The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  “It’s possible he was dealing in porn, but most of those videos have turned out to be quite legitimate, so why bother to deal in something that anyone can buy?”

  “Perhaps some people would be embarrassed to buy them openly, and Ettore got them for his friends, for a little extra.”

  “Yes. Of course. To go back to Marco Rossi’s relationship with Ettore. I wonder if Ettore could have been bi-sexual,” he mused.

  “We’ve not had any of those in town before,” said Maresciallo Biagioni, sounding distinctly distressed, as though it were a slur on the town’s good name. He hadn’t even liked using the word homosexual. Bi-sexual was a word from another planet.

  Di Girolamo burst out laughing. “Don’t take it so hard.” he said. “Anyway where does all of this leave us? We might think that pompous Englishman did it, but until we have proof, our hands are tied. The only possible witness is dying, and I don’t have any other suspects worth mentioning.”

  “It could have been that German.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well there’s always the burglar.”

  “Ah! The burglar. Did you bring me that list of habitual or occasional offenders?”

  “Yes.” he extracted it from a folder. “There’s nothing very hopeful here. I asked for those with the same MO, breaking into empty villas, and only in this province. We can move farther afield if you think it necessary. So here’s the list: three of them are ancient, and wouldn’t be up to killing a healthy young man. Several are on probation and five are on a drugs program, and their parents don’t let them out at night. There are a couple of others, who don’t live in the province any longer, and we’re checking on them, but we don’t hold out much hope. I should know more about them tomorrow. None of their fingerprints tallied with the print on the spade. There are others, but they’re either in prison awaiting trial, or serving their sentences. We don’t have that many break-ins in the province, or should I say, didn’t have that many, but unfortunately the Albanians have moved in on us. They work in highly organised gangs, though they haven’t reached this area yet. It seems they prefer the richer pickings on the coast or in the big villas near Lucca. The other thing that should make us think that we should be looking in our own immediate area, for a burglar, or burglars, is that the break-ins in our town and the outlying villas, seem to show an intimate knowledge of people’s movements. All the recent break-ins here occur in empty houses, while the owners are on holiday, and quite frankly the haul isn’t that huge. I mean there are no priceless paintings and so on. It’s all television sets, computers, etc, silver, jewels, but we’re not talking about fabulous ones, and the odd Persian carpet, or small piece of antique furniture.”

  “In other words, these are not big time crooks. Nothing they steal is worth murder.”

  “That’s it.”

  “So we don’t really think it was a burglar.”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s just that if this is a local man, then perhaps Ettore recognised him. Maybe he panicked and killed him because he knew Ettore could shop him.”

  “Someone that Ettore knew, and probably someone without a record.”

  “I thought it was more likely to be someone young.”

  “Well, Maresciallo, that has given us further food for thought, but hasn’t got us any nearer to our man. Let’s leave it there for today. I’m off. I want to shower and then go the concert at six. I’ll see you tomorrow. Perhaps we should all start praying that the boy lives. I have the feeling that he could tell us quite a lot. If he was with Ettore that night then he might well have seen and recognised his killer, who may or may not have been a burglar. Perhaps that’s why he was run over. Perhaps it wasn’t an accident at all. Goodnight Maresciallo.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  The convent was set at the top of the old town, immediately below the Duomo. The cloisters were large, and ample for the audience tonight. There was a fountain in the middle of a paved area , and looking up one could see the delicate arches of the windows that echoed the arches of the cloisters. The building was now mainly used as a private school, and there were only a handful of nuns left. Di Girolamo took a seat at the back and watched the rest of the audience arrive. He had arrived early on purpose. He saw Hilary come in with a grey-haired, pleasant looking man, and looking at them, he felt a sudden jolt of displeasure. She looked across at him and he nodded to her. After giving him a brief smile, she turned to her companion and they chose their seats, well away from him he noticed. Other foreigners, some of them relatives of the French, German and English music students, spread themselves around, to make the audience look larger he presumed. He was handed a computer print out programme. This afternoon it was mainly pieces by Bach and Corelli.

  An energetic looking American woman strode in. She looked so healthy, he felt almost ill. “Hi, Hilary,” she called, her voice loud enough to make everyone look up.

  “Oh. Hello Terry. So you made it.” The American woman went to sit by Hilary and they lowered their voices.

  Di Girolamo squirmed in his seat. Why did these people always state the obvious? He felt he’d had a glut of English people. Another one of them came in and was greeted as Sue. She was younger and rather good-looking, with red hair

  and blue eyes. Hilary called her over and whispered, “I need to see you afterwards.”

  She nodded and sat down in the row behind Hilary. She turned round and gave a furtive glance in his direction, before concentrating on her programme. It may have been by chance but most of the seats near Di Girolamo were still empty.

