“Do you have any ideas yourself, as to who could have done this? Did the Diana Fothergill have any enemies? Had anyone ever threatened her to your knowledge?”
“Everybody loved her. This is the work of a madman. They let them out of the hospitals now, and they roam around and then this sort of thing happens. You start checking on that sort of person, before you go investigating this family. Have you finished, because I want to get on with lunch, not that they’ll have much appetite, but there you are. Life goes on.”
“No, I have nothing more to ask you, and thank you for your help.”
His cell phone rang, and the Maresciallo informed him that the murder weapon was definitely the axe, and the one print on it belonged to Riccardo Bertollini. The rest had been cleaned off with a paper handkerchief; fibres had stuck in the wooden surface. A screwed up paper handkerchief had been found in the rose bushes. The autopsy was under way, and they would have a preliminary verbal report as soon as it was terminated. Cosimo Guerrazzi's blood was the same group as his mother's.
The young policeman, who had sat in the alcove taping the interviews, stood up, stretched his legs, and asked, “Are we doing anymore this morning?”
“If I can find Cosimo Guerrazzi, then we’ll do a formal interview, I think, so you can come and sit over here where you’ll be visible. I’ll go and see if he’s come back.”
He went along the corridor towards the kitchen. He could hear voices, but as soon as he entered the room, there was an immediate silence.
“Has Cosimo returned?”
A slight figure detached itself from a seat near the window.
“Here I am.”
“Good, if you would come this way, I would like to ask you a few questions, and then perhaps you would sign a formal statement.”
“Of course.”
He ushered the boy in front of him, and gave a sharp glance around the room before he left. He noticed a tall, thin woman, dressed in black, with an obviously grief-stricken air. ‘Emily,’ he thought, ‘and she looks like she’s overdoing it a bit.’
Cosimo, who looked even younger than his years, glanced at the young policeman and the tape recorder, and Di Girolamo said, “We are going to tape this interview, then this officer will type it up, and you can sign it.”
“Should I have a legal representative?”
“I don’t know, should you? I’m not charging you with anything at the moment.”
“O.K. I mean, no, then it doesn't matter."
He leafed through the faxed transcripts of the interviews conducted by Maresciallo Biagioni. “Now, it says here, that you say you arrived at about three yesterday afternoon, and went to your room, then subsequently came down to your mother’s room to wait for her, at about four o’clock. Is that correct?”
“Yes, well that is, I don't know when I arrived. I left Torre some time after lunch but I can't seem to put an exact time on anything. It must be the shock.”
“Really? Perhaps you can explain how you came to have a dried bloodstain on your shirt cuff? It was your mother’s blood, as I’m sure you are aware.” Di Girolamo felt that a bit of latitude might be useful in gaining further information.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to explain how you came to have the bloodstain, because, as I understand it, you were not with the others when they found the body.”
“No”
“No what? No, you weren’t with the others, or no, you don’t want to tell me how you got the bloodstain."
Cosimo made no reply.
"Well, there was only one way wasn’t there? Either you killed your mother and got blood on you doing so, or you touched her body when she was dead. Which is it to be?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“But you knew she was dead?”
“I saw her.”
“And touched her.”
“And touched her. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“I was frightened you would think I had done it.”
“You were right to be frightened, Cosimo, weren’t you. Your mother’s death must solve a lot of problems for you. She was tightening the purse strings, and you didn’t like that one bit, did you?” He had gradually been raising his voice and making himself sound more menacing. “Maybe you should try doing without money” That’s what she said isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?” he gasped.
“Never mind that. It’s true, isn’t it, that you argued, and she was withdrawing financial support, so you went off for a few days to sulk? Then while you were away, you had a brilliant idea? Is that what happened Cosimo? Did you come back to kill her, to get the money to which you no doubt felt entitled? After all, you are your father’s son; you must have felt you had a right to the money, and that she had no right to withhold it. So…no more problems with your mother out of the way. You'd get what you think is rightfully yours.” He spoke rapidly, and finally raising his voice, barked, “Isn't that what happened?”
“No, no, that’s not it at all. I didn’t do it. We had argued, that’s true, but I was coming back to talk to her about that. Let me try to explain; I knew that if we didn’t see each other for a few days, she would start thinking, and maybe see things my way. I wanted to speak to her, before anyone knew I was back, so I went along to the pergola. I knew she would be there because she always rests there after lunch. She seemed to be asleep, but there was something different.” He paused and said very softly, “I thought she had a scarf, or something, on her head, then, my eyes got used to the dark, and I saw… and it was this buzzing noise that made me realise. There were flies. It was awful. She had been alive and now she was just a…a lump of meat.” His voice caught. He looked at the policeman sadly and said, “I went to the body, and I touched her. I don’t know if I thought she could possibly still be alive, but I realised then that she was dead. The blood was congealed and… flies were laying their eggs.” He looked directly at Di Girolamo, his voice rising, “Oh God! Can you imagine the horror I felt? Have you any idea? I rushed to my mother's room and just lay there. Then Ambra came and found me, and told me that she was dead.”
