The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  “Are you serious, I mean can you hear yourself? You’re talking rubbish. No one would come to such a place, except your friends. Folk singers and so forth, come pretty expensive. It might conceivably work in a big town, but here…no. Your last little failure was rather expensive, and I have to tell you that you’re not getting me to back any other little ventures. You didn’t really finish your own education and quite frankly your own culture is somewhat lacking, so I can’t quite see you bringing it to others. I don’t ask you to get a job; God knows there’s quite enough to do around here, the accounts for one thing, for the Summer school, I mean, which I am dealing with at the moment, since Signor Biagi died. This is our thing, created by your father, and I would like to see you all take more part in it. You have an allowance, and I feel you should do something for it. I don’t want to hear about any more brilliant ideas.”

  “Madre, I’d be hopeless at the school accounts.”

  “Then you’d be hopeless at any other accounts. I can’t see why you should be though, considering that you went to a business college.”

  “Well, yes, I mean, of course I could do it, but it would be deathly boring. Look, you think about my idea. Antonio says he can wait a week for an answer, but I mean really think about it. I’m sure you’ll come round to seeing that it would be of great benefit to the town, and would give me a gainful occupation doing something that I’d enjoy. I know that's what you really want.” He smiled at her.

  “Well, I know you enjoy spending money.”

  “Come on, that’s below the belt.” He gave a rueful smile. “Right, I’m off, see you at lunch.”

  He stood up, gave her a kiss on the cheek and slipped out of the room.

  She stood for a few minutes thinking, and then left the room by the French windows and walked out onto the terrace and down the steps to the rose garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Heat had never bothered her, and living in Italy suited her very well. She was tall and very sun-tanned, her green eyes still youthful, with extremely well-cut, straight, pale blonde hair, that hung, shiny and disciplined to her jaw-line. She was slim and elegant. Diana Emily Fothergill was called Madre by her children, who at some point had decided she was too distant for the childish Mummy, too English for Mamma, too elegant for Ma, and too aristocratic for Mum. She couldn’t remember when exactly, but thought it must have been when the first three were into adolescence. The ‘littles’, the other four, had carried on, and now she was never called by any other name, except by her daughter Francesca, who occasionally embellished it by calling her, Signora Madre.

  She moved off towards the barn where the trumpet class could be heard practising. The summer school, founded by her husband, was held every July and August, in two sessions. The teachers lived in a small house on the estate, or in hotels. Students were housed in the convent, and in private houses. At the moment, there were sixty students and twelve teachers. The musical director, Giorgio Paconi, had been with her for ten years. At forty he had been innovative, stimulating and enthusiastic. At fifty he was lazy, and obviously bored, with the result that whole school was feeling the want of stimulation. At the end of each course the better students would perform in the theatre, as an orchestra, and the best of the singers would give a concert. There was also be a production of a minor Opera, usually Baroque, given the size of the theatre and the orchestra. Informal afternoon concerts were given on a daily basis, and then on Sunday afternoons, the famous walking concerts introduced by her husband, in which the audience followed the musicians around the old town, where they stopped to play in various piazzas.

  Teachers were chosen by the musical director, and the pupils usually came with them, or hopefully from elsewhere, attracted by them.

  In its heyday, the school had attracted pupils from many European countries as well as from America, and occasionally from Japan or Korea. Now nearly all the students were Italian, the level had fallen off, and the production at the end of the first session had been very poor. The second production was under way and she was keeping close surveillance.

  The large trumpet class was practising for the mass on Sunday morning in the Duomo, the cathedral dedicated to St. Christopher. As a practising Catholic Diana was keen on sacred music being available for those who attended church. There would also be several evening concerts in various churches in the area. As she reached the barn, the rehearsal finished and she waited until all the students had left, rushing off to lunch at the school canteen in town, before going into speak to the trumpet teacher, Mario Bonanima.

