The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The journey to Florence was easy, because traffic was light. Earlier all the traffic had been going the other way, as Florentines headed for the ski slopes. At this time of day, a lot of people were enjoying an after lunch nap at home, while others were waiting impatiently for football matches to begin. At the autostrada ticket booth, the sports programme was keeping the uniformed man company, and at the Florence exit, Ruggero was able to ask what the Florentine football team was doing, and receive a reassuringly positive half time result. They sped off to the suburbs and reached Camilla's house at ten to four. She lived near the Certosa, an area famed for its beauty. Her house, a small farmhouse with a little land, had been her grandmother's. Once an extensive farm, most of the land had been sold to other farmers over the years, but rows of olive trees covered the hillsides all around the house giving it the peaceful air of being in suspended time. This bucolic serenity was marred only by the ghastly electricity pylons, recently erected by ENEL, the electricity company, which marched across the hillsides oblivious to the beauty they were defacing.

  Camilla came to the door, and embraced Ruggero, before turning to Hilary, and offering her hand. "Piacere, pleased to meet you" she murmured, then stood back, and ushered them into the house. They went into a large sunlit room with exposed beams, and a view that looked down on the city of Florence. The Duomo and Giotto's bell tower were easily identifiable, even at that distance.

  The room was charming, with an old country fireplace, terracotta tiles on the floor, and a low, beamed ceiling. It was simply furnished, with two old sofas, antique cupboards and an oval table with six chairs. A playpen set near the window was empty at the moment.

  They sat down, Ruggero and Hilary facing Camilla, who looked fragile, thin, and drawn.

  "Cosimo is asleep at the moment. He always sleeps in the afternoon but he will wake up soon. He has a bottle of milk at about this time. He is a good child; he sleeps well at night, and has a two hour rest every afternoon. He is starting to crawl, and is even trying to stand now, so I think he's pretty precocious but I suppose all mothers think their children are ahead of all the others. He has a sunny nature." She smiled.

  "How are you, Camilla?" asked Ruggero.

  "Well, I suppose you could say, not too bad considering I'm dying," she said wryly, but after looking at Ruggero's face, she amended that with, "So far I'm coping, but I don't know for how much longer, and as a doctor, let me tell you, no one knows. I will know later, but right now, no."

  A Siamese cat entered the room and moved sinuously across the floor, to jump onto Camilla's lap. "This is Jade, another potential orphan." She stroked the cat, which settled down, and gazed unblinkingly at Hilary with a haughty stare.

  "I have a Siamese myself, "said Hilary." But he doesn't have such a beautiful name. I call him Cassius, because when I got him, he was such a terrible little fighter." The cat suddenly jumped down, and then onto the sofa beside Hilary. She sniffed at her clothes at length, and then sat firmly on her lap.

  "Goodness, she's never done that before. She doesn't usually like people she doesn't know."

  "She knows I have a cat too." Hilary stroked the lithe body, but her hand quickly became aware that the belly was not soft, but hard and full. She looked up at Camilla.

  "Yes, she's pregnant. She had a mate, but after he got her pregnant, he disappeared. I think he's been stolen, though I suppose, he might have just gone his way, as men do."

  "Camilla, I hope that isn't meant as a jab at me," said Ruggero.

  "No, no. I got you into trouble, not the other way round. I'm sorry, I'm going to turn you into a single parent, and that won't be easy. I know. I am one, but then I wanted to be, and I took all the time I wanted off work. You didn't choose fatherhood, it is being thrust upon you, and I only hope that you'll be able to get a lot of time off work too, because, you'll need it."

  "I will do whatever is best for the child."

  "The child," she noted sadly.

  "Well, Cosimo, then."

  "When you know him, you will say, my son."

  As if on cue, they heard the child cry, and Camilla rose quickly and left the room. They sat stiffly side by side, waiting for her to return, but did not speak.

  Maresciallo Biagioni, annoyed at missing his Sunday luncheon as he co-ordinated the door to door enquiries, looked at his prosciutto roll with disgust before biting into it. It was after two and well past lunch time, by his reckoning anyway. His wife always made ravioli on Sundays, and they were worth waiting all week for. Great squares of home-made pasta filled with sheep's ricotta, cheese and spinach, served simply with butter and fresh chopped sage. His mouth watered at the thought. He was definitely going to find time to get home this evening and eat a proper meal. He chewed angrily on the tough bread, yesterday's bread to boot. A knock on the door, and then one of his men came in looking excited. "Sir, we've got a witness who saw Antonio Valdese take the footpath shortly after five," he said.

  Biagioni swallowed his half chewed food, and leapt to his feet, choking. He downed half a glass of water, and finally able to speak said, "Who saw him?"

