The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  The girls went up for an afternoon rest, as they would be up late in the evening, and after lunch it was too hot to do much anyway. The older members of the family drank their coffee, while Olly and Angelo had a brandy. Then they all dispersed to their separate occupations, Angelo to the theatre; Francesca to rest with Zoë; Chiara to the stables; Ambra to bed; Emily to the kitchen to give Signora Bianchi a hand; Diana and Cosimo to the studio.

  Within a few days, one of them would be brutally murdered.

  The house was quiet now. It was an 18th century Villa, set just outside the town of Borgo San Cristoforo, a hill town in Tuscany. A long drive, flanked with an ornamentally trimmed hedge, led to a double staircase and the impressive front door on the first floor. This was the piano ‘nobile’, a series of reception rooms leading into each other and used as drawing room, living room, dining room, studio and Diana’s bedroom and bathroom. There was also a single guest room with a tiny shower-room created by chopping a room in half. The kitchen had been moved up to this floor, leaving the ground floor free, which was where Francesca had her small flat. Other rooms on that floor were used to store food, and all the washing and ironing was done on this floor. To one side, were the wine cellar and the room where gardening equipment and tools were kept.

  The back of the house was also reached by a separate road, which came in past the stables, from a back gate. This was used mainly for deliveries of supplies. There was a large circular flower bed. French windows opened onto a terrace the width of the house with steps down to the rose garden. The walls were covered with Virginia creeper, which had red leaves in the autumn.

  The bedrooms, which were not very large, were on the second floor. Angelo and Cosimo shared a room, as did Chiara and Ambra, and Annabel and Harriet. Emily and her husband, Arturo, had the largest room, and Orlando the smallest. There were two spare bedrooms. They all shared the three bathrooms. Above this were the attics which were not used much now, but had been when the children were younger, when they had had a British nanny. It was here that they had lived and slept as small children. Gradually they had all moved to bedrooms on the floor below, until only Emily had used the nursery, for the girls when they were babies. Sleeping badly, they often disturbed the rest of the family. There was a large playroom, and two bedrooms for the children, one for Nanny, two bathrooms and a kitchenette for Nanny to heat bottles of milk for babies, and make herself tea.

  That had been in the days when their father was still alive and the house was full of eminent musicians. Pier Francesco Guerrazzi had been one of Italy’s greatest living composers and had toured the world as a conductor. Diana had met him when he was fifty, at the height of his career. She had been twenty four, and playing in an orchestra, which was touring Italy. A slim, beautiful, blonde English girl, she came from a family that had its roots well into the past; her ancestors had been courtiers to Queen Elizabeth the first. She had started playing the violin at boarding school and then gone on to the Royal Music College where she had distinguished herself. When she met Pier Francesco, she had fallen madly in love with this magnetic Italian, whose famous hair was still red and wild, and whose virility was undiminished, despite his age. He had seemed young and dynamic to her.

  They were married within two months and her life had changed dramatically. The first three children had arrived very quickly and she had been absorbed in attending to their needs, and her husband's. After that the other four children and her husband had totally taken over her life and she had been forced, to some extent, to put music aside. She was now sixty; Pier Francesco would have been eighty six, had he still been alive.

  Over the years she had changed, losing her youthful enthusiasm and becoming more reflective. It was hard to relate her now, to the young wife, so deeply in love with an ageing husband, a little shy and uncertain, living only for him. She had become more restrained, remote and more powerful. As a single parent for ten years, years which had seen tremendous changes in her children, she had gradually become more, and more, controlling. While to others, outside the family, she seemed a role model, truly concerned only for the well-being of her children, to her family she was a despot.

