Miriam came from a well-to-do family in Sussex, her maternal grandparents had been Italian, her grandmother a member of the aristocracy, and the links with Italy had been maintained. Her family had spent many summers touring Italy during the years of her childhood and adolescence. Then of course she had fallen in love, with Tommaso Bargellini, when she was only 18, and had married him. They had lived for years in Rome, but came to Borgo San Cristoforo every summer to this house, built by her husband’s grandfather at the turn of the century with the wealth he had accumulated over the years by exploiting “mezzadri,” victims of a system that bound tenant farmers to the land, which they tilled in exchange for half their produce. He had owned fifty-two poderi (small farms) as he had always reinvested his money by buying up any small farms that became available. Tommaso had become a lawyer, and on his retirement they had come to live here permanently. He had died eight years earlier.
Miriam had started writing early on in the marriage. They had wanted children but, by the age of twenty-five she had realised, there would be no children, so she had begun to fill her time with writing, as a hobby. She wrote romantic novels that sold well, a more modern version of the servant-girl novels of her youth. She was surprised to find that her books were read by people from many spheres of life, and she had sold well. This additional income had been welcome, as death duties and land reforms had diminished Tommaso’s family fortune. As a lawyer he had not been exceptionally successful, but their life style had always been what Miriam jokingly called “gracious.” The only exception to their life in Italy had been their self-imposed exile during the Second World War. She and Tommaso had lived in Sussex for that period, and had worked hard raising money for Italy’s reconstruction. It had been in that period of her life that she had started to write. Now as she sat surrounded by technological paraphernalia, she continued to write, not for the money it brought her, but because she did not know what else to do.
“Assunta mia cara,” she smiled winningly, “Please bring me just a tiny drop of gin to put in this.”
“Tiny it will be,” grumbled Assunta “I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
“Heaven forbid, I’ve no intention of dying just yet. Life is much too interesting. Now come here and tell me what they are saying in the shops this morning.”
At six that evening, Hilary sat in the piazza listening to Baroque music. Susan Browne, a new young friend, had come with her, and they were both invited to dinner that evening with mutual friends. There were about fifty people sitting on white plastic chairs. A computer printout programme had been placed on each chair, and some members of the audience were fanning themselves with it. It was still hot in the square. The concert had attracted the usual culture tourists, as well as a cross section of the local inhabitants. There were several children in the audience and even a few babies in pushchairs. The concerts in the theatre, in the evening, attracted a different public, but these were informal concerts, and rather fun. Hilary had got through a fair amount of work that day and now, relaxing, she began to hope that life would soon be back to normal. A light breeze sprang up and ruffled people’s hair, sending sheets of music flying.
“The standard seems a bit higher this year,” said Sue as they enthusiastically applauded two young oboists. Seven trumpets took the stage next, and played something more modern. When the concert had finished, chairs were stacked and carried off, and everyone dispersed. The next informal concert, in two days’ time, was to be held in the cloisters of the convent.
“It’s the only chance I get to go into the convent, and it’s so charming there.” Sue was pleased. She loved the Music Festival. They started walking through the old town, pausing only to read posters that announced art exhibitions and other summer activities, which were mostly focussed on food.
“Shall I call for you to go to John and Terry’s house tonight?” asked Sue.
“Yes, at about 8.30. OK?”
They separated, Hilary only had an hour in which to water the garden and change, so she walked briskly and, turning a corner at a smart pace, bumped into some one. Excusing herself, she looked up and saw it was Di Girolamo.
“Buona sera,” they said simultaneously.
“How fortunate that I should meet you,” he said “I wanted to ask you something, informally.”
“Oh, well, yes please do.” She was sure her face was pink. He seemed to have the ability to make her feel very unsure of herself.
“I just wondered whether you liked Ettore Fagiolo.”
“If I say no, does that mean I did it?” She tried to smile as she spoke. “Of course if I say yes, I could be lying.”
“I knew you wouldn’t like the question, but it is informal, I just wanted your opinion about him. I’m not writing it down as you can see.”
“Yes, I see. Well at the risk of an imminent arrest, I’ll answer truthfully. I didn’t like him at all. I thought him very unpleasant.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she said this, as though to say, “I’m not afraid of you, and I’ll say what I think no matter what the consequences.”
“Well, well. That’s very interesting.” He smiled at her, which she found rather disconcerting. “Did you have a personal motive for this dislike?”
She felt herself go cold. “No, not all. I just dislike his sort.”
“Thank you for your honesty, “ he said, and for one awful moment she thought he was being sarcastic, that he must know that she had a very strong, personal motive for disliking Ettore Fagiolo. She bit her lip and made no reply.
He looked as though he was going to ask her something else, but as the seconds passed and he said nothing at all, she wondered how she could leave him, without it looking as though she wanted to run away from him. There was no way she could be the one to take the initiative, given his position. She would just have to stand there, for as long as he chose to make her.
