The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  The blow-up of a photograph, requested by Di Girolamo, was quite effective in revealing a fresh print, albeit partial, which he found very interesting.

  On the day of the murder, Francesca’s car had remained parked all afternoon near the enormous green rubbish skips, a fact which had considerably annoyed an elderly spinster, as it had impeded her view of the road, and of passers by.

  Chiara was coming home later in the day and, hopefully, he would be able to see her. She was feeling well. Her neurological examination had been negative, and her head had cleared remarkably well. She would arrive in the late afternoon.

  The death of Diana Fothergill hit all the national television stations, partly because of the appalling manner of her death, but also because of her illustrious husband. The newspapers had carried lengthy articles, to make up for their brief, factual ones the previous morning, proclaiming horror and sorrow, and outlining the family story, reminding everyone of the illustrious career of Pier Francesco Guerrazzi, the school he founded, and the St. Christopher Festival. A small article mentioned that the music director had resigned the day before Diana’s death, and carried a quote from him, about artistic incompatibility as the cause of his resignation, and his deep sense of loss, for the death of a personal friend.

  Giorgio Paconi had had a very unpleasant meeting with a caustic Miriam, and a gleefully smug Mario, the previous afternoon. He was seething with the desire to take revenge, but had not as yet thought up anything sufficiently unpleasant to compensate for the humiliation he had suffered. To make things worse, he had been summoned to the ‘caserma’ in the afternoon for an unanticipated interview with, what would turn out to be, a distant and somehow rather frightening, di Girolamo.

  Beatrice Fothergill, Diana's sister, arrived at Pisa at ten thirty that morning, and was taken by taxi to the villa, where she was graciously received by Emily who, as the eldest child, considered herself to be the head of the family. Arturo had gone to visit the girls and take a suitcase of clothes for them, for their unexpected holiday.

  The Maresciallo popped into the main bar to check on their clients the previous Saturday afternoon, between two and four o'clock, and was most perplexed to discover that no one had thought to do so sooner. He would be investigating this unforgivable lapse himself, later that morning, at the caserma.

  Francesa’s offer for the house had been accepted and a date for the contract fixed. She and Zoë drove out of the Villa by the back entrance, eluding the journalists, to the house they would live in, and spent the morning discussing what changes they could, or should make.

  Ambra went to the vegetable garden and talked with Riccardo, banishing any doubts she may have momentarily entertained.

  Cosimo got up fairly early and went straight to the school, where he was taking the morning’s orchestra rehearsal, and where Ambra would join him shortly afterwards.

  Orlando wallowed in the bath for sometime, reading the newspaper. He then dressed exquisitely, and set off in his two-seater sports car, but was stopped at the main gate and invited to proceed to the police station, immediately. He walked into di Girolamo’s office, escorted by a conscript, who bellowed his name, with, what Orlando felt, was unnecessary vigour, and found himself facing a seated di Girolamo, who was wearing a medium-blue linen suit, and a very pale pink shirt, which Orlando found questionable. He, himself, had chosen to wear simple, cream-coloured slacks and beige shoes, so soft and light that he hardly knew he was wearing them. They had been handmade by the local cobbler, who made shoes for all the notables in the area. He wore no socks. His polo shirt was the same colour as his trousers, with the famous crocodile embroidered on it. The top one, of the three buttons, was left open. He carried in his hand, an expensive, brown leather bag in which he kept his cell phone and wallet, the thin strap round his wrist. His freshly washed blonde hair flopped over his eyes and he brushed it back with his hand as he smiled, revealing perfectly aligned teeth.

  Ruggero di Girolamo indicated the chair in front of his desk, and Orlando sat down on it, with a questioning look.

  “Good morning. I was told you wanted to see me.” He seemed perfectly at ease, and crossed one leg over the other, revealing a tanned ankle.

  Ruggero leaned back in his chair and looked at this almost perfect youth, perhaps a little short in the leg, but as the Italian saying has it, ‘the best wine comes from a small barrel’. Strange that most of the girls in the Guerrazzi family were tall, whereas Cosimo was short and very fragile looking, and this boy, though quite muscular, was not very tall either. Perhaps their father had been short. He would find out, just to satisfy his curiosity.

  “Emily my dear, this is a sad thing. I don’t quite think I’ve taken it in yet.” Beatrice greeted her niece with a brief hug. She looked older than her sixty-seven years, much older than when Emily had last seen her, a few months earlier.

  “None of us has. How are you Aunt Beatrice? You don’t look very well.”

  “I’m not, but that’s another story. I know it’s the wrong time of day, but could I have a cup of tea please, dear?”

  “Of course, come and sit in the drawing room, and I’ll bring you one.” She bustled off.

  When she came back with the tea, she found her aunt looking at a studio portrait of her mother.

  “She was a lovely girl you know. You and I are the ugly ducklings in this family, my dear.” She looked not unkindly at her niece, who resembled her so much. Emily gave a half-hearted smile in answer to her aunt’s rudeness. ‘Really the old lady must be getting senile,’ she thought.

  “Where’s that husband of yours, not at work?”