The phone rang, and Di Girolamo went out onto the terrace to answer it. When he came back in, he patted the boy on the shoulder.
“What time did you say you reached the house?”
“Three o’clock, I think. I don’t really know.”
“How did you come, by helicopter?”
“What!”
“Well, your friend, David D’Orso, says that you left Torre at two thirty”
“Oh!”
Di Girolamo was surprised that the boy flushed, his pale skin becoming progressively redder, as he looked uncomfortably at the floor.
“So, I judge that it would be impossible for you to be here before four o’clock and, even then, only if you had the good luck to have a clear road all the way. Why did you lie about this? You seem to have preferred a lie over the truth on every possible occasion.”
He looked intently at Cosimo, who looked back at him, and said, “I thought you would think it was me.”
“So you said earlier. Why would changing your time of arrival make me think you were innocent?” he knew why, but wanted, must, hear the answer from the boy.
“I don't know. I suppose I thought if I said, I came earlier, then I was in the clear.”
“Why were you in the clear? I don’t understand.”
“Well she was killed later, wasn’t she? She was killed just before I arrived.”
“Was she? How do you know?
“Well, I don’t, I just thought she hadn’t been dead long, when I found her at four, so I said three, as that was too early, or that’s what I thought. Then it would look as though I had been in the house at the time that she was murdered.”
“How many dead bodies have you seen?”
“Only this one.”
“Then you have no experience, and couldn’t possibly judge how long she had bee
n dead, could you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Cosimo, when you tell me lies, you make my work that much harder, you confuse things, and you make yourself seem guilty. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes. I do. I’m sorry. O.K.” He took a deep breath and said firmly, “I arrived at about four o'clock, maybe a bit before, or shortly afterwards. I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch. I went straight to the pergola, as I said. I hoped she would still be there, and we could talk before we had tea, but I found her dead. That’s all. Then I went straight to her bedroom, and lay down on her bed, in her room.” He paused and then added. “It was a way of being near to her. I don’t expect you to understand that. Anyway that’s the truth.”
“Thank-you Cosimo. You may go now, you will be asked to sign a statement later. Would you ask your sister Emily to come in, I believe she is up and feeling better now.”
“Yes, she is. I’ll tell her.”
It was getting late. The morning was slipping through his fingers. There seemed to be little news, and he had hoped for more. After he had seen Emily, he would take a break to go and eat something, meet with the Maresciallo, possibly lunch with him, and hear what he had to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Emily slipped into the room. If she had knocked, he hadn’t heard her. She looked dreadful. Dressed in black, she looked even thinner than she actually was and her face, thrown into relief against the harsh colour, looked blotchy and puffy. Her large eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.
“You asked to see me?”
“Yes. At least if you are, as I presume, Emily Guerrazzi.” It was a statement.
“I am. This is my mother’s study, you know. You are sitting at her desk.” She gave him a furtive glance and then looked round the room as though checking that everything was still in place. Her fingers clutched the material of her dress, fingering it nervously.
“Your sister gave us the use of this room, but we won’t be here for very long. I’m sure you will find it preferable to the police station.”
“Preferable?”
“You must understand that I do need to talk to you, somewhere.”
Her fingers tightened on the material. He wondered if she was alright, or whether, perhaps, he should have waited before talking to her. She spoke very slowly, and gave the impression of being half asleep. Perhaps the doctor had given her something a little too potent. Well, she was here now, so he thought he’d better make the best of it. She hadn’t answered him, so he continued, “We have to ask all the members of this household to give us an account of their movements yesterday afternoon. It is purely a formality,” he added this last phrase as though to reassure her.
“I understand. Yes, I do understand. It’s your job.” She suddenly smiled horribly and became jerkily, more animated. Her thin arms waved spasmodically in the air. “Of course, yes. Yesterday afternoon I was at the pool with Arturo, until about four, while my mother was being savagely, brutally…. I think that answers your questions.” Her eyes bulged alarmingly and shone with tears. She dropped her arms in her lap, and closed her eyes, as though enduring great suffering.
“You didn’t leave the pool at all during the afternoon?” He kept his voice calm and even.
“Yes, I did.”
“Why was that?”
“I came to get the sun block-cream for Arturo, he burns easily; he has very delicate skin. Poor Arturo. I had forgotten to bring it with me.”
“At what time did you come to get it, from the house, I presume?”
“It was in my room. I came up to the house at about three, maybe three fifteen or maybe a few minutes earlier, I can’t be sure. I wasn't looking at my watch. One doesn’t, you know.”
“I see. Now, on your way to the house, did you see anyone?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She thought for a moment, and said, “Yes, I saw Riccardo, going towards the orchard, I suppose, because he took the side path.”
“Was this on your way to the house, or as you went back towards the pool?”
“As I was going back.”