  “Mario, I wanted to ask you, if you would be so kind, to ask all the music teachers to dinner at the house, on Friday evening, I know there’s no concert then. Tell Giorgio as well, please. It’s only an informal dinner party, I mean; they don’t have to be extra smart or anything, as I know they’ll be rehearsing till seven thirty. Could you do that for me?”

  “Lovely, yes. I’ll let them all know. What time?”

  “Oh, sorry, yes, I should think they could make it by eight fifteen, so let’s say eight fifteen for eight thirty. Thank-you. How’s it going? I thought that sounded quite good as I was coming over.”

  “Yes they’re not bad this lot. I hope you’ve told Giorgio about the extra rehearsals this time for the theatre. We can't just go in there after a minimum orchestra rehearsal and only a few with the singers, you know. He knows that. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. That first thing we did, the Purcell, was inadequately rehearsed, and I’ve told him so. I’ve wanted to talk to you about this. If things aren’t done properly this time, I’m afraid I don’t want my name to be associated with the St Christopher Festival. I’m sorry, but I've had it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no name on the programme, no name on the prospectus, and no name on next year's brochure.”

  “You’d leave?”

  “Yes. Either there’s a change in quality, or I go. It’s no good bringing in bright young men to do the scenery and costumes if we’re presenting rubbish. Look at the difference between this year, and say four or five years ago. You can see it as well as I can. The quality has gone down successively. The kids who are coming are not as good. My lot are OK, but really, some of the strings are terrible; I wouldn’t know who to choose to play in the orchestra. Add to that lack of rehearsals and, well, you’ve got ears. Listen Diana, I think it might be advisable to have a meeting about the general state of things, very soon. I mean it. Anyway, I’m off or I’ll miss my lunch. I’ll tell everyone about Friday evening.”

  He rushed off, and left her there alone. The barn was large, and from the outside unchanged, the ‘mandorlato’ windows, made with tiles forming an open pattern allowing air and some light to enter, used on all hay barns to keep them cool and aired, were still there and gave a filtered light within. It was cool and dark, so that the musicians had to use artificial light in order to see their music, but the inside of this barn was very different to its original state. The floor was polished wood, and the ‘mandorlato’ had windows inside it, which could be closed in winter to stop it from freezing. Downstairs were a couple of practise rooms and a bathroom. The barn was usually used by the trumpet class, as it was well away from other houses, and the noise was often quite incredible.

  Mario was her own age and had been with the school since her husband founded it nearly thirty years earlier. He was on the committee along with herself, a member of the local town council, her friend Miriam Greene, and two other musicians, friends of her late husband, who were now rather elderly and rarely attended meetings. She herself was the president, and had the power to veto the committees’ decisions on structure, and organisation, but not the choice of staff, which was the job of the musical director. Something would have to be done about Giorgio Paconi. She had already decided on a course of action that she felt would be acceptable to the others, and which she intended to pursue. She looked at her watch and realised it was nearly one o'clock, and she was feeling hungry.

  CHA
PTER TWO

  In the dining room, while Emily fussed over the table, her daughters Annabel and Harriet, always called collectively ‘the girls’, sat on the sofa in the corner of the room watching her. It was nearly one o’clock and, as if by magic, all the family were suddenly present in the room. They stood about, all Diana’s children and grandchildren, waiting for her to arrive. Francesca, her daughter, had decided to come to lunch, and for once looked fairly sober. She was with her daughter Zoë, a pretty dark haired twelve year old. Orlando, Diana's eldest son, blonde, tanned and beautiful, leant against the mantelpiece. Then there were, Cosimo, with wild, red curly hair, just like his father's, clear creamy skin and green eyes; the twins, red-headed, green-eyed, slim and tall, like their mother; and Angelo, the youngest of her children, with his long blonde ringlets, green-blue eyes and the pallor of the unwell, his adolescent beauty marred by dark ringed eyes, and a too thin face. He hadn’t shaved for several days, and his hair was tangled. He wore several ear-rings and a ring near one eyebrow. And of course, there was Emily. She turned to Angelo and said, “I wish you wouldn’t wear that ring in your eyebrow, it’s disgusting and you know it upsets Madre.”