  The other driving force in her life was the summer school, and the music festival which derived from it. The school had grown out of a genuine desire to help young musicians start out on their career. It gave them the chance to perform in public, in trios, quartets and as part of an orchestra. Later they had added a course for young opera singers and when the theatre had been renovated and the orchestra pit enlarged they had started performing operas. Now the St.Christopher Festival, which took place while the summer school was functioning, had made quite a name for itself. At one time there had been courses for light technicians and for costume and scenery designers, with workshops all over town, but it had been decided to drop them when the government, and subsequently the region, had made cuts in their budget and grants had got smaller. Recently the productions had become less ambitious, and help was hired only as needed.

  Cosimo and Diana were in the study. He sat on the little divan and she in an armchair facing him. She had brought her second cup of coffee through with her, and set it on the tiny table that separated them. Diana cleared her throat and began to speak to her son, in Italian. The choice of language was an indication of her desire to win him over.

  “Cosimo, my dear, I feel that our discussion this morning got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to talk to you calmly now, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so.” She smiled encouragingly at him, and suddenly reminded him of Emily. He was extremely annoyed at having to come back and go over the whole thing again, and it was typical that she should thank him for obeying, what had been, more or less, a royal command. The awful thing was that she always got her own way, and was so certain that she was right, that she seemed to think that as soon as she had explained the whole thing all over again, he would agree to do what she wanted. She was wrong. Some kind of turning point had been reached. He was not going to do what she wanted, no matter what she said, no matter how many ways she found of saying it.

  “Darling, what I really want you to understand is that the situation is pretty bad. I spoke to Mario before lunch and he says either things change or he’s out. So you do see that it’s not just some whim of mine. Besides you’re a musician, you know what’s happening. I think you can help us pull out of it. Giorgio Paconi has got to go. There’s no question about it. He’s just coasting along, doing as little as possible, and this isn’t the first year, as well you know. It’s just getting worse and worse. We’ll have the meeting at the beginning of next week, I think, and he’ll be given the push. What I would like, is to propose you to the committee, at that meeting.” She paused, but her son continued looking at the carpet.

  “Cosimo, please look at me when I’m talking to you. It is most unpleasant to talk to the top of your head.”

  He looked up, flushing with anger, absolutely furious with her. On the one hand she wanted him to do something that he was far too young and inexperienced to do, and on the other she was talking to him as though he was six years old. He remained silent, waiting for her to finish. He wondered how long it would take her to go through the whole gamut of persuasion techniques that she had perfected over the years.

  “That’s better, Don’t look so grumpy. Let me finish.” Her tone was cajoling. “Oh Cosimo, when I look at you, I see your Father. You’re so like him and you’re talented too. I know you will have a great career. Winning that last international competition has opened the door for you. I don't have to remind you that there are many concert pianists, but few great ones, and I really do think that you could be one of them. Yes, I know you’re young, and at the start of your career, but what could be better for that, than that you, so young and talented, should take over the baton, step into your father’s shoes and run the school. You wouldn’t be alone. We are all here, and can back you up. You have met other young and exciting musicians, and can bring them here, give ba
ck to the school what Giorgio has thrown away.

  Please darling, think about it. It would benefit you and the school. We could do terrific press coverage on it, and that would stimulate interest. You know good teachers to bring here, so do I, but with Giorgio at the helm, it’s been his choice, and recently it’s been very questionable. We still have Mario and one or two of the others that your father brought here, and despite their careers, they still give us a little of their time with the master classes, but what about the others? Surely you can see that this would be of mutual benefit, so will you rethink?”

  “No”

  “Really, Cosimo, you might at least have the grace to explain properly this ‘no’ of yours. I think you owe me that,” said in a saddened tone. He knew that after the flattery and the wheedling, and the emotional blackmail, she would move on to threats, so he decided to speed up the process.

  “Madre, I’m not going to do it. You’re quite right, when you say that doors have been opened, and I want to go through them. I don’t want to get bogged down here. I need to move on, and I don’t want to be sacrificed on the altar of my father’s fame. This is not what I need to do now. I’m not going to do it. You must accept that. I’m sure it would make quite a stir in the press, but that’s not the kind of stir I want to make. There must be many young, enthusiastic, capable people who would jump at the chance to do this, who don’t want the kind of career that I want. I want to be free.”

