The Narrative of Mr. James Rigby | Page 2

my father was free so
far as the officers of the law were concerned. But while these
formalities were in progress no less than three attempts were made on
his life -- two by the knife and one by shooting -- and in each his
escape was little short of miraculous. For the dead ruffian, Marino, had
been a member of the dreaded Camorra and the Camorristi were eager
to avenge his death. To anybody acquainted with the internal history of
Italy -- more particularly the history of the old kingdom of Naples --
the name of the Camorra will be familiar enough. It was one of the
worst and most powerful of the many powerful and evil secret societies
of Italy, and had none of the excuses for existence which have been
from time to time put forward on behalf of the other. It was a gigantic
club for the commission of crime and the extortion of money. So
powerful was it that it actually imposed a regular tax on all food
material entering Naples -- a tax collected and paid with far more
regularity than were any of the taxes due to the lawful Government of
the country. The carrying of smuggled goods was a monopoly of the
Camorra, a perfect organisation existing for the purpose throughout the
kingdom. The whole population was terrorised by this detestable
society, which had no less than twelve centres in the city of Naples
alone. It contracted for the commission of crime just as systematically
and calmly as a railway company contracts for the carriage of
merchandise. A murder was so much, according to circumstances, with
extras for disposing of the body; arson was dealt in profitably;
maimings and kidnappings were carried out with promptitude and
despatch; and any diabolical outrage imaginable was a mere matter of
price. One of the staple vocations of the concern was of course
brigandage. After the coming of Victor Emmanuel and the fusion of
Italy into one kingdom the Camorra lost some of the power, but for a
long time gave considerable trouble. I have heard that in the year after
the matters I am describing two hundred Camorristi were banished

from Italy.
As soon as the legal forms were complied with, my father received the
broadest possible official hint that the sooner and the more secretly he
left the country the better it would be for himself and his family. The
British consul, too, impressed it upon him that the law would be
entirely unable to protect him against the machinations of the Camorra;
and indeed it needed but little persuasion to induce us to leave, for my
poor mother was in a state of constant terror lest we were murdered
together in our hotel; so that we lost no time in returning to England
and bringing our European trip to a close.
In London we stayed at a well-known private hotel near Bond Street.
We had been but three days here when my father came in one evening
with a firm conviction that he had been followed for something like
two hours, and followed very skilfully too. More than once he had
doubled suddenly with a view to confront the pursuers, who he felt
were at his heels, but he had met nobody of a suspicious appearance.
The next afternoon I heard my mother telling my governess (who was
travelling with us) of an unpleasant looking man, who had been
hanging about opposite the hotel door, and who, she felt sure, had
afterwards been following her and my father as they were walking. My
mother grew nervous and communicated her fears to my father. He,
however, pooh-poohed the thing, and took little thought of its meaning.
Nevertheless the dogging continued, and my father, who was never
able to fix upon the persons who caused the annoyance -- indeed he
rather felt their presence by instinct, as one does in such cases, than
otherwise -- grew extremely angry, and had some idea of consulting the
police. Then one morning my mother discovered a little paper label
stuck on the outside of the door of the bedroom occupied by herself and
my father. It was a small thing, circular, and about the size of a
six-penny-piece, or even smaller, but my mother was quite certain that
it had not been there when she last entered the door the night before,
and she was much terrified. For the label carried a tiny device, drawn
awkwardly in ink -- a pair of knives of curious shape, crossed; the sign
of the Camorra.

Nobody knew anything of this label, or how it came where it had been
found. My mother urged my father to place himself under the
protection of the police at once, but he delayed. Indeed I fancy he