  “No Aunt, he’s gone to take some clothes to the girls. His parents are taking them to the sea for a few days to get them away from all this.”

  “It’s no good hiding things from children. They always find out anyway. Much better to tell them the truth, and let them learn young to face up to things. We were always made to. In the midst of life…”

  “Well, this wasn’t an ordinary death,” she said awkwardly. “The police are always here, and well, we thought it better this way.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I see. I suppose they think it was one of you lot?”

  “I don’t know what they think, but they are very uncivil. It’s bad enough having to face her death, without all this as well.”

  “They have to do their job. They’ll catch him.”

  “I hope so. Then we can all breathe a bit easier.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “God knows, some madman I suppose. They closed the lunatic asylums some years ago, and now the most awful people are allowed out on medication, if they remember to take it.”

  “Anyone got it in for her?”

  “No. But if it was a maniac, he wouldn’t even have to know her, would he?”

  “Well, he’d have to know she was there, wouldn’t he? So, it must have been someone who knew she always went there, after lunch.”

  “Not necessarily. He could have just come upon her.”

  “Don’t pull the wool over your own eyes. It might please you to think it was an outsider, but I hardly think it could have been, and judging by the look of you, neither do you, if you are honest.”

  Emily, her hands clasped in front of her, in the age old, hand-wringing position, looked very tired and overwrought. She had dark circles under her eyes, and looked even thinner than usual. Her Aunt gave a disapproving glance at Emily's black clothes and said, “I don't understand why you've got yourself up like a black widow. An armband is more than enough to show respect, if you must but, personally, I think even that is questionable. As it is, you're rather overdoing it. I suppose it's an Italian thing. I don’t hold with ostentation. I've always thought it shows deplorable taste.” As usual Beatrice was being her forthright, critical self. Not even her sister's death appeared to have changed her.

  “I’m just so upset about her death.” Tears thr
eatened yet again, and the old lady looked away. She did not approve of unseemly behaviour, and weeping was very unseemly in her book. Arturo came in and went to greet Beatrice with a hug and a kiss on each cheek, in the Italian fashion, something that she personally found too Latin, but when in Rome…

  She sipped her tea, and then poured herself another cup.

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Well, they should be releasing the body today, so probably the day after tomorrow. I have been in contact with the priest, Don Silvio.”

  “Roman Catholic I suppose?” she said disapprovingly. Her sister had changed her religious allegiance, before marrying Pier Francesco and, like many converts, had become a strict, practising Catholic, something that Beatrice, an occasional Church of England churchgoer, found excessive.

  “Well, of course,” said Emily, fingering the cross at her throat. She shared her mother’s fervour, unlike the rest of the children, who were all either, non-practising Catholics, or openly declared, atheists.

  “Oh, I forgot, you’re one too.” She glared at her niece, and her husband in turn.

  “Will I be allowed in, then?” she asked.

  “Of course. Anyway, it will be a private ceremony, with a very restricted number of people. Just us, the family that is, and one or two old friends. We want to avoid a big public thing. I hate it when the whole town goes shuffling down to the cemetery on foot, following the hearse at snail's pace. It takes hours; I don’t think any of us are up to anything like that.”

  “One should always remember one's duty to the population. They may wish to have the opportunity to make a public avowal of affection, especially if it is a local custom,” Beatrice said rather severely.

  “Of course, there is that. Well, I expect we'll discuss it. Perhaps we could have a memorial service, at some later date.”

  Arturo left the room rather hurriedly and, when Emily joined him in the kitchen, a few minutes later, bent on getting more hot water for the tea pot, he said, “Your aunt's a Dinosaur. Where does she think we are, in the colonies?”

  “Don't be horrid Arturo. She means well, and actually, she may even be right.”

  Orlando looked at Di Girolamo, with blank light blue eyes, devoid of expression. Di Girolamo looked back at him with blue eyes of deeper shade. They were taking each other’s measure, before starting.

  “Your alibi was false.”

  “Oh! So you know.”

  “The people in the bar saw you there for approximately two minutes, when you bought cigarettes. Your friend lied, and so did you.”

  “Yes. Well, I had a reason.”

  “I’m sure you did. I wonder what could have prompted you to ask a friend to commit perjury. Perhaps you needed an alibi because you were busy killing your mother, that afternoon?”

  “Me? Oh no, that’s not why I didn’t tell you the truth. The fact is, that I was with somebody, well… a woman.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Do I have to tell you?”

  “No. You don’t have to, but you will become my number one suspect, unless you can prove you weren’t at the Villa. I don’t like liars. They complicate my job. They also make me very suspicious.”

  “Well, she’s a married woman and, if her husband finds out, there’ll be hell to pay. He’s violent, and I don’t know what he’d do to her.”

  “She obviously likes playing with fire. Her name.”

  “Signora Anna Gonnella, she lives in Via dei Mercanti, No.12, and her husband is a lorry driver, he’s away three or four days at a time.”

  “How very convenient for her, and for you. Is he away at the moment?”

  “Yes, but he’ll be back tomorrow. He has his spies, so if they see you going to the house, they’ll tell him.”

