“It must have been someone else.”
“There was no one else.” He raised his eyes to her face, “Except you”.
“Prove it,” she snapped at him. “First it’s Nigel and now it’s me. Why don’t you think it’s Marco, why us? You’re a bloody racist that’s why. You don’t want it to be an Italian, do you, so you’ll push it off on us, the foreigners.”
“It’s no good Robin. I’ll tell you what really happened after Ettore was knocked to the ground by a blow with a shovel, shall I?” She shrugged her shoulders and remained silent.
“I think you had heard some noise and got out of the car to see what was going on. I think you saw Nigel go into the house with a bleeding nose, and I know you heard what Ettore shouted at him. You were meant to hear it. Then you heard the branch break under Salvatore’s feet, yes it was Salvatore who had come to do a bit of housebreaking, and you saw what happened. He defended himself from Ettore with the spade and struck him a hefty blow. Ettore fell to the ground, but he was not dead, nor would he have died from that wound. You were standing in the shadows at the side of the house, quite near to the pool really. As Salvatore finished cleaning the spade, you came out from the bushes by the garage. He says he saw a man in a dark suit, coming down the steps to the pool and he thought it was Nigel, so he made off as fast as he could. He was right, wasn’t he? It was a man, but it wasn’t Nigel. It was you. You went down to the pool and saw Ettore, lying there groaning. He was stunned and very weak, but he saw you and when you bent over him, he said “Testa di cazzo” to you. You saw it was the perfect opportunity to rid yourself of a man who had something on you and could use it whenever he wished. So you pulled him to the edge of the pool and tipped him in. It only took a minute. It was easy for you; you are strong, much stronger than Nigel. Nigel was older than you and had just about exhausted his energies. He had been kicked hard in the face and his nose was bleeding copiously. While he was up at the house, in the kitchen, cleaning his jacket and trying to stop the flow of blood with a cotton wool plug, you were at the pool killing Ettore. Ettore, the man who had shouted to Nigel “I don’t think you’ll do that.” He meant, tell the police about his presence there in your house. He said, “Your wife wouldn’t like it.” Nigel didn’t know the meaning of those words but you did. He had shouted them for you to hear. He had bellowed them in fact. Every witness heard them. You knew what he meant. It was a warning He wanted you to quieten Nigel down, because if you didn’t, he was going to tell Nigel about this,” with a flourish he tipped the photograph on the table. Robin began to weep.
“After you killed Ettore, you rushed back to the car and were there when Nigel arrived from the house. Did he ask you what Ettore meant, I wonder?” He paused, but Robin refused to look at him. “Ettore was bi-sexual, and I’m sure that someone like you must have fascinated him. Nigel was often away, and Ettore was an attractive young man. You thought no one would ever know. But I think that if Nigel had known, he would have thrown you out, so when you killed Ettore you were trying to save yourself, and your life with Nigel. One word and the whole tissue of lies would fall apart, you would be revealed to Nigel as unfaithful, and even worse, unfaithful to him with the man he hated. You would have been revealed to the world as a transsexual, something you had carefully hidden for years, behind a mask of femininity.” He paused again, then added, “I am seeing Nigel tomorrow, his testimony will, no doubt, be conclusive. I will ask you to make a statement now and sign it. Robin Pierce, I arrest you for the murder of Ettore Fagiolo…
He was tired. Sometimes he found his work so sordid, this delving into other people’s sex lives, their intimacies laid bare, picked over, exposed to public censure. This case would be like that. People would read their newspapers with glee, gloating over every scabrous detail that earnest journalists would lay before them like prime cuts of meat in the butcher’s window, all in the pursuit of truth. The truth will out, but he felt pity for the broken creature he had arrested. She/he would be exposed like a circus freak. The first murder had precipitated dementia and another death had been the result. We are all responsible for our actions, so now Robin Pierce would pay the price.
He phoned Hilary, “It’s over. I’ll tell you everything, later.”
“Amanda phoned, she’s staying overnight with her friends. Have you been bribing her?”
“No, but I’ll remember to do so in the future. I’ll come then.”
He opened the case file, picked out the photo of Marco and put it through the shredder. The photo of Robin in her red wig he returned to its envelope and then closed the folder and locked it in the drawer. He turned out the light, locked the door and left.
During the early hours of the next morning, the earth rumbled and like a duck shaking water from its feathers, tried to shake the parasites from its back. It was only a half-hearted attempt, and a few roof tiles were dislodged, a few cracks appeared on pristine walls, and a little loose plaster fell from old houses and smashed in the street below. Many people spent the rest of the night in their cars as a precaution, but Hilary and Ruggero didn’t even feel it.