He was wearing cream slacks, and a shirt to match, with a darker linen jacket, and had slotted his dark glasses into his open shirt neck. Hilary thought he must be about her own age, or a little older, and very attractive, but she banished thoughts of his attractions from her mind, as she reminded herself who he was and what he represented. They still stood there in silence. Once more, he seemed to be about to say something, but finally all he did say was, “ I’m sorry to have taken up your time. As I am sure you are in a hurry, I’ll say goodbye, Signora.”
He turned abruptly and walked away fast. Hilary didn’t know what to think of him. What did he want from her? He might be attractive, but she found him almost menacing. She began walking home slowly, turning things over in her mind. Di Girolamo had been very strange. Perhaps he thinks I did it, she thought, and I must be mad to have answered him like that. I should have just said, “Oh, I thought him a charming young man. What a tragedy!” like everyone else does. I wish I had. All I want is to be left alone, but I suppose there’s not much chance of that now. How could I be so stupid, and why do I find it so hard to lie?
Worst of all, was the terrible thought that he might somehow come to know about Ettore and Amanda, and seriously begin think that she had a motive to kill him. Perhaps he already knew and was playing a cat and mouse game with her. Why else ask if she had a personal motive for disliking Ettore? She thought of the way the cards were stacked against her. She had the keys to the house, she had known exactly when the Proctors’ would be away and she had a reason for killing him. What could have been easier than to ask Ettore to the Villa Rosa, under some pretext, and then kill him. Also, she had been the one to find the body, and she knew that, that in itself was suspicious.
On the other hand, had she really wanted to kill Ettore, would she have waited years to do so? Also, how could she have got him into the pool? She wasn’t that strong and Ettore was quite a big man. She wouldn’t have stood a chance against a man. No, she reassured herself, there is no way they could suspect me.
She had reached her front door by now, and saw it was already nearly five past eight. Th
ere wouldn’t really be time to water the garden, so she rushed upstairs for a shower. Sue was bound to be punctual, or worse still, come early.
After a tepid shower, she padded into the bedroom. The wardrobe held little, as she mainly wore jeans, which were folded in a drawer. She chose a linen dress and jacket, and sandals of the same cream colour. Looking in the mirror, when she was ready, she saw a slim, still youthful and attractive woman. She was tanned and had blue eyes. Her hair was a silvery blonde and very short. Her dress was simple, classic and unadorned. She wore no jewellery, not even a ring, ever.
CHAPTER NINE
Dinner with friends was on the terrace as the night was warm, and the air in the house was stifling. Terry and John were old friends of hers. They had been frequent visitors from the States, spending almost every summer in Italy for the last ten years, since Terry (Theresa) had inherited her grandmother’s house and decided to come and see the birthplace of her parents. What she had found was a dilapidated farmhouse with a large adjoining barn, set in a charming area. She had fallen in love with the whole thing, and had set to work to restore it, with an attention to detail, that had turned the farm house and barn, into quite a large house, with a separate flat in the area that had once housed the cows. She had turned the large cantinas into a fabulous kitchen, which was cool and spacious, and had paved a large area outside, reached by French windows, which she called the La Terrazza, and that was were they always ate, weather permitting. To her great surprise she had also found some relatives and so felt that she belonged here. Her own parents had died together in a car crash fifteen years earlier, when she was already married and had two small children. That had been her only family. There were no brothers and sisters. Her husband, an only child, like herself, had only his mother still alive. But here in Italy they had found an extended family, and quite a large one. In fact two of Terry’s cousins and their wives, were already seated on the terrace, a glass of wine in one hand, and an anti-pasto in the other. They all embraced and kissed cheeks as always, a custom that even the British seemed to have adopted recently. On her last trip back, Hilary had been quite surprised to be clasped to bosoms by usually undemonstrative people. Here it felt normal. Francesco, Terry’s cousin, and his wife Giulietta, had children of the same age as her own. In fact they were friends, especially the girls, who had been in the same class at school. Monica, another cousin and her husband Pietro were younger, and their children were teenagers, roughly the same age as Terry and John’s. Anne Gwent, an American friend of Terry’s, arrived a moment later with her new man, Tom Wilcox.
“There’s only Ben still to come,” said Terry, greeting them. “He said he’d be a bit late.”
“I’m afraid we were discussing ‘The Bean’,” said Francesco, translating Ettore Fagiolo’s surname.
“What a slime he was,” said Terry.
“Do not speak ill of the dead,” replied John as he came out with more glasses.
“OK- OK, but don’t expect me to say anything good about him. Somebody swiped him with a shovel or something, so I’d take a bet he deserved it.”
“Nobody deserves to be murdered,” said Hilary.
“Yeah. I know it, but I don’t feel a bit sad about it. Do you?”
“No,” she admitted. “But if it’s murder, there has to be a murderer, and I can’t imagine who that could be. Has anyone got any ideas, realistic ones, not the wild theories I hear every day in the grocers?”
“I have,” cried Ben, who had just arrived. “Buona sera, everybody! I have a splendid theory. It was that crazy German in the next village, the one who was so furious about the farm he bought without an access road. He’s always getting drunk and muttering curses. That court case is dragging on and he has to carry every single thing to the house on his back; all those damned great gas cylinders and his wood for the fire. It takes him hours with a small wheelbarrow. Well, I think he arranged a midnight tryst, pretending to be a woman, and when ‘The Bean’ arrived, he whammed him, and threw him in the pool.”
