The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  “Now the twins; Ambra first.”

  “Well you can’t possibly suspect Ambra, she’s such a little poppet, because I presume you do suspect that one of the family killed Diana, don’t you?” She looked seriously at him, but as he made no reply continued, “Diana never bothered with Ambra as much as she did with Cosimo, but she’s an excellent violinist. I’m no judge, but those who are, have told me so. She tries so hard to please Diana, to be noticed, but she really has grown up in her brother’s shadow. She’s quiet, and unassuming, nearly always cheerful.

  Her twin sister, Chiara, is crazy about horses. That’s all there is to say. Diana couldn’t understand her at all. She had let the girls ride as children, but Chiara has never stopped. She is obsessed. She talks of nothing else. My dear, she is so thoughtless. She would calmly mention worming her horse, at the lunch table. There wasn’t much friction between them, as Diana gave up with her. She tried to push her to go to university, but I think the girl would sooner work as a groom somewhere, and live on a pittance doing so.”

  “This is all quite amazing.”

  “Yes, isn't it?”

  “Do go on, I can’t wait for the rest.”

  “Well, then of course there is Angelo, the baby.” She smiled in reminiscence, “Angelo, was the most beautiful baby, and for the first time Diana seemed to fall in love with a child of hers. Usually she was so busy that she gave them over to Nanny as soon as possible. He was tiny, a premature baby, and she thought he would die. She became over anxious, breast-fed him for ages, well over a year, He was walking about. Well, it’s not usually done is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No, of course, I’m sorry. Well, as he grew older she was too clinging, and worried over him too much. Then his father died, and Diana went into mourning, I mean emotionally. She cut off all emotion. She forgot about her son, left him in an emotional desert. She has never been the same since Pier Francesco died, you know. She’s become more controlled and, of course, she has had the burden of deciding about everything on her own, so she’s become very tough. I keep using the present tense, I can’t get used to it, you know, that she’s dead.”

  She paused for a moment, then continued,”It’s very sad you know, what happened to that poor child. She never bothered about him again, and he became a little monster, always in trouble at school, and making himself look such a freak, never combing his hair, and all those awful rings everywhere, all to make her notice him. She did notice him, but I don’t think she ever really loved him again. All her interest was centred on Cosimo. Angelo has disappeared, and I know she was very worried. She told me she was frightened he might be on drugs. Poor little boy, he’s only just seventeen.”

  “What can you tell me about Riccardo Bertollini, the estate manager?”

  “A fine man. He’s the same age as Orlando you know, but what a difference. He’s a worker. He went through the Agricultural College, and came out with top marks. He’s very capable and honest. He runs this place like a dream.”

  “And what about the musical director, Giorgio Paconi? I gather that he resigned, why was that?”

  “Oh, that awful little man. Well, he’d been letting things slide, it was bad enough last year, but this year, the standard was so low, that she decided to talk to him about it. When he saw which way the wind was blowing, he resigned before he was thrown out, and make no mistake, he was going. The committee was due to meet at five o'clock yesterday afternoon, and the outcome was a foregone conclusion. It was a bore that he decided to leave immediately, as we had reckoned he would stay to finish the course, but of course, he could see all the advantages in resigning. He would be able to make it look as though we were pressuring him, and in order to maintain his artistic integrity, he felt obliged to resign. Would you believe it, the cheeky bastard had the effrontery to phone me this morning, and he spoke to Mario Bonanima and said that he was willing to reconsider, and withdraw his resignation in view of Diana’s death. Mario bought us some time but, this afternoon, unless we can convince Cosimo to take over, we’ll probably have to accept his offer. Doesn’t it make your blood boil?”

  “I can see it makes yours boil. How badly do you think he wanted the job back?”

  “Well he was furious yesterday evening, and sweet as sugar this morning. I would say, he wanted it a lot, but if you mean did he kill for it, well, my dear, how could I possibly know?”

  “Thank you Miriam. I think that’s all I need to hear. I know everything about everybody, or as much as you know, or want to tell me.”

  “Well, it’s privileged information, and you’re the only one ever to hear it, but if you want to know the dynamics of this family, then you need to know a lot about them. I know you will treat all that I have said, as confidential. I hope to God, it wasn’t one of them. I know you’re a good man Ruggero, do your best, and come and help me get out of this bloody chair.”

  “Miriam, you’re a lovely woman, come on, make an effort, that’s it.” He pulled her up and she leant against him.

  “You’re a lovely man, Ruggero, and I’m glad that Hilary’s had the sense to realise it. If I’d been thirty years younger, I would have had you myself.” She grinned wickedly at him. He kissed her on the cheek and said, “You are also a terribly wicked woman, Miriam.”

  “I know, and I enjoy it.” She moved off towards the door.

  “Oh, Miriam, ask them to send me in one of the cleaners, please.” He returned to his desk to mull over the information that Miriam had so generously supplied. Within this strange family there were was an extremely complex series of relationships, with practically every member of the family likely to have some kind of motive to dislike Diana, but to kill her? Maybe not. What was really weird was the claustrophobic setting. He knew of no other family that lived in this way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cristina Paolini knocked on the door, and then timorously entered the room.

