Chapter Fifty Six.
Number Nine, Strada Volturno.
General Harding was not slow in transacting the business that carried him to London. It was too important to admit of delay. Even the old lawyer acknowledged this, after reading the quaint letter of the brigand, and scrutinising its still more quaint enclosure.
Mr Lawson’s Italian tour had given him experience to comprehend the case—peculiar as it was—as also enabling him to recommend the steps necessary to be taken.
Five thousand pounds could not well be entrusted to the post; nor yet the management of such a delicate affair—in reality, not a matter of mere fingers and hands, but of life and death. Even a confidential clerk seemed scarce fit for the occasion; and after a short conference between the lawyer and his client, it was determined that the son of the former—Lawson fits—should go to Rome and place himself en rapport with “Signor Jacopi.” Who Signor Jacopi was could only be guessed at: in all likelihood, that strange specimen of humanity who had presented himself at Beechwood Park, with a reckless indifference either to kicking or incarceration.
The first train for Dover carried young Lawson en route for Rome, with a portmanteau containing five thousand pounds in gold coin, stamped with the graceful head of England’s young Queen.
He thus went fully armed for an interview with Signor Jacopi.
Rome was reached, in due course, by rail and steam; and, within the ten days stipulated for in the letter of the brigand, the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer might have been seen with a heavy bag in hand perambulating the streets of the Eternal City, and inquiring for the Strada Volturno.
He found the place in some disorder. Instead of the cowled monks and sleek silken-robed cardinals usually seen there—instead of grand galantuomos and gaily-dressed ladies—with here and there a sprinkling of impertinent sbirri and gendarmerie—he met men brave, of bold aspect—honest withal—bearded, belted, in costumes half civic, half military, armed to the teeth, and evidently masters of the situation.
He was not astonished to hear from these men the occasional cry, “Long live the Roman Republic!” He had been prepared for this before leaving England; and it was only by a well-attested passport that he had been enabled to pass their lines and set foot upon the pavement of the seven-hilled city, at that moment threatened with siege.
Once in its streets, however, he no longer met any obstruction; and, without loss of time, he commenced searching for Signor Jacopi.
He had very little difficulty in finding the Strada Volturno, and still less the domicile numbered 9. The men with long beards, and pistols stuck in their belts, were not morose, nor yet ill-disposed to the answering of his questions. They seemed rather to take a pleasure in directing him, with that hearty readiness that marks the intercourse of those who have been engaged in a successful revolution. He did not ask for the residence of Signor Jacopi; only for the street and the number. Once at the door, it would be time enough to pronounce the name of the mysterious individual to whom he was about to deliver a load of golden coins. He had been constantly changing them from arm to arm, and they had almost dragged his elbows out of joint. Without further difficulty than this, he at length reached the Strada Volturno—a paltry street as it proved—and discovered at Number 9 the residence of Signor Jacopi.
He needed not to inquire. There could be no mistake as to the owner of the domicile. His name was lettered upon the door, “Signor Jacopi.” The door was close shut and bolted, as if Signor Jacopi could only be seen with some difficulty. The London solicitor knocked, and waited for its opening.
He was, not without some curiosity to make the acquaintance of a member of the fraternity whose practice was of such a peculiar kind; who could demand payment of five thousand pounds, and get it without any appeal to a court—either to judge or jury. So unlike the practice of Lincoln’s Inn!
The door was at length opened—not until the knock was repeated; a hag, who appeared at least seventy years old, being the tardy janitrix. But this need not dismay a solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She was no doubt the housekeeper of the premises.
“Does Signor Jacopi live here?” asked the young English lawyer; who, having accompanied his father on the Italian tour, was able to make his inquiries comprehensible.
“No,” was the laconic response.
“No! His name is on the door.”
“Ah, true!” responded the old woman, with something like a sigh. “They haven’t taken it off yet. It’s no business of mine. I’m only here to take care of the house.”
“Do you mean that the Signor Jacopi doesn’t live here any longer?”
“E cosi! What a question to ask! You are jesting, signor.”
“Jesting! No; I am in earnest—never more so in my life. I have important business with him.”
“Business with Signor Jacopi! Madonna Virgine!” added the old woman, in a tone of consternation, and making the sign of the Cross.
“Certainly I have. And what is there strange in it?”
“Business with a dead man! That’s strange, is it not?”
“Dead! Do you mean to say that Signor Jacopi is dead?”
“Si, signor; surely you know that? Don’t everybody know that he was killed in the outbreak—the very first day; knocked down, and then taken up again, and then hanged upon a lamp, because they said he was one of the—Oh, signor, I can’t tell you what they said about him. I only know they killed him; and he’s dead; and I’ve been put here to keep the house. That’s all I know about it.”
The young Lincoln’s Inn lawyer let his bag of gold drop heavily upon the doorstep. He felt that he had come to Rome upon an idle errand.
And an idle errand it proved. All he could learn of the Signor Jacopi was, that this individual was an Algerine Jew, who had settled in the Holy City and embraced the Holy Faith; that he had practised law—that department of it which in London would have entitled him to the appellation of a “thieves’ lawyer;” that, furthermore, he was accustomed to long and mysterious absences from his office; but where, or wherefore, there was none to tell, since no one could be found who professed intimacy with him.
In consequence of some unexplained act, he had made himself obnoxious to the mob—during the first hours of the revolutionary outbreak—and had fallen a victim to their fury. These, and a few other like facts, were all that the London lawyer could learn about his professional brother of Rome. But not one item of information to assist him in the errand upon which he had been sent to the Eternal City.