  “All I am hearing from you is, I, I, I. You’re so egocentric; I can hardly believe you’re my son.”

  He snorted.

  “Oh, so you think I’m egocentric, is that it? Well let me tell you that all I care about is the family. I never think of myself. This isn’t my ego trip. You’re the one who’s on an ego trip. “I want. I don’t want.” Well I think it’s time to reconsider a few things. I’ve never denied you anything, and you’ve cost me a lot of money. There are very few young men as fortunate as you. Why should I carry on spending money on you, when you obviously don’t appreciate it? I’m always being accused of favouritism, perhaps I should ease up. Perhaps you should have to struggle a little, find out what life is all about. Have you ever thought how hard it is for some musicians, no matter how talented they are? You want to be a concert pianist, and that option is only open to you because you come from a very rich family. It’s very hard to break through, without money." She made a significant pause. "Maybe you should try it. A few, a very few make it. Could you, I wonder? She looked at him, waiting for him to capitulate.

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe I should try. Maybe I should thank you for giving me the opportunity to try. Thank you, Madre.” He stood up and swiftly left the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ambra lay on her bed. She had closed the outside shutters, and lay there in the gloom. She couldn’t sleep, even though she was very tired. She had never been so tired as she was lately. She felt a wave of nausea. She even shivered despite the heat. How was she going to tell Madre that she was pregnant? There would be hell to pay. She was a musician, not up to Cosimo’s level, maybe, but very good. What would happen? Riccardo was quite certain that her mother wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. “Why should she?” he asked. He couldn't see the problem. They would get married. Of course, he agreed, Ambra was young, very young, but she was legally an adult. He was working for the family, and was well paid and well liked. Diana had never made class distinctions, and he had always felt that she treated him more as one of the family than as an employee. He had grown up near the family, had gone to school with Orlando, and then onto agricultural college, where he had got a first class diploma. Diana had taken him on after he had done an apprenticeship in a large nursery, and now he ran the estate, from the vegetable garden, to the vineyard, and the greenhouses. He looked after the horses, and saw to the upkeep of the park. He had two lads helping him and, with them, dealt with all aspects of estate management, ordering supplies, paying the lads and the other bills, selling surplus produce, and seeing to the maintenance of the farm vehicles and the swimming pool. He felt that Diana had complete faith in his capabilities and his honesty. He could understand, that she would think it unfortunate that this should have happened, and he really hoped she wouldn’t see it as a betrayal of her trust. The fact was that he loved Ambra, and she loved him, so it all seemed quite simple to him.

  Ambra knew that it wasn’t simple at all. Diana’s apparent lack of discrimination was only skin deep. The last thing she would want was for her daughter to marry the gardener, well, estate manager, who was a local boy from a family of factory workers. Also, Ambra was a musician, and Diana would expect her to have a career in music, and that would mean travelling, and be hard to reconcile with marriage to Riccardo.

  Ambra knew that Diana expected all her children to be brilliant and to make good marriages, no matter what she may say about just wanting them to be happy. She mentally reviewed her sisters’ marriages. Diana had been delighted when Francesca got married to Federico de Luca, a young lawyer from an aristocratic family, and had very reluctantly taken Francesca and Zoë back when the marriage fell apart, after eight years, despite her energetic efforts to weld it back together again. Francesca had been living in the splendid Villa Ottone with her in-laws. Federico, an only son, was their main concern, and he was away at work most of the day, leaving Francesca to fill in the time with shopping, having coffee with friends, and finally, after the discovery of her husband's infidelity, with alcohol. She had never played an instrument, despite her mother’s urging, and had spent a golden youth, partying, skiing, spending the summer on the beach, the guest of friends and the winter in the Dolomites, husband hunting, as she called it.