The sun entered the window at its usual time, and Hilary opened the shutters as she always did, and looked out on the same world as always. She looked down at the pool, and thought it seemed different today. There was something…She went back to the bedside table for her long distance glasses, put them on, and brought it into focus.
“My God!” she cried
“What is it?” Ruggero sat up in bed, alarmed.
“The pool, it’s cracked, all the water is leaking out.”
He jumped out of bed and came to stand beside her. They looked down at it. There was an ample, and widening crack in the swimming pool and as the water seeped out, it was causing subsidence, so that the pool itself was moving and seemed about to start an inevitable slide into the valley. A stream of muddy earth flowed down below it, and was still moving.
“It’s going down. The whole thing is going to slide down the hill. The supporting wall must have given way. That’s Ettore’s shoddy work for you.”
They stood together and watched fascinated as half the pool broke away from its place and began to slide down into the valley. At the same time, a wave of water burst from the pool and at great speed seemed to push the broken-off section along, so that it bounced and boomed its way rapidly down to the valley floor, smashing into pieces as it hit the rocks at the bottom, near the stream. The remaining piece was moving slightly and would inevitably follow on.
“Incredible!” cried Ruggero. “Absolutely unbelievable!”
Other windows had been opened and heads appeared, necks craning to see. There was a kind of excited babble, which rose up and increased in volume, culminating in a great “Ah” as the pool smashed.
“A fitting end, wouldn’t you say,” commented Ruggero.
“I never did like it, anyway,” said Hilary.
END.
TUSCAN TEMPER
Margaret Moore
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
C
HAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
TUSCAN TEMPER
Margaret Moore
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY.NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The axe descended with incredible force, fuelled by years of resentment. It split the bone, and the noise was like a shriek in the quiet, sultry afternoon. But no one heard it. She gave a grunt as the last air that she would ever breathe, left her body. She was shaken by a small hopeless convulsion and then lay still.
The damage was enormous. Blood seeped out from the gaping wound, staining the bright hair, but no one was there to see it. A wave crashed in her brain, the noise drowning out all thought.
Now she was quite dead, unable to hear the panting, rapid distancing of her executioner. The massive force, that had separated her life from death, was spent. The axe lay abandoned on the ground; it had achieved its dreadful purpose.
The afternoon continued silent and undisturbed for a very brief period before the stealthy, secret movements of insects began. Alerted by some chemical change in the air, they began their predatory meandering, as they quested the source.
Then they arrived, greedily ready, their gluttonous mouths primed for the feast. She belonged to another realm now. She was theirs.
They began to lay her waste.
CHAPTER ONE
“Madre, why won’t you try and understand?”
“I do understand. You’ve been quite clear. I am asking you to do something that is very important for me, and for the family, but you are refusing to do it.” She paused and then continued in a more mellow tone, “Cosimo, darling, you are so talented, and you know that I have really done my best to help you develop that talent. You can’t deny that. You are so like your father, the only one who could follow in his footsteps. You have cost me a lot of money, but I'm not complaining. I have been amply rewarded, by seeing you work hard and excel, but now that I’m asking something of you, for the first time in your life, you refuse. What else is there to understand?”
“Madre, I’m only nineteen and I just don’t think I’m suitable.”
“Your age has nothing to do with it. I am the judge of your suitability. You are eminently suitable.”
“If you can’t see…”
“Oh but I can, “she interrupted. “I see a spoilt little grabber, who has taken all his life and gives nothing back.”
“Oh God…” he shouted and, pushing back his chair ran from the room.
It was a sunny morning, the windows were thrown open and the sound of their voices floated out into the warm air of this Italian summer. In the garden, Emily, picking roses, which she placed in a basket on her arm, smiled to herself. Dear little Cosimo was in trouble, poor boy. She closed her secateurs with a snap and secured them, then went towards the back entrance that led into the large kitchen. Signora Bianchi was making a sauce for the pasta they would have at lunch time. Emily favoured her with her famous smile, which her brother Orlando insisted was a conditioned reflex and occurred automatically in the presence of human beings, but was of no significance.
“Poor Madre, Cosimo is being awful to her,” she sighed.
“Well that’s unusual,” said Signora Bianchi firmly. “He’s such a lovely boy.”
