She breathed a sigh of contentment, remembering the events that had led up to this moment. It had taken her five minutes to fall in love with this house, a month to decide she would be able to afford to buy it, and then six months of ghastly hassle before she had finally succeeded in doing so. She knew she had been overcharged, but she no longer cared. The house had belonged to five brothers, all now in late middle age, anxious to forget their peasant origins, and make money while doing so. It had been an arduous task getting them all to agree to the sale of the house, as one of them had changed his mind at the last minute, and had refused to sign, having decided that perhaps he would prefer to have a country house. Also, unexpectedly, the house seemed to have suddenly acquired sentimental value for him. As he had been unable to raise enough money to buy out his brothers, reluctantly he had given in under pressure, but the house price had risen accordingly. Finally he had allowed himself to give up the family home, as he called it, which he had only lived in briefly, until the age of three.
That ghastly little estate agent Ettore Fagiolo had had the whole thing in his hands, and although one should not speak ill of the dead, she felt sure that most of this pathetic story had been concocted in order to make her pay more.
However, at last she had done it, and then had followed months of decisions, and indecision. What work needed to be done, and what she could afford to have done, had been very sore points. Ettore had suggested a firm of builders who had presented her with such a frightening estimate that she had nearly dropped the whole thing there and then. Luckily 'darling' Hilary had helped her out, but even so the whole thing had cost rather more than anticipated. The house had needed to become an urban dwelling, or be 'de-ruralised', which had to be paid for, before anything else could be done. Then a 'geometra', a sort of surveyor, had drawn up plans for the alterations, and submitted it to the 'comune' the Town Hall, for approval, and once again this had cost money. Finally with permission to do what she wanted, and having rejected Ettore's proposal, she had been greatly taxed to find a builder, someone honest, reasonable and hardworking, who would come when he said he would, and finish the work within a certain time limit.
Her good friend Hilary Wright had been 'such a comfort, and so kind', as she told everyone. She had suggested a family firm, two brothers, a nephew, and a hired labourer, whom she knew to be honest and felt certain would do a good job. In fact, Hilary had had to help Isabelle at every stage of the lengthy procedures that had culminated in ownership of a ruin, and subsequently, today's possession of her home.
Unfortunately, despite her great love for the country and an intensive course of Italian lessons, followed by on-going home study with the aid of interactive computer discs, Isabelle's command of the Italian language was minimal. Belle, as her friends were told to call her, was unable to speak more than the most rudimentary Italian, and was totally incapable of reading and writing the language.
For the past six months she had rushed around choosing wall-tiles, floor-tiles, taps, shower units and the like. Most of her original ideas had had to be abandoned as she had found things in British magazines, which were not available in Italy. She had longed for a cast iron bath with clawed feet, but having found out that they cost about five times as much as a normal bath, had reluctantly given up the idea. She was desperately cutting costs now, as her bills mounted up, and knew that her plans for a charming little flat for guests, in the ex cantinas, would probably not reach completion.
After the divorce, she had tied up quite a large sum "off-shore" and then set aside enough for the house and its conversion. She could not touch her capital which yielded just enough for her basic needs, so when the allocated money ran out, the work would have to stop, not that her builder, Marco, believed her for one minute. Unless she got lucky, of course. She had taken up painting years ago, and with the help of kind friends had had a few shows and sold some of her rather pallid landscapes. She was sure that living in Italy would be a continual source of inspiration, and looked forward to having a show of her Italian stuff next year. There was already a fair amount of it, and it was the sort of medium priced thing that people found affordable, and inoffensive. She was also working on illustrations for a cookery book, which a dear friend was writing, and then illustrations for children's stories kept the pot boiling. She was considering writing something for children herself, and had actually mapped out a story about a rather charming fairy, who often got things wrong. Her computer was in the little study which she had painted blue, and this relaxing colour, she was sure, would undoubtedly be conducive to well thought out work. Today she was going to fill the bookshelves that lined the walls of this room. Courageously she took off her sheepskin jacket, and rolling up her sleeves, started work on the boxes of books, which she had rather cleverly, she thought, separated into categories when packing.
At just before twelve, when the builders packed up for lunch, she wandered round to the back of the house to have a word with Marco, her builder. He was such a dear, she thought, one of those honest, hardworking, vibrant men, who despite their lack of formal education had that noble, instinctive, intelligence that, she had persuaded herself, she so admired. Like many foreigners she made the mistake of endowing Italian workmen with qualities that they did not actually possess, turning them into icons, romantic figures ennobled by the sweat of their brow. She had described Marco enthusiastically to all her friends, as an intelligent and incredibly sensitive man, so in tune with her ideas, that language was no barrier.
The house was set on a hill and dominated the little town of Castello across the valley. Borgo San Cristoforo appeared to be in the distance on the plains, and she had a splendid view of both the Apuan Alps and the Apennines. Far, far below a tiny river snaked through the valley. When she arrived that morning she had not seen the ambulance and police cars, and the crowd that had gathered, so was unaware of the drama unfolding down there, a drama which in some degree would touch her own life. Here all was silent, not even birds sang. Had she but known it the birds had been decimated by local hunters, one of whom was her builder. Little birds cooked in a rich sauce and eaten with polenta, was a favourite meal in the hunting season in this area.
