A Rich, Full Death

Zusatztext "Fruitily atmospheric as a crumbling necropolis with a startling (and hauntingly ambiguous) finale." --The Guardian "Vigorous and amusing. . .Dibdin convincingly creates the cosmopolitan society of nineteenth-century Florence." --Daily Telegraph "Clever plotting! witty writing! and a well-judged display of historical background." --The Times (London) "Dibdin has a gift for shocking the unshockable reader." --Ruth Rendell Informationen zum Autor Michael Dibdin was born in England and raised in Northern Ireland. He attended Sussex University and the University of Alberta in Canada. He spent five years in Perugia, Italy, where he taught English at the local university. He went on to live in Oxford, England and Seattle, Washington. He was the author of eighteen novels, eleven of them in the popular Aurelio Zen series, including Ratking , which won the Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger, and Cabal , which was awarded the French Grand Prix du Roman Policier. His work has been translated into eighteen languages. He died in 2007. Klappentext Florence!1855. "The English are dying too much!" the city's police chief observes. And members of the foreign community in this quaint Italian backwater! both English and American! are indeed dying at an alarming rate and in an extraordinary variety of ingenious and horrible ways. With the local authorities out of their depth! the distinguished resident Robert Browning launches his own private investigation! aided and abetted by an expatriot Robert Booth. Unfortunately! their amateur sleuthing is hampered by the fact that each of their suspects becomes the next victim in a series of murders orchestrated by a killer with a taste for poetic justice. A Rich Full Death features characters both historical and imaginary! ranging from an enticing servant girl to Mr. Browning's consumptive! world-famous wife! Elizabeth Barrett! in a tale lush with period detail! intricately plotted! and with a truly astonishing final twist. 1 Florence 6th February '55 My dear Prescott, You will no doubt be surprised to receive another letter so soon, but I have news which cannot await my monthly packet. Prepare yourself for a shock, for I have sad and dramatic tidings: Isabel Eakin, n?e Allen, is no more, having passed away yesterday evening under tragic circumstances-of which more in a moment. What a piece of my life-of both our lives-falls into oblivion with her! Death must always diminish the survivors, but when I consider how intimate a part of my life Isabel once was, I feel half-dead myself at the thought of all she has taken with her to the grave. How vividly I recall those long summer afternoons we spent together-you and I and she, and that freckly cousin whose name and face and indeed everything except her freckles I presently forget. Is it really fifteen years ago? Mighty fine young fellows we thought ourselves then, as I remember; with the bloom of college still fresh on us, like hothouse peaches. I forget exactly how or when we discovered that there were mysteries of which our professors had said nothing (and perhaps had nothing to say), such as the miraculous transformation of scrawny little Isabel-previously the butt of much boyish torment on my part-into a fascinating and powerful figure with capacities of her own for inflicting torment. I was in love with her, of course. Was I the only one? Own up, Prescott-were you not just as assiduous as I at inventing pretexts for calling at the Allens' house as often as possible? Strange to think that we stood, without knowing it, at one of the great crossroads of Life: we might have married her, either of us, and then everything would have been utterly different. Well, well, all that is over now-separated by a desert of sterile years from the comfortable pastures of the Present. For what did happen? You launched y...

Auteur

Michael Dibdin was born in England and raised in Northern Ireland. He attended Sussex University and the University of Alberta in Canada. He spent five years in Perugia, Italy, where he taught English at the local university. He went on to live in Oxford, England and Seattle, Washington. He was the author of eighteen novels, eleven of them in the popular Aurelio Zen series, including Ratking, which won the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger, and Cabal, which was awarded the French Grand Prix du Roman Policier. His work has been translated into eighteen languages. He died in 2007.

Texte du rabat

Florence,1855. "The English are dying too much," the city's police chief observes. And members of the foreign community in this quaint Italian backwater, both English and American, are indeed dying at an alarming rate and in an extraordinary variety of ingenious and horrible ways.

With the local authorities out of their depth, the distinguished resident Robert Browning launches his own private investigation, aided and abetted by an expatriot Robert Booth. Unfortunately, their amateur sleuthing is hampered by the fact that each of their suspects becomes the next victim in a series of murders orchestrated by a killer with a taste for poetic justice. A Rich Full Death features characters both historical and imaginary, ranging from an enticing servant girl to Mr. Browning's consumptive, world-famous wife, Elizabeth Barrett, in a tale lush with period detail, intricately plotted, and with a truly astonishing final twist.

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Florence

6th February '55

My dear Prescott,

You will no doubt be surprised to receive another letter so soon, but I have news which cannot await my monthly packet. Prepare yourself for a shock, for I have sad and dramatic tidings: Isabel Eakin, n?e Allen, is no more, having passed away yesterday evening under tragic circumstances-of which more in a moment. What a piece of my life-of both our lives-falls into oblivion with her! Death must always diminish the survivors, but when I consider how intimate a part of my life Isabel once was, I feel half-dead myself at the thought of all she has taken with her to the grave.

How vividly I recall those long summer afternoons we spent together-you and I and she, and that freckly cousin whose name and face and indeed everything except her freckles I presently forget. Is it really fifteen years ago? Mighty fine young fellows we thought ourselves then, as I remember; with the bloom of college still fresh on us, like hothouse peaches. I forget exactly how or when we discovered that there were mysteries of which our professors had said nothing (and perhaps had nothing to say), such as the miraculous transformation of scrawny little Isabel-previously the butt of much boyish torment on my part-into a fascinating and powerful figure with capacities of her own for inflicting torment.

I was in love with her, of course. Was I the only one? Own up, Prescott-were you not just as assiduous as I at inventing pretexts for calling at the Allens' house as often as possible? Strange to think that we stood, without knowing it, at one of the great crossroads of Life: we might have married her, either of us, and then everything would have been utterly different.

Well, well, all that is over now-separated by a desert of sterile years from the comfortable pastures of the Present. For what did happen? You launched yourself energetically on your academic career, married a woman who would loyally support you, and won fresh laurels with every year that passed-modestly at first, but set already on course to your present Parnassian position: a Professor yourself, author of a standard text on ethics-and all this at the age of forty!

I also achieved much-in my dreams. If plans, projects, or proposals counted for aught, I should be numbered among the greatest men of our age! What was I not going to write? An epic poem in twelve books on the War of Independence; Washington, a tragedy in five acts; a three-volume novel about a …