  The locals were arriving now. Like most Italians, they were late, as they always added fifteen minutes onto the stated time of commencement, with the result that most programmes gave a time that was at least fifteen minutes before the actual time intended. It was a chicken and egg situation thought Di Girolamo. A large perspiring lady, with an even larger daughter, both of whom were dressed in tent-like garments, came to sit near him, fussing as they deposited their bags and shawls around them, and waving at friends. Pretty soon most of the seats were taken. In the shadows of the doorway, he could see the Mother Superior who would not sit with the general public, but would listen to the concert alone, hidden from view.

  At last the concert got under way, and he thought it wasn’t bad. Some things were quite good. Often teachers would accompany students and the result was almost professional. Altogether it was a well-spent hour. The atmosphere was peaceful, the music charming, and the cloisters were in the shade at that time of day, so it was cooler here than elsewhere. He was not a religious man, but was sensitive enough to feel the peace in the convent.

  After the concert, he decided to walk up to the magnificent Duomo, the cathedral, which dominated the town giving it an instantly recognisable contour. Several cypress trees emphasised the length of the building. He had never been inside it before. Standing on the steps of the church, he looked again at the fantastic view of the mountains and the famous ‘dead man’ mountain. He went inside and was really surprised. The interior was stark, and quite superb. A gigantic, almost barbaric, wooden statue of St, Christopher stood above the altar. It was painted and was the only note of colour, as here there was very little to see; no Madonnas with neon halos, nothing kitsch, just simplicity and an elaborately beautiful pulpit, in marble, carved with allegorical figures and supported by splendid lions, symbols of the strength of Christian faith. Di Girolamo was very impressed. He moved into a side chapel to examine a painting which featured the town itself, and a Della Robbia. He heard other people coming into the church, and their voices, though low, seemed to come nearer. It was Hilary, saying to another woman, “Look I’m sorry, I had to tell him”

  “I asked you not to. I have a pathological fear of the Italian police. I’m sure they lock people up for ages on the flimsiest of pretexts and you have no rights, and they are violent.”

  “Hey, calm down, don’t talk such rubbish. What is the m
atter with you? It’s a simple statement, just to say you saw him come out of Bill’s house, and he had some one with him. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Yes, but they’ll probably keep me there for hours. They might think I was one of his women or something.”

  “I very much doubt it. Come on Sue, don’t be so irrational. That Di Girolamo is a charming, intelligent, civilised man, not a truncheon wielding barbarian from some God-forsaken, third world back-water.” She heard a man laugh, and looked round the corner anxiously.

  Di Girolamo stepped forwards with an almost satanic grin. He bowed, and said, “Good evening ladies. I am here, without my truncheon today. I find it gets in my way at concerts.” Sue stood still, absolutely horrified.

  “Ah Signora Wright, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friend, if you think that she is up to it. “ He laughed, and suddenly Sue relaxed and smiled. “ Sorry, I’m neurotic. A friend of mine had a bad experience in Naples, and I’ve worried about the police ever since.”

  “As I overheard your conversation I can safely presume you are the reluctant witness I was hoping to meet.”

  “I suppose I must be. I mean, yes I am. It’s just that I do hate the idea of being involved in this sort of thing.”

  “ Well just to show you how human I am. I will ask you to write out and sign a statement at home and bring it to the station in an envelope addressed to me.”

  “Oh thank-you so much. Of course I will. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

  “What’s your name? I’ll need to tell my Sergeant I am expecting a letter otherwise he might think you were attempting to send me a letter bomb, and feel he had to detain you.” He smiled at her.

  “Oh, I’m Susan Browne.”

  “You are English, or rather, Scottish then, judging by your accent?”

  “My mother comes from here, but she married a Scot so I was brought up in Scotland. I’ve only been back here since 1998. I’ve got a job translating for a pharmaceutical company about ten miles away.”

  “There seems to be quite a link with Scotland in this town.”

  “Oh yes. I think nearly every family has at least one relative in Scotland.”

  “Well, it was nice to have met you both here, quite a bonus after the concert. I will expect your statement tomorrow then, Miss Browne. Good evening to you both.” He stared at Hilary in a discomforting manner, then he turned and left the Cathedral.

  The two women laughed, Hilary to cover a strange, and indefinable emotion, while Sue said, “God what a “figura” I cut, I feel so stupid,”

  “It was so funny. When he arrived, your face was incredible, frozen. You looked like your worst nightmare had come true.”

  “Well it had. Actually, he’s rather good looking isn’t he?”

  “I suppose he is.”

  “I thought he was rather taken with you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hilary brusquely, taking control of herself.

  She left the church, said goodbye to Sue and called Bruno who had waited outside, leaning on the low wall, gazing at the view. They set off down an extremely steep road that would bring them very quickly to the other city gate, which led to Via del Sole.

  “What was all that about? Girlish confidences?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bruno. No, it was more murder stuff, and I think I can tell you this, as I gathered in the grocers that it is common knowledge.”

  “Oh? Perhaps I already know then?”

  “Perhaps. Well, it was just that Ettore had the keys to several houses belonging to foreigners, and when they were away, he used the empty houses. Sue had actually seen him doing so, so it wasn’t invented gossip, but quite true.”

  “I see, but is this important? I mean, who cares, other than the owners?”