“Very ingenious, and apart from the fact I can’t see Ettore being taken in like that, I happen to know that the German isn’t even here at the moment,” said Francesca.
“I know, but he was here, he left on the day the body was discovered. I know because I asked the old crone who looks after his house while he’s away, in a very casual and round about manner, I assure you. Also, I didn’t mean that he lured him there with a phone call, but with a note.”
“Does he write in Italian?” asked Giulietta.
“Alright, I give in. My theory lets in water. Has anyone else got any ideas?”
“Not me,” said John “I’ll get you a drink, you deserve one for trying. What about you Hilary, you found the body, you must have thought up some explanation. Besides, you should be an expert with all those detective stories you translate.”
“At first I thought he’d had an accident, and even now I can’t really believe someone murdered him. I can’t think of anyone who would. I still like to think it must have been accidental. Maybe he had a fight with some one, and hit his head, and later fell into the pool. I suppose that’s murder as well, but it’s the only kind I could possibly imagine. It still doesn’t explain why he, and the hypothetical other person were there.”
“No, no, no,” said Pietro “ you are too kind hearted. You think too well of people. Lots of people here could be murderers. Even I. Any of us could, depending on the circumstances.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I agree with Hilary. Are we absolutely sure that it couldn’t have been an accident? I mean, I know the police are still investigating, but they haven’t said very much, and they don’t seem to have any suspects,” said Monica hopefully, as if to contemplate murder in her hometown made her uneasy.
“Hey Monica, set your mind at rest. It was suicide, the guy whacked himself with something and then threw himself in the water,” said John. “Come on girls, this is a murder, and that’s what’s so good about it. I want everyone to think of a plausible, or even an implausible solution, by the end of the evening. Except Ben, of course, he’s already given us his solution. Now let’s eat.”
Meals at John and Terry’s were simple and wholesome. They had wild mushroom soup, served with toasted bread rubbed with garlic, followed by potato, chickpea and onion salad. There was a platter of Parma ham, and one of mozzarella and tomatoes with fresh basil and the local cold-pressed olive oil. A huge bowl of mixed green salad was set on the table and seemed to contain an enormous and colourful variety of lettuces as well as rocket, radishes and sliced cucumber. The bread was wholemeal and had been cooked in a wood oven. Her children were eating out with their friends, but Terry always felt that even so called fast food in Italy, which was usually a pizza, was pretty wholesome.
The long table was set with an orange tablecloth and in the centre was a simple terracotta bowl of orange, red and yellow nasturtiums. There were four fat red candles set along the table and the plates were yellow.
At the end of the meal, Terry and John brought to the table two beautiful fresh-fruit tarts. The fruit was set on custard, which covered the rich pastry base, and was coated with a slightly sticky fruit gelatine. They were made by the local ‘pasticceria’ and were absolutely delicious.
I hope you’re all thinking hard, because after coffee you will all be called upon for your solutions. I’m sure we’re all a darned sight brighter than the local Chief of Police, Maresciallo Biagioni, so we’ll solve his case for him,” said John. “I mean, that guy is the original of all those carabinieri jokes, he’s so slow.”
“Hey, he’s better than the last one. That guy spent four nights a week harassing courting couples in country lanes, according to my builder Piero, who got pounced on. Piero also said the policeman would have been better off doing something of the same sort himself at home, instead of wasting precious time and stopping other people from doing it,” Francesco laughed.
“That jerk! He probably got more thrills that way. Did
you any of you ever see his wife,” said Tom, and they all laughed. Carabinieri have always been the butt of jokes in Italy. Hilary had heard, and promptly forgotten, thousands over the years.
She said, “I think this one is a little better, but that’s besides the point. The whole thing has been handed over to plainclothes men from Lucca and all those little men with plastic collecting bags certainly aren’t from this area.”
“Look, we only got here two days ago,” said Tom “What is the official version. I haven’t even seen a newspaper and I got a tearful version from Pia which was ‘Che tragedia- così giovane’ etc.etc.”
“Yes, we’ve all had that,” said Hilary. “According to the papers, they think he may have disturbed intruders, I suppose burglars, and as a good citizen he went to investigate and got himself killed.”
“I suppose that is barely possible, but Ettore was hardly a good citizen as far as I know. I’d say, if he was there, he was up to no good.” Terry said firmly.
“OK let’s take that as our starting point,” said John. “He was there and he was up to no good.”
“Then our next question is, what sort of no good?” said Tom.
“Poisoning the pool, to take revenge on Nigel for blackening his name,” said Sue.
“No, no, no” said Ben “He was there to meet a woman, to bed her in Nigel’s house and defile it, or that’s what he thought he was going to do, but he met up with the German who had drunk too much in order to get up the courage to kill him.”
“OK Ben, your theory sounds lovely, a German with Dutch courage, fitting for Fagiolo, but hard to swallow. I mean if he’d planned it so meticulously he wouldn’t have risked spoiling it by getting drunk, and he was drunk. Everyone in town saw him earlier that evening,” said Francesco.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 5