think, too jealous.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “He didn’t seem too happy when I brought the duchess a cherry branch or led her around the garden on her white mule. I suppose he thought I was too forward.”
“And what of the duchess? Was she devoted to her husband?”
“She certainly was. She quite worshiped him, actually. He was the sun of her world, and, like a sunflower, she flourished whenever he was around. I’m pretty sure that her love for him was the kind that warmed her up to everyone and everything. She sighed at the reds of a sunset and beamed at anyone who complimented her, as if to share her happiness. She was—beautiful. And she made everyone feel like a king,” Roberto smiled more genuinely this time, and he wore a vacant expression that Inspector Radcliffe had seen before. “Whenever her husband gave her a gift, she received it as though they had married yesterday and he was not the proud old fool he was. I think she believed that he loved her the same way she loved him.” Roberto’s shoulders sagged. The veins in his forearms bulged as he muttered, “He didn’t deserve her.”
“But I thought you said he was devoted to her?”
“What was that? Oh. So I did. So I did.”
“I see. How would you describe your employer? Would you say he was devoted to his wife?”
“Very devoted,” Roberto laughed bitterly. “He watched her every move like some greedy animal. Wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Though he was, I think, too jealous.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “He didn’t seem too happy when I brought the duchess a cherry branch or led her around the garden on her white mule. I suppose he thought I was too forward.”
“And what of the duchess? Was she devoted to her husband?”
“She certainly was. She quite worshiped him, actually. He was the sun of her world, and, like a sunflower, she flourished whenever he was around. I’m pretty sure that her love for him was the kind that warmed her up to everyone and everything. She sighed at the reds of a sunset and beamed at anyone who complimented her, as if to share her happiness. She was—beautiful. And she made everyone feel like a king,” Roberto smiled more genuinely this time, and he wore a vacant expression that Inspector Radcliffe had seen before. “Whenever her husband gave her a gift, she received it as though they had married yesterday and he was not the proud old fool he was. I think she believed that he loved her the same way she loved him.” Roberto’s shoulders sagged. The veins in his forearms bulged as he muttered, “He didn’t deserve her.”
“But I thought you said he was devoted to her?”
“What was that? Oh. So I did. So I did.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Inspector. I don’t understand why I need to meet with you,” the duke yawned and settled into a padded chair in his drawing room. Sunlight spilled in undiluted pools between thick drapes.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Inspector Radcliffe bowed and remained standing. “As the Duke of Ferrara, I’m sure you must have numerous engagements. This will only take a few minutes. I wish to inquire about your late wife and the nature of her passing. Did you and she exchange any unpleasant words?”
“Oh, my last duchess and I never had a cross interchange. I thought of confronting her many times, of course, for her displeasing conduct and unfaithfulness, but it would have been no use,” the duke spat on a jeweled ring on his finger and polished it. “She would have responded meekly enough, I’m sure, but she wouldn’t have changed. So I refused to stoop to using words with her. She required—a less delicate approach.”
“Your Grace?”
“I killed the duchess,” the duke said. He picked a piece of lint off of his embroidered tunic. “Or, rather, I had her killed. I wanted the gardener to be the one to do it—I thought it would be a pleasing irony—but he refused. It made no difference. I have other faithful servants.”
“But, Your Grace! From all accounts, the duchess was most faithful to you!”
“Was she? I could not see it. If she were faithful to me, she would have reserved her smiles for me alone, and she would not have blushed so much from the compliments of others.”
“Still, Your Grace, this is a serious offense! Did it not occur to you that the duchess’s love might have been truer than you had imagined? Couldn’t you have had more faith in her and her love?”
The duke surveyed Inspector Radcliffe with an icy stare. “Are you a religious man, Inspector?”
“No, Your Grace. I can’t say that I am.”
“Why not? Did you doubt that God loved you?”
“Well, Your Grace, if the Almighty does exist, I must say that I did doubt that He loved me. I had a hard upbringing, Your Grace, and it appeared that God was more lenient with others. I have moved on to loftier areas of thought.”
“Then why do you question me? I saw evidence to believe that my wife did not truly love me. I concluded that my faithful wife was nonexistent, and so I killed her and am moving on to a different bride—one whose dowry will line my coffers. You saw evidence to believe that God did not love you, so you decided that a faithful God did not exist and you killed him. You, too, have chosen a more appealing god. So tell me, Inspector: who has the greater guilt—you or I?”
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