  “Oooooh we mustn’t upset Madre, must we, Emily. What a disgusting little goody-goody two shoes you are,” but he turned and removed the ring.

  Chiara was talking enthusiastically, to her twin, about Emperor, a new horse she’d been jumping. “I really think he’s up to it, Ambra, and Riccardo thinks so too. He just sailed over, with miles to spare. I’m going to ask Madre if we can enter him for the competition at Pisa in September, he should be ready by then.”

  “Good,” said her twin, you never needed to reply much to anything Chiara said, as it was bound to be about horses and she just wanted to talk, not listen. She could go on for hours.

  Chiara turned to her elder sister, “Emily, send the girls down this afternoon at about four thirty, and you Zoë, come with them. We can take the horses down to the river and stay out a couple of hours if you like.”

  “Do I have to go?” whispered Zoë to her mother.

  “Of course; get you out of my hair for a bit.”

  Zoë looked at her cousins, who simpered at their Aunt, “Oh thank you Zia Chiara.” They were so awful to Zoë, that she was willing to give up the joy of riding, rather than have to go with them. She wished she had a sister too; it was hard to face up to the two of them, alone. Annabel was a year older than her, and Harriet the same age. Actually, she thought that Harriet wasn’t too bad if you could get her on her own, but Annabel didn’t let that happen too often, and when they were all together she would act bored, and yawn, and say things like, “When are you going home?” Home, well, at the moment that was two rooms and a kitchen in the corner of the living room, in the small flat downstairs. She and her mother nearly always ate with the rest of the family, unless Francesca had argued with Diana, a not infrequent occurrence, and that was almost worse, as then Zoë had to stay with her mother, while Francesca drank too much and raged on about her husband, Zoë’s father, from whom she had divorced four years earlier.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and Diana walked in.

  “Good-morning everybody. I’m not late am I?”

  “That’d be the day,” mumbled Angelo.

  They all sat round the long oval table, except Emily, who brought in the huge pasta bowl from the kitchen and set herself at the end of the table, ladle in hand ready to serve. The pasta, made with a ricotta sauce was served and the parmesan dish did the rounds. They all waited for Madre to start eating before picking up their forks.

  “Orlando, would you serve the wine please,” asked his mother.

  “Of course. Come on Emily, pass your glass and I’ll fill it up for you. Do you a world of good.”

  Angelo smothered a guffaw while Emily, as expected, replied, “You know I don’t drink, Olly. Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Never. Here you are, Madre. Francesca, none for you I suppose.”

  “Pack it up, will you.” She passed her glass. Angelo held up his and Orlando ignored it.

  “Come on Olly, what about me?”

  “No way, you’re under age.”

  Angelo snatched the bottle from him and filled his own glass. Diana ignored them and turned to her daughter.

  “Ambra, what do you think of the string section; I want an honest opinion.”

  “Haven’t you heard them yet?”

  “No, not recently, or I wouldn’t be asking you.”

  “Bloody awful.”

  “Can they be got into shape for the 20th?”

  “Boh! I don’t know. I suppose so or maybe the trumpets will drown them out. Quite honestly there’s no one that’s any good really.”

  “Apart from yourself.”

  “Modesty doesn’t allow me to admit that. Compared to them, I’m fantastic.”

  “Jesus, they must be bad,” murmured Angelo.

  “You’re hardly qualified to give an opinion on anything, let alone musicians, so shut up,” Ambra snapped at him

  “Angelo I wish you’d stop annoying the others. By the way I thought you were supposed to be giving a hand in the theatre?” said his mother.

  “I am.”

  “No you’re not. Marino phoned me to say you didn’t turn up this morning.”

  “Didn’t I? I must have overslept.”

  Annabel tittered, and was glared at by her mother.