Emily moved off into the scullery to put the roses in a vase. La Bianchi was just like the rest of them. They all worshipped Cosimo, but none of them realised how expensive his choice of career was for their mother. Madre, of course, was besotted with him because he looked like Father, and was such a fine musician, but perhaps now she’d wake up and see what kind of a person he really was. He had no thought for anyone but himself and his music. She popped the last rose into her flower arrangement. She was the only one who thought of little things like this that gave pleasure to her mother. She took them through to the drawing room, where her mother, was looking over her accounts.
“Look Madre, what lovely roses!”
Her mother glanced at them and sighed. “You should have put them in the pink vase Emily, that green one is too acid for them, and I have already told you that I don’t like it very much. That green glass looks cheap and tatty. Thank you dear, anyway.” She turned back to her desk.
Emily said eagerly, “I’ll go and change it shall I?”
“Leave it as it is.”
“I saw Cosimo rushing out while I was picking the roses; he looked very grumpy.”
“No doubt.”
“Has he been upsetting you?”
“Emily, I’m not some fragile little flower of a woman to be upset by someone who is only legally an adult.” She paused. “We’ve had a difference of opinion about something rather important, but I’m sure we’ll reach some kind of a compromise. Emily, did you order the oil for the central heating?”
“Not yet Madre, shall I do it now?”
“I thought we talked about it last week. Well, anyway get them to come as soon as possible, I do hate leaving things till the last minute.”
She picked up the phone and began to punch in a number,
“Hello, Miriam my dear, Diana here, how are you? Oh good, well if you’re feeling up to it, I’m having a small dinner party on Friday, just the family and the music teachers, and I thought you might enjoy it. You would? Lovely. Yes, as usual. Ciao, Cara.”
Emily slipped out and went down to the kitchen again to look up the phone number and ordered the oil. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past twelve. She should leave now as the girls would be waiting at the tennis courts, and she had to collect the dry cleaning on her way back. Lunch was at one o'clock sharp. She checked herself in the mirror. She was fashionably thin, but somehow looked scrawny. Her clothes were very simple, but expensive; beige, knitted, cotton top with matching linen trousers and she wore a string of pearls and little pearl and gold earrings. Her skin was sallow, and pitted from childhood chicken pox, so she wore heavy foundation cream make-up. Her hair was a lustreless medium brown colour; her eyes were rather large, brown and exophthalmic. A faint moustache adorned her upper lip.
She gave herself a smile of approval, patted her hair and then rushed out, worried that she would be late.
Diana Fothergill, known to her children as Madre, placed the last bill in the file, and closed it. She stood up and looked at the roses, rearranging them with a frown. There was a knock on the door.
“Avanti.”
The
door opened and a very handsome young man came in. it was her son Orlando.
“It’s only me, Madre, I just wanted to ask you something, well, tell you about something, before lunch.” He looked a little uncertainly at her.
“Orlando, I do hope it’s not going to be about another of your little schemes for making money, which somehow always seem to involve loss of mine.”
He laughed as though she had been joking, and then looking serious said, “You know that the local produce shop was a good idea, you said so yourself. It’s just that there isn’t a big enough tourist trade and the locals obviously don’t want local produce.” He paused and then added confidently, “This time I've had a really good idea and it would be good for the town, and for young people.” He paused again, and despite the lack of encouragement, continued, “I thought that it might be rather a good idea to have one of those trendy bookstore-coffee bars, or even possibly an internet bar, you know, you browse through the books, and then have coffee with your friends, and hopefully intelligent conversation. I thought we could have poets reading their stuff and artists could hang their paintings and so on. I know just where to have it, too, right in the centre of town, where Pino’s food shop and bar used to be, so it would be good, you know, for bringing the old part of town back to life, which is so important, and it wouldn’t cost that much. What do you think?” He had gabbled all this at top speed, to avoid interruptions, his voice full of enthusiasm.
“No”
“Oh, come on. You’re not even willing to talk about it?”
“No.” She stared at him, stolidly.
“Look, Antonio would come in on this with me, and he’s wildly enthusiastic, and I must say, I thought you would be. You’re always on about young people being culturally deprived in this area, and that it really needs someone to find a way of bringing culture to them, and them to it, and this would be a fantastic way. We could make the place look rather folksy and have ethnic stuff hanging on the walls; you know Peruvian knick- knacks and so on, and some ethnic music as a background. Apart from the poets, we could have good folk singers, who are poets themselves really, aren’t they, and that would draw people in. Then of course the books could be carefully chosen, stimulating, interesting, maybe the odd author coming along to chat, present his book and so on.”
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 23