  “It might be important. Ettore could have been using Nigel’s house.”

  “Ah, you mean he wouldn’t have been alone.”

  “No, and the person who was with him might have seen the murderer and be frightened to say anything.”

  “You mean, might be the murderer.”

  “Oh, yes, that as well, I suppose.”

  “What have you cooked for me?” asked Bruno, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Wait and see. I did it for me too, you know,” she snapped.

  “Of course. Heaven forbid that you should cook for me, it might smack of domesticity and female subjugation.”

  “I suppose that’s meant to be funny.”

  “Not at all. I just wish you wouldn’t pounce on the simplest phrase and make sure over and over again that I know beyond doubt, that you are you, and you do what you please, and never to please a man, or more especially, me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m still not going to tell you what I have cooked for us.”

  They had reached the front door by now. She told him to go out onto the terrace, as there would be a half an hour to wait for the food to be ready.

  “You can pull out the table, and set it.” He gave a mock salute. “And don’t do that either. Here take this table cloth, and I’ll bring out some plates.”

  When the table was set, she sat on the terrace and looked at the view, Bruno pulled out a newspaper and began to read it. They sat there for quite a while, together, in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  “Posta” yelled the postman, opening her front door, which she never bothered to lock, and hurling her letters into the house. By the time she reached the hall to pick them up, she could hear his Vespa in the distance. His nickname was ‘hurricane’, for obvious reasons. There was a postcard from Alex, from Greece where he was on holiday, (which had taken three weeks to reach her), an electricity bill and another letter with a local postmark. She opened it, took out a card, and said out loud, “I don’t believe it”.

  In several other houses there were similar scenes. Almost immediately the phone rang; it was Terry.

  “Hilary have you had your post yet?”

  “Yes, I have, I suppose you’ve got an invitation too.”

  “Yes, isn’t it incredible?”

  “Very. Are you going?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, and you?”

  “I suppose so, I don’t really want to, but if I don’t it will look like I’m ostracising them.”

  “You what? What in the world does that mean?”

  “It means it would look like I wanted nothing to do with them.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it would.”

  “I wonder who else they have invited.”

  “I’ll phone Francesca and Giulietta, you phone Anne.”

  “O.K”. She put the phone down, and it rang again immediately. It was Miriam,

  “Hilary, I have had the most extraordinary invitation, to a party, at Nigel’s house. Do you think it’s a joke?”

  “No, I’ve had one and so has Terry. It looks authentic to me.”

  “Darling, tell me you are going.”

  “Yes, I am. I suppose you are too.”

  “But of course. It’s too exciting. I can’t wait. Normally I would have turned it down, you know how I hate little English parties, but who could resist an invitation to a murder scene, especially when the host is a suspect.”

  “I’ll see you there”.

  “Bye darling”.

  She looked at the invitation again, as she had hardly had time to take it in. Nigel and Robin were giving a party, a “Return to the ‘status quo’ party,” the next evening, at dusk. Thinking it over, she decided it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Ben walked through the old town. He was wearing what he called his English- gentleman-abroad outfit; light coloured trousers, short-sleeved white shirt, a straw hat, sandals, and a cane. This last was rather splendid, having an elaborately carved eagle’s head as a handle, and was also totally unnecessary, as he walked quite well without it. He waved to John, who was crossing the main piazza, “Care for an aperitivo?”

  “Good idea, let’s go to Candela’s bar”

&nbs
p; “Tell me, did you get an invitation?”

  “Oh boy, did I not. Terry’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.”

  “Are you going?”

  “You bet. I wouldn’t miss a chance to go to the murder scene. Great idea that. It’s a good way to get back to normal, or rather the ‘status quo’, like it says on the invite.”

  “What splendid enthusiasm you Americans always have. Actually, I agree with you. The poor things have only been back a few days, and seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time at the police station. No one has seen them out, and this way they probably hope to avoid any little awkwardness that must inevitably colour any first meeting with them.”

  “Ben, sit down and tell me what’s your poison.”

  “Absolutely not. I invited you, so you tell me.”

  A waiter hovered, “O.K I’ll take a dry Martini, thanks Ben”

  “Make that two, and bring us something to nibble, please.”

  “So, are you going to the party?”

  “Of course, I never miss a party. At my age, life should be lived to the full, and after years of hard work and being careful about my food, and drink, I have become a hedonist. I deny myself nothing.”

  “Have you any new theories about the murder? Or do you still favour the German?”

  “Ah, thank you,” he said to the waiter. He took a sip of his Martini and reached out for some salty little cheesy biscuits. “Well it would have been nice to be right, but I think that regretfully I must cross him off my list. I certainly don’t believe in the burglar theory, no, for me there is something personal in this murder. No burglar would risk being caught for murder, well not one who was just trying to steal a television set or a computer. I have the distinct feeling that sex comes into it. Let us remember that this man had quite a reputation, as a night-clubber and, judging by the way he dressed, he was certainly trying to attract. In some way emotions are involved. A discarded lover? Or possibly the jealous partner theory. What about you? Have you reflected more?”