  “Alright, I’ll go this afternoon. Hey Emily, where are you going with the pasta. I want some more.”

  “Oh sorry. Pass your plate.”

  “Thanks. Tell me does it give you a kick, serving us, scuttling about like a beetle from the kitchen to the dining room, ladling out our food. Have you found your role in life, serving others?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous Angelo, you’re such a child. Someone has to do these things, why don’t you give a hand? At least I do something. You spend half your life in bed and the other half, doing…well, Goodness knows what.” She went pink in the face and hurried out to the kitchen carrying the empty pasta bowl.

  “Did I detect a tear in the eye, of little ‘miss understood’. Sob, sob.” He pretended to cry.

  “Angelo, you’ll have to leave the table if you carry on like this. What pleasure can it possibly give you to be rude to Emily?”

  “Plenty,” he mumbled

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Apologise like a good boy, O.K?” said Olly, cuffing him gently on the head.

  Emily came back with a bowl of mixed salad and, balanced on top of it, a plate of cold meat, and ham. She plonked them on the table, and said huffily, “Serve yourselves.”

  “Emily, I apologise.” Angelo did his best to look contrite.

  “Oh, let’s forget it, please.”

  “Cosimo, will you come to the studio after lunch please, you haven’t got a rehearsal have you?” asked his mother.

  “No.”

  “Ambra, aren’t you hungry, you’ve eaten nothing?”

  “No, I’m not very hungry. It must be the heat. You know how I dislike it. It always makes me feel out of sorts. I think I’ll go and lie down after lunch. I haven’t got any lessons this afternoon.”

  “Oh, I thought you might have liked to come and see Emperor,” said Chiara

  “Not today, thanks.”

  They finished their meal with fruit and Orlando went off to the kitchen to make coffee, which they would drink on the terrace at the back of the house. Angelo joined him.

  “How’s life, Olly boy?”

  “Much as usual, thank you.”

  “Got any new schemes going then?”

  “Mind your own business, infant.”

  “You know, I’ve got a new name for you.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  He finished preparing the coffee tray and gave it to Angelo. “Here, take that out, I’ll bring the coffee pot.”

  Angelo looked back, and said over his shoulder, “My
name for you is King Merdas. You remember King Midas, and how everything he touched turned to gold, well you are King Merdas, and everything you touch turns to shit.” He left laughing hysterically, and was still laughing when he reached the table, and put the tray down in front of his mother. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and asked, “Don’t you want to know what’s so funny?”

  “No,” said Diana frostily. “I do wish you’d stop being so childish.” She looked at him disapprovingly. Emily, sitting beside her, unconsciously mimicked her mother’s expression.

  “Shall I serve the coffee?” asked Olly, coming up behind him.

  “Yeah, serve Tweedledee and Tweedledum first," he said, indicating the two women. “I’ll be happy to just have the dregs.”

  “Really, Angelo, if you are going to continue being so silly, I think you should leave us,” said Emily.

  “Ooh, am I being sent to my room?” He clowned, pretending to be a naughty boy and cried in a weedy voice, "Don't smack my botty, Mummy!"

  The girls leaning against the terrace wall tittered, and Emily, sounding more irate, said, “For goodness sake, you’re setting such a bad example Angelo. Girls, I thought we agreed you should rest this afternoon. Go now.”

  “Quick girls, off you go, or Uncle Angelo will set you such a bad example, you might start to imitate him, and that would never do.” He made shooing gestures with his hands.

  “Quite frankly, I should think they would be too intelligent to imitate an idiot like you.”

  “Well, in that case, why send them away, dear Emily. There is obviously no problem. Girls, stay where you are, it’s alright. There’s no immediate danger.”

  The girls laughed at him, and even Emily managed a weak smile.

  Francesca put down her empty coffee cup and stood up.

  “Come on Zoë, let’s go. I think you’ve been exposed to more than enough for one day. We mustn’t risk contamination either, must we, darling.”