So now she plodded round the house pulling her sheepskin collar up against the wind, until she reached the back terrace where Marco had set up his cement mixer. His nephew was wheeling a wheelbarrow load of bricks into the downstairs flat.
"Buon giorno Alessandro" she called in a jovial tone, enunciating distinctly with a strong English accent." Dove Marco?"
"Andare Borgo" he made a gesture indicating where Marco had gone. Many Italians, when faced with foreigners, believed that they were more comprehensible if they used the infinitive of verbs rather than the correct tense, which was very thwarting to the neo student of the language.
"Bene, bene." she said brightly, favouring him with a big smile, and then tried to communicate her need. "Mia valigia è in macchina. Lei può portare la valigia in mia casa?" She gave him another warm smile.
He replied, “OK,” and gave a thumbs up sign to indicate that he had understood and would fetch her suitcase from the car. Isabelle found it quite depressing that he should use this sort of sign language. She would never learn much if everyone communicated with her like this. Alessandro went to the car and effortlessly carried her two heavy suitcases into the house. He looked at her and said, "Dormire qui?" and made a sleep sign with hands held together at the side of his face.
"Si. Io dormo qui stasera," she said laboriously.
"Bene, bene” he said "Io andare, mangiare." and made an eating gesture, bunched fingers jerking towards an open mouth." Then he made a rolling gesture with his hand. "Dopo, tornare, dopo. Marco tornare,"
"Bene, bene,” she said inanely, having understood that both he and Marco would be back after lunch. Alessandro loped off, and she returned to the house to eat her bread and cheese, sipping her red wine, which came from the hills around Lucca.
The house was warming up slowly, an
d looked much better now that the bookshelves were full, and little pieces of pottery had been placed here and there. A few photographs in ornate silver frames, some of which were antique, graced the occasional table set near the window. She had bought some flowers, pale pink roses, the day before, and they also stood there in a slender crystal vase. The photographs were of her family. Jeremy, her eldest, a musician, his wife Elizabeth, and their two year old, Clement; Fenella, her eldest daughter, with her Jamaican partner, Gregory, and their two month old daughter, Jasmine; Miranda her youngest daughter, who was at university and partner-less at the moment, as far as her mother knew.
Hopefully they would all come out to stay for part of their holidays, though having Elizabeth would be a bit of a bore as she was such a stickler for hygiene that she would doubtless find Isabelle's house totally unsuitable for the infant. Still, perhaps the lure of the Italian sunshine would compensate, and help her to overcome her scruples. Perhaps they would come for the music festival. She supposed it would still go on, even though Diana Fothergill, the woman who ran it had been murdered the previous summer, in a most ghastly way. That had been very unfortunate actually, as Isabelle had insinuated herself into the family and was still great pals with the eldest daughter, Emily Guerrazzi, despite everything.
She had managed to meet Diana Fothergill after badgering Hilary about it, and then had found they had so much in common, that a long and fruitful friendship had been hopefully anticipated. Jeremy had been very keen on this developing friendship, and Isabelle had dreamt that one day he would run the St. Christopher festival, but Diana's death, and in such a terrible way, had put that project on hold for the moment. Of course it was most unfortunate, she mused, considering who had killed Diana that she should have chosen to be pals with Emily. Still, for now, her friendship was limited to kindly, if somewhat distant support. She was changing her role to old family friend, despite only a brief acquaintance. It was as well to keep in with all the family. After all she had been fond of Diana and most assuredly would miss her.
CHAPTER TWO
At the end of a long day Isabelle was tired, but happy. She washed her hands, checked her make up and tidied her hair. She decided she would make up her bed and then pop down to San Cristoforo for a proper meal before coming back for her first night. Also she was meeting Hilary at 7.30. Conscious of the need for economy, she had decided that the central heating should be turned off during the middle hours of the day, and then at ten in the evening. But not today, today she would recklessly burn up the gas, and warm the house thoroughly.
The workmen packed up at five o'clock and she smiled cheerily at them, trilling, "Buona notte," to each, calling by name the members of the group. Marco of course, the dear man, came to her and she invited him to have a glass of wine with her. It seemed to her that there was a special empathy between them. She was able to understand him better than the others, almost by a form of telepathy. He said that at the end of the week he would have finished, unless she intended buying tiles and having him lay the floors downstairs. She looked suitably wistful and said she had no money. "Niente soldi." But he laughed as though that was impossible. He was a handsome, wiry man, a grandfather, so she guessed his age to be about the same as hers, and she felt him to be a kind man, tempered by his hard life, which seemed to have given him a kind of wisdom. His tanned face, very dark eyes, and wonderfully even white teeth, made him very attractive, and for a moment the thought actually crossed her mind, that it might be rather fun to…but no, not on your own doorstep, golden rule. Besides she was only fantasising. Sex had grown so boring with Roger that she had been quite off it altogether, for years. It was only after the divorce three years earlier that she had allowed herself the occasional affair, of very short duration to avoid the possibility of boredom intervening again, but for the last year she had been totally chaste. She had almost thought that as she was now over fifty, well to be truthful, over fifty-five, that she should find some kind of carnal peace, and relegate sex to the past. Of course, she had to admit that she did so enjoy the company of men, and they still seemed to find her attractive, which was such a boost for her post menopausal ego. In reality, she adopted such a flirtatious manner in their presence that many men thought it promised more than it did.