  “Please be seated. What is your name?” asked Di Girolamo quite kindly.

  “I’m Cristina Paolini, sir. At least, that’s my maiden name; now I’m Signora Baci.”

  “You work here as a domestic help, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I do cleaning.”

  “I see. Now, on the afternoon that the Signora was murdered, were you here.”

  “No sir. I was here that morning. I alternate. Sometimes I do mornings and sometimes afternoons. It’s to fit in with my husband’s shift work at the factory. ”

  “I see. Did you notice anything unusual that morning?”

  “No.”

  “Now, I’m going to ask you confidentially, if you know of anything that might be useful for my inquiry. The sort of thing I would like to know is, for example, if you can tell me about what sort of relationship the Signora had with her children.” She looked at him dumbly.

  “I mean, did any of them have an argument with her, at any time?”

  “Oh, well, children always do, don’t they? I mean, my sons have terrible rows with their dad, but that don’t mean they want to kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “No, of course not. Did you ever overhear that sort of argument?”

  “Well, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. They’re only young people, and they shout, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

  He was beginning to despair of getting any information out of her. “For example, do you know why her son Cosimo left the house so suddenly and stayed away a few days? It was rather unexpected wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I said to Matilda, she’s the other cleaner, ‘he’s gone off in a huff,’ I said, ‘and he hasn’t taken any clothes with him.’ Of course he phoned, wouldn’t speak to her though, just told Signora Bianchi he’d be back, and that’s more than the other one did.”

  “Why do you think he went off in a huff?”

  “Had a row with his mum.”

  “Look, anything you say to me will be in complete confidence. Do you know what they rowed about? Did you overhea
r anything?”

  “Well, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I wouldn't do that. I mind my own business, but I was cleaning the hall, and they was going on, in her study, something awful, so I couldn't help overhearing the noise, and then he storms out. He nearly flattened me behind the door.”

  “As your duties took you so near to the study, did you actually hear anything they said? Were they speaking Italian?”

  “Oh yes, they always seem to argue in Italian. Well, just before he came out, she said “It’s very hard to make it without money, maybe you should try. And he said, ‘Thank-you Madre, (that’s what they called her), maybe I should try.’ Well, anyway, something like that, only she said it very nasty and quiet, and he said it real sarcastic.”

  “What about the others? As you said yourself, all children have these little arguments with their parents.”

  Warming to her subject, the woman became more loquacious. “Well, that Francesca, she’s a terror, always arguing with her mum she was. The other day, they was at it again, and Francesca was shouting and swearing. You’d never think she’d had such a good upbringing, the way she swears. She was shouting “Get out, and swear words, and don’t set foot in here again”. It was terrible, but then, she’s not really herself when she shouts like that,” she paused and then added, “She drinks.”

  “Oh yes? Well of course, that does make a difference. What about Ambra for example, did she ever argue with her mother?

  “Well, you know it’s funny you should ask that. She doesn’t usually, but the other day, oh my God, they really had a set to, but the next day they were right as rain. That’s the way it is with children.”

  “Yes, and Chiara?”

  “Oh her, she doesn’t argue with anyone, she’s always with the horses. Dreadful stinking things, I’m not kidding, you should smell her clothes when she’s been riding! I don’t know what she sees in them, but there you are. They say she wants to start a riding school, so she’ll be with them all day!”

  “And Orlando?”

  “Mr. Charm. No, he doesn’t argue and shout, he’s got such a way with him, he doesn’t need to. He can, sorry, could, wind his mother round his little finger. He’s a one, always joking. He spends a lot though, ooh, he’s a terror with money, and the girls, still you can’t help but like him.” She smiled at some memory.

  “Now what can you tell me about Emily?”

  “Well, she’s her mother’s right hand, so to speak. She looks after everything for her, and runs this house perfectly, well, you’ve seen it. She follows us around, wiping her finger along the furniture to see if it’s clean, and if everything isn’t just so, we have to do it all over again. No, she would sooner cut off her little finger than fight with her mum.”

  “But her husband is a different kettle of fish, eh?”

  “Oh, him, well he’s nothing, is he? I mean no one takes any notice of him. He’s away half the week, and when he comes back, he’s always back at his mum’s. He’s not the sort of man you can respect. He’s not a Signore, and La Signora didn’t like him, I can tell you that.”

  “Yes, I see. What about Angelo, he’s away at the moment I understand.”

  “Away! He’s gone, disappeared, and cook said she was real worried about him. She's got a soft spot for him, don't ask me why. I think he’s a little monster. He’s got rings all over him, what do you call it, that piercing, and he wears these clothes that are all torn and he never even washes. He’s got this long hair and it’s terrible. He never combs it either. He’s so rude to his mum, and yet she never says a word to him. He got thrown out of school, you know. They say he takes drugs.”