  “We can be discrete.”

  “Look, they’ll know, and if he finds out…” He moved about, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He ran his hand through his hair, and threw himself back in his chair, looking anxiously at the Di Girolamo.

  “Yes, you have already said that. I’ll find a way to see her without going to the house. I presume she is free to leave the house? Where did you have your little, meetings, shall we call them that, with her? ”

  “Well, in the summer, we use the gazebo here in the park. She parks her car round the back of the estate. Anna has a good friend who lives nearby, so she gives her an alibi, and I pick her up along the road, and bring her in through the back entrance.”

  “And in the winter?”

  “I have a friend who rents out a farmhouse in the summer months, but it’s empty in the winter, and he allows me to use it.”

  “So this is quite a longstanding thing?”

  “Yes, and before you ask, she has a child, and if she goes for a divorce, and he finds out about me, she’s frightened she’ll lose the child.”

  “This alibi had better be good, because your situation changed for the worse, when I found out that you had lied to me, for whatever noble motive. Then, I add together the facts that I have, which are: one: that you are permanently in debt and, that you had just got five thousand euros from your mother to pay only one of your debts, and two: that your friend Antonio, who so kindly gave you a false alibi, is expecting to go into a new business venture with you, which will cost quite a bit. You are permanently strapped for cash, so where did you think you would get the money for that? No, don’t tell me. I understand that you had already started a softening up process on your mother.”

  “Dear Emily!” remarked Orlando softly.

  “So, I say to myself, look how opportune your mother’s death is for you, perhaps too opportune. Now, you will have as much money as you want, without even having to ask for it.”

  “Look, I know things look bad for me but, I didn’t do it. You don’t understand. I’m always in this kind of economic chaos, but I always pull through somehow. Sometimes I get lucky, and win at the races, or even at poker. I know that losing five thousand euros looks terrible, but I have won more than that on more than one occasion, and lost more than that as well. I’m not proud of myself. I know my weaknesses. I suppose I’ll have to grow up one day. The thing is, that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, not for me. Why should I kill Madre? She was a good sort. She might have kept the purse strings a bit tight but, as I’m sure Emily will tell you, she always came up with the necessary in the end.”

  “I’ll check your alibi myself, and I’ll do it discretely. You can go now, but please stay in the house and grounds for today. Just one more thing. What shoes were you wearing yesterday, when you met Anna?”

  “What shoes?” he thought for a moment. “I was wearing espadrilles.”

  “Were you still wearing them later, when you found your mother’s body?”

  “No, I had changed. Madre preferred us to be fairly respectably dressed for tea. I was wearing these.” He stuck a foot up in the air.

  “Alright, you can go.”

  It was a dismissal. He left the room and drove home pensively.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Giorgio Paconi was the only possible suspect, apart from Chiara, that di Girolamo had not yet interviewed. He came into the room exuding indignation and sat himself down, adjusting his plump little buttocks in the chair, before di Girolamo even had the chance to invite him to do so. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his brow, before glaring at Ruggero.

  “I think it is quite preposterous that you should ask me to come here. Everyone saw me come in and, by everyone; I mean all those journalists and the television crews. Do you know how damaging this could be for my reputation?”

  “Yes, I think I do, but it was necessary.”

  “Well, what do you want to know? I have given you a solid alibi for the afternoon in question, so I can hardly believe that you are considering me as a suspect.”

  “Yes, you have, but I am not satisfied. You say, you made a lot of phone calls from your hotel room, but in actual fact the phone calls were made from your ce
ll-phone, and there were only three calls anyway, which was hardly sufficient to take up all the afternoon.”

  “What does it matter what phone I used. I was in my hotel room.”

  “You can't prove that. You could have gone to the Villa dei Fiori and killed Diana Fothergill.”

  Paconi gave him a smile, as though to suggest that di Girolamo had just said something rather amusing. “Did someone see me leave the hotel?”

  “No, but I would hardly expect you to leave in a public manner if you were bent on murder. I rather think you would have crept out the back way.”

  “And how did I get to the Villa?” His tone was sardonic.

  “You have a car.”

  “Did anyone see me drive off?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, there you are.”

  Di Girolamo looked at the portly little man, whose breathing was so laboured as to be almost asthmatic, and more or less discarded him as a suspect. The man was hardly able to waddle about, let alone wield an axe.

  “Tell me about Diana Fothergill?”

  “What about her?”

  “What she was like. Someone killed her; they must have had a reason.”

  “Between the two of us, I'm not surprised. She was an insufferable bitch. I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but I have never met such an autocrat. She was suffocating my talent, abusing my integrity as an artist, and trying to blame me for the loss of kudos that her miserable little Festival was suffering. As if it was my fault! The fault was her own. She was a dictator, always interfering with my choices, questioning my decisions, and making my life hell. I was forced to leave.” He flourished his handkerchief to emphasise his words.

  “You put it in a slightly more diplomatic way in the papers.”

  “Well, it never does to tell the whole truth to the media, but the truth was, that no one could work with her. Everyone went on about admiring her and so on but, let me tell you, very few of them liked her.”