Marco downed his wine, and said "Buona notte, dorma bene, Signora Annabella" smiling in a charming manner at her, and set off home, to his plain dumpy wife. He got into his ancient Renault Four, to drive the 200 yards that separated their houses, as he lived in the village of Altamura, and then the silence of the evening closed in on her.
By six o'clock she was in Borgo San Cristoforo doing a little shopping, and by seven was seated in a restaurant happily eating "Tagliatelle ai Funghi Porcini".
Hilary was to join her there for coffee, as she desperately needed help to sort out one or two trifling but irritating problems, like what she should do about hunters shooting on her land, and parking their cars on her private road. She also needed help at the bank, and with the police as she intended changing her status from that of temporary resident to that of permanent resident. She knew she was taking advantage of Hilary, but as she had known her for so long, well, for at least two years, and naturally she was going to invite her to dinner as soon as she was organised, and of course buy her a marvellous present, that she felt she could perfectly well ask for all the help she needed.
Hilary came in at 7.30, annoyed that Isabelle had asked her so early, as she usually ate at eight o'clock herself, and Ruggero, her partner, had phoned to say he would be up later. She hid her irritation however, and accepted Belle's affectionate hug, and asked how things were going.
"Darling it's all too divine. I love it, and thank you so much for all your help. I promise you will be the very first person I shall invite for dinner, as soon as I am properly sorted out. Can I order something for you?"
"Yes, I'll have a coffee, thanks." She waved at the waiter, and asked him for what she wanted.
"How was England?" asked Isabelle. Hilary had recently returned from a short visit there.
"Oh, the same as usual, rather grey, and not for me."
"Me neither. I can't tell you how happy I am to be here. Did you see that wonderful sun today, and that blue sky?"
"Well, don't expect that every day. It gets pretty dismal here in the winter too, you know. "
"I do hope it snows this winter. Does it often?"
"Not every year, and not for very long. You'll probably be isolated up there if it does."
"I must get in emergency supplies then, so that I can last out. It'll be wonderful, beautiful, I mean, to see the countryside powdered white with snow."
Isabelle was off again waxing poetic, thought Hilary. She worried about her, as she felt that she was not as self sufficient as she proclaimed herself to be. Also she was not realistic. If it did snow there might well be electricity black outs, and then she would freeze to death up there.
"Isabelle, have you got a supply of wood near to the house for making a fire if you need an alternative heat source."
"Oh, you mean if the electricity fails or something. Darling, I have thought of that, and I've bought candles too. Don't worry about me. I am quite capable of looking after myself. Well, that's not true is it? I mean I've got to ask for your help again. There are several things actually. Have you got time, my dear?"
"Not really. Ruggero is coming up tonight, so I must be back soon. I can give you half an hour, no more."
"I am stupid; I should have asked you to eat with me."
"It doesn't matter."
"Forgive me?" She made a little girl's pleading face.
"Of course. Now what are your problems?"
"Well, the hunters. They park on my road, and shoot on my land."
"You can't stop them shooting as long as they are 150 yards from the house, and your land is not fenced off. They should ask your permission to park though. They might stop doing it, parking I mean, when they know you are in residence, but if they ask you
for permission, you might be well advised to tell them they can, and show them where they'll annoy you least."
"Oh you mean that's good P.R"
"Yes, something of the sort."
"Well there's no way I can afford to fence off all the land, it would cost a fortune, so I suppose I'll just have to put up with it. Now about the bank…"
Hilary did not escape until nearly 8.30, and found that Ruggero had already arrived. Dr. Ruggero di Girolamo, magistrate, and policeman, Hilary's lover, was sitting in an armchair in front of a roaring fire, reading the sports section of her newspaper.
"Sorry I'm so late. I couldn't get away from Isabelle"
"Have I met her?"
"No, I don't think so. She's a friend of a friend, and my friend asked me to look after her and see her through buying a house. I don't know why I said yes, but I did. Thank God it's nearly over. It's been going on for two years, but at last she's moved in, today actually, so I hope she'll be able to stand on her own two feet now. Have you eaten?"
"Yes, I saw there was a casserole, so I'm afraid I didn't wait for you."
"Quite right, I'll have some myself. I didn't think I'd be back this late."
She served herself a small portion, and a baked potato.
"Have you heard about the baby?" asked Ruggero
"Yes, something in the shops this morning. Is it still alive?"
"Yes, but I don't know for how long. It was in a plastic bag near the rubbish bins at Ponte del Borgo. Someone put it there early this morning. The temperature was below zero, and it’s a new born, so it doesn't stand much chance."
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 49