“How long do you think it took you to go on this errand?”
“About ten minutes, maybe a little more.” She hesitated, turned a bit pink and muttered, “I had to go to the bathroom.”
He decided to change tactics, and after a pause asked,
“Did your mother have any enemies?”
“Enemies! Madre! Of course she didn’t. She was a wonderful person. Ask anyone. Everyone loved her.”
“So, there was no one she had argued with, no one who might be pushed by exceptional circumstances to want to murder her?” He felt this was a risky question, but wanted to see her reaction.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t possibly mean someone she knew well, one of the family? You couldn’t call the family, enemies”
“It is a possibility.”
She drew herself up and glared at him. “Doctor di Girolamo, my brothers and sisters may be an unpleasant little group of people, but I hardly think they’d be so depraved as to kill their own mother.” She was looking straight at him, for the first time.
“Why do you say unpleasant?”
“Well, I meant, ungrateful, and egoistic really.”
“What had they to be grateful for?”
“Everything!” She looked amazed that he should ask.
“You think children should be grateful for what their parents do for them?”
“Of course!” she shook her head, as though stupefied by his stupidity.
“But they weren’t?” He was pushing her.
“No, not in my opinion.”
“Give me an example.”
She was silent for so long that he thought he had failed, but at last she sighed and said, “I expect you already know something, or you wouldn’t be asking me this question.” She looked at him, but he gave no sign of answering her.
“Alright, I’ll give you an example. Cosimo; he was her favourite son. He was a brilliant musician, and she spared no expense to help him, but when she asked him to do something she really wanted, something very important to her, he refused.”
“You think he should have done it?”
“Yes, I do. I think it’s the least one can do, you know, to give something back, when you’ve had so much given to you.
“Had the rest of your family much to be grateful for?”
“Of course! We all had. Madre did everything she could to help us. Not that they were ever satisfied, they always wanted more.”
“Well, let’s take your brother Orlando for example, what had he to be grateful for?”
“Oh God! He did nothing but ask for money. He is a spendthrift. Last year, for example, he made mother set him up with a small local produce shop, you know the sort of thing that tourists go for. He involved the local farmers, and vintners, and beekeepers. Well, to cut a long story short, it was a flop, an expensive flop. Madre was far too good to him.” She sounded resentful. “I know he was after her again, it’s easy to see when he’s on the hunt. He gets very kind and thoughtful.” She almost sneered.
“And for example, your sister Ambra.” Ambra was the only one with not a shred of an alibi, he thought. “I know she argued with your mother, the day before her death.”
“Ambra, well, I don’t know that I can talk to you about Ambra; you should ask her about her little problems with Madre.”
“She might not feel like telling me. Besides, whatever you say here is confidential.”
For a moment he thought she wasn't going to tell him, but her eagerness to put the record straight, to show her brothers and sisters in a bad light, was stronger than any motives that she might have had for reticence. She sighed and then made her decision.
“Alright, Ambra argued with my mother because she wanted to marry Riccardo Bertollini, and Madre felt she was too young, and that he wasn’t really in love with her, but was just after her money. It was a terrible argument. Madre
said Ambra would marry him over her dead body. Oh! Goodness! Well, that’s just a way of speaking isn’t it? I hope you don't think I'm suggesting that Ambra killed Mother. That wasn't my intention at all. I was just trying to answer your question as truthfully as I could.” She gave him one of her famous, meaningless smiles, a rictus in a death mask. Her face seemed to become paler.
“What’s your opinion about that?”
“I think Madre was quite right.” She suddenly flushed, as though stating her opinion was embarrassing.
“Where do you think your brother Angelo is?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” And you don’t care either, thought di Girolamo. “I expect he'll turn up when he hears about mother.”
“Do you?”
“Well, he's bound to hear about it. The television and papers are full of it.”
“Did your mother get on well with Francesca?”
Emily made a noise that sounded like a suffocated snort. “Hardly, and that’s no secret. She asked her to leave her flat by the end of the month, you know.” She said this, almost with relish.
“How did Francesca react to that?”
“Oh, there was the usual verbal abuse, swearing and so on. I don’t know why Madre put up with her for so long.” Di Girolamo was very interested to note that as Emily relaxed, she became positively poisonous.
“Where do you think she will go? She has a child, I understand.”
“Oh yes, the wretched Zoë. She's consumed with jealousy of my two, you know. To answer your question, I don’t know, or frankly care, where Francesca goes. She’s an alcoholic, and they aren’t easy to live with.”
“What about Chiara? She’s the horse-mad one, is that correct?”
“Oh yes, horses day and night. Well, she and Madre got on fairly well. I suppose it was a sort of truce, but I think she got it in the neck too, as she was asking for money from Madre for a riding school, and I very much doubt she got it.”
Di Girolamo found her increasingly irritating, She was so smug, quite sure that she was the only ‘good’ daughter, and all the others were judged by her yardstick, and found wanting,
“Your husband works?”
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 39