  “Did you ever find anything when you cleaned the rooms?”

  “No. There’s nothing there. He doesn’t even smoke in his bedroom. He shares with Cosimo, and smoke upsets his asthma.”

  “Well, thank-you very much for your help. No-one will know what you have told me, so rest assured about that.”

  “Well I should hope not, I don’t want to lose my job do I?”

  “Of course not. Would you ask Matilda to come in next please?”

  “She can’t tell you anything, she’s almost deaf.”

  “Well, I’ll see her anyway.”

  Matilda proved to be very deaf and had no useful information at all. The two gardeners were next but knew little of what went on in the house. They were away on the afternoon that Diana had been killed, and he felt there was little more to be gained by a more lengthy interrogation. However, as the second one, Ugo Crudeli, a university student working here in his summer holidays, was about to leave, he asked him one last question and was quite surprised by the answer.

  “What sort of a man is Riccardo Bertollini?”

  “Well, he’s a hard worker, and he expects everyone else to work hard too. He runs this place like clockwork, and he’s ambitious.”

  “Ambitious?”

  “Well, he’s already bettered himself, if you like, but he’d like to be a 'Signore'.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well he’s after the daughter of the house, Ambra. You know what they say, if you’re not born to money, then marry it.”

  “You think he’ll succeed?”

  “If this remains confidential, then I’ll tell you that I know he’ll succeed.”

  “You mean….” Di Girolamo looked at him and with one hand made a circular movement over his abdomen.

  “Yes, but I’ve said nothing.”

  “She’s a lot younger than him, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. It’s disgusting.”

  “She’s more your age?”

  “Yes, a year younger.”

  “You know her well?”

  “Yes, I do, or rather I did. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Fair enough. Thank-you. Oh, if the cook, Signora Dora Bianchi, has arrived, send her in next, please.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ruggero di Girolamo stood up to stretch his legs, and looked out of the window. The boy, Cosimo, now appeared to have some kind of a motive, it looked as though his mother was about to cut off the money supply line. That’s why he had ‘left in a huff’ and maybe he had thought things over while he was away, and decided to come back and remedy everything by murdering his mother. He knew, as they all did, that Diana rested in the pergola every afternoon, so what could be easier than to arrive, pop round and do the deed, then carry on to the house apparently unaware of her death.

  The next knock on the study door, brought Signora Dora Bianchi into the room. He asked her to sit down, and observed the signs of grief on her plump face.

  “How long have you been with the family?”

  “Thirty years.” She looked at him with reddened eyes. “I came here when I was still almost a girl, well, I was twenty-seven years old, and I never left. The ‘Signora’ was a wonderful woman and she relied on me. I wasn’t a trained chef, no, nothing like that. My mother taught me to cook, and then I began to try new things, and the ‘Signora’ bought me some books, or would teach me things herself. We got on very well, and she never interfered. In the old days there was a lot of entertaining, well there still is I suppose, but then we had a lot of famous musicians, and politicians and writers, and I cooked for all of them.” She smiled contentedly at the thought.

  “You obviously know the family very well.”

  “Yes, I came here when the first three were only little, and they used to come into my kitchen for titbits, and the others were all born while I was here, so I’ve watched them all grow up. I don’t live in, you know. No. I said to the ‘Signora’ when I came here, ‘I want my own family life’, and she understood. I usually come at about nine thirty and leave after lunch, then I come back late afternoon, about five and leave as soon as they sit down to eat at eight. That’s on normal days. I don’t come in on Sundays, unless there’s something special.”

  “I understand that there’s been a bit of friction recently.”

  She instantly bridled, and said, “Well, that
happens in all families, and you don’t want to go listening to that Cristina Paolini either. No. They are a lovely family. They may have their differences of opinion, but nothing that time won’t heal.”

  “ I see,” and he did. He could see she would tell him nothing.

  “What do you think has happened to Angelo?”

  “I don’t know. She was very worried about that, and to tell you the truth, I am too. He always phones. I know people think he’s a wild one, but he’d never willingly make his mother worry like this, that’s why we thought something must have happened to him.”

  Tears threatened again, and she produced a pack of paper handkerchiefs.

  “He’s often been a naughty boy, but I’ll tell you the truth, he’s a lovely lad. He used to come and sit with me, and we’d have a coffee just the two of us, and a slice of that fruit tart I make, that’s his favourite. He was kind and thoughtful, to me at any rate. I know, he looked awful lately, but that’s just like dressing up, trying to show everybody how tough he was. I said to him, ‘don’t you go tattooing yourself, or you’ll look pretty silly when you’re fifty.’” She smiled and added, “‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t do anything permanent.’ And don’t you go believing he’s a druggie, because, he’s not. He pretends he is. I suppose he thinks it will get him more attention, from his mother, I mean. He looks like one, and talks like one, but I know he’s not. And don’t go thinking I don’t know one when I see one, because the lad next door to us was on drugs, and he’s away in one of those rehabilitation centres now, and let me tell you, that was quite different.”