  Federico, surprisingly, came from a town only ten miles from Borgo San Cristoforo and she had fallen in love with his dark beauty, his popularity, his aristocratic life style, and his money. The match had been highly acceptable to Diana, and Zoë’s birth had made her hope that Francesca would settle down, to producing a few heirs to the family fortunes and the joys of domesticity. Francesca did not. She wanted to carry on with the carefree life of her youth, and leaving Zoë at home with her mother, who popped her into the nursery with Emily’s children, she would join friends for a week's skiing, or dash off to Sicily, or Rome or wherever a group were going. Federico rarely accompanied her as he was forging ahead with his career. His parents, who found her troublesome around the house, a disturbance in a perfectly run, ordered, and quiet existence, were only too glad when she took herself and her child off and gave them a week’s respite. Federico, no longer a playmate but growing into an adult, left her behind and found consolation with other more adult women, who would not exact the price that Francesca did. Inevitably, she had found out and was distraught. Her descent into apparent alcoholism was rapid, and the recriminations, the endless repetitive arguments, the accusations, the threats of suicide, the hate that seemed to flood out of her in proportion to the alcohol she had taken in, killed what little was left of the love he had for her. He had moved to another plane, and Francesca who had been left alone, slid further away into unrecognisability. He no longer knew her. They terminated their marriage, like a dying animal with a mortal disease. An expensive operation for him, as Francesa claimed support for her child and herself that, (as he had once remarked), would keep her in gallons of booze for centuries. As the guilty partner, he had little choice but to pay up, while Francesca remained over the border, like a remittance man, brandishing Zoë at intervals as a weapon for possible future engagements.

  Then there was Emily, who had married the only son, (there were two sisters), of a nouveau riche family, as her mother insisted on calling them, and then discovered that the family fortunes had taken a turn for the worse, so that they had fallen in status from rich to comfortable. Arturo, who had been supported by them in his various abortive attempts to set up his own business (as he had failed as a scholar), now found himself with a wife and two children and the necessity to work. Despite Emily’s pleading, Di
ana refused to take him on in any capacity on the estate, mainly because she didn’t like him, and he had finally found a job, through his father’s influence, with distributors of industrial kitchen appliances for hotels and restaurants. He spent three or four days a week on the road, which suited Diana very well. Emily lived in the house, working as an unpaid servant to her mother’s whims, where she pushed her children under their grandmother’s nose, extolling their virtues at every available opportunity, with some success. As they had been well schooled in the art of pleasing, with their charm and good manners, as well their beauty, they were their grandmother’s favourites. Zoë, who looked so like her father’s family, and was so unhappy, had little chance of competing with Annabel and Harriet. With a child’s intuition she kept away from Diana, and was very quiet in her presence.

  With these two examples of marital bliss in mind, Ambra tried to imagine what her own life would be like if she stayed on in the house, not just as her mother’s daughter, but also as Riccardo’s wife. Impossible to see herself as another Emily! Impossible to imagine Riccardo in the house! Madre, in a thousand intangible ways, would make him as uncomfortable as she did Arturo. Ambra would be advised to leave her child with a nanny, and be constantly reminded of the expense, while her mother would push her on with her music, separating her from Riccardo and the child. How long would a marriage last in those conditions? No, that was not the answer. She wanted to leave, to start a new life with Riccardo, but of course he was tied to the estate. She needed to be allowed to leave the house, maybe live in town, like a normal person, while Riccardo carried on with his work. He could easily support them, and later she could apply for a teaching post in the conservatory where she had been a pupil, or at first, perhaps, give private lessons at home. Forget it, she told herself, Madre would never allow it. She would advise what she felt best for them, and then bring pressure to bear to make sure that they complied with her decision. Ambra turned her face into the pillow and wept. She wanted Riccardo, and to have this child of his, on her own terms, but she couldn’t. She had no rights to any of the money her mother controlled, and if Riccardo lost his job, what would they do? She shivered and wept, then suddenly jumped up from the bed and rushed to the lavatory where she vomited, and wept again.