  "An old woman, who lives in the main piazza. She had been to visit a friend, and on her way back she saw Antonio Valdese take the footpath. She says she noticed because it was getting quite dark, and she thought to herself that she wouldn't take that road if she were paid."

  "Good, let's have him in and see what he's got to say for himself

  Krishna had been expertly avoiding his mother all morning, but at lunch time his presence was necessary. His father was home, and judging by his mother's recent behaviour and thickening waistline, he had the feeling that an announcement would be made quite soon, maybe even today.

  He was in a terrible quandary, because he knew something, but not everything, and it had been by pure chance that he had known anything anyway. He couldn't speak, but felt he had reached the stage where he couldn't not speak. His cryptic exchange with Pietro after Italo's death, had confirmed his suspicions, but had not given him any further details. His mother's probing eyes followed him around, and he knew she would have spoken to his father about him. The pressure was on, and they were waiting for him to feel it to be unbearable, knowing from past experience that then he would speak.

  He wandered about the large garden, followed by a couple of the dogs. It was cold, but the sun was shining. The house stood as it had for the last ninety years, fair and square in the centre of the park. There were covered terraces on one side, and a tower to the left. His parents had designated the tower as the meditation room, and it was empty but for a few cushions. Anyone going there would close the door, turn the little wooden plaque to "occupied" and be guaranteed peace and quiet. It was occupied at the moment, probably by Shiva who was having a mystic phase, which was why he was outside, the only other place where one could be alone in this ridiculously large, exuberant, overwhelming, noisy, and wonderful family.

  Anita watched Krishna from the study window. She turned to her husband and said, "He knows something, and he is struggling with it. I wish he'd hurry up and decide, before someone else dies."

  Constantine Hope stroked his greying beard, and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. He went to stand beside his wife, and looked at his son.

  "Krishna is obviously tormented. H

  You’re right. He is struggling with himself. We can do nothing. He will come to us when he ready."

  Hilary heard herself say, "I would like you to come to us for Christmas. Stay for a couple of days. My children will be there, so we can introduce Cosimo to the family." She felt Ruggero look at her with pleased surprise, and was glad she had found the right thing to do. A plan was forming in her mind, and Christmas would help her to see if it could work. She held the baby on her lap, and felt his pleasant weight and warmth. Instinctively she brushed her lips to his soft hair and recognised the familiarity of the gesture.

  Camilla smiled at her, as though she too recognised it, and replied, "I
would like to do that."

  They made their arrangements.

  Antonio Valdese was frightened. He was obviously very frightened. They had come to the house and asked him to go with them, and his mother's face showed all the fear that he was feeling too. She knew! Oh God, what would happen to him now? He tried to pray but knew it was wrong to do so now, in this way, so he looked at Maresciallo Biagioni who was shuffling papers on his desk with the air of a man who has found his prey, and is anticipating tearing at its flesh with his teeth, ripping it apart to reach the heart of it.

  An hour later, Maresciallo Biagioni had been transformed into a man who longed to use violence to extort the truth from this obviously blatant liar, who was cowering behind his lies trying to save his skin.

  "Take him away. He can wait for Dr di Girolamo."

  Mrs Valdese, pious widow, was engaged in washing her son's bloodstained clothing, which she had found after much searching, in the bottom of the closet under the stairs, where old boots and tennis rackets lived comfortably with spiders. Her son's frantic whisper, "My clothes in the closet," had sent her searching frenetically all over the house. But at last she had found them, and horrified had rushed off to wash them, missing the homo-erotic magazine that had been rolled up and thrust inside a rubber boot. She was washing the clothes by hand as she always did, at the stone sink outside the kitchen, and it was there that the carabinieri found her, when they came back on Maresciallo Biagioni's somewhat belated orders to ask for the clothes her son had worn the day before. Weeping, she was forcibly removed from the sink, the clothes were bagged, and she, her hands still damp and red with cold, was pushed into the jeep and taken down to the police station to join her son for questioning. Shortly afterwards, more men arrived and began searching the house from top to bottom, while interested neighbours told each other, that they were looking for the murder weapon. Which was true.

  Di Girolamo's cell phone rang, and he answered it, leaving the house to get a better reception. When he returned to the room, Hilary saw at once from his face that something important had happened. They left almost immediately, and drove fast back to Borgo San Cristoforo. Hilary dropped him off at the police station and went home to begin the frenetic preparation for her numerous guests.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "So, let's have it all over again."

  "I didn't do anything, as God is my witness."

  "Well, unfortunately we can't call him to confirm your statement, so why don't you just calm down and tell us what you did do."

  Silence.

  "Let me tell you, once again, that you were seen shortly after five o'clock, by a witness in flesh and blood, as well as by the Almighty, no doubt, taking the footpath where Italo Franchini was killed."

  Silence.

  "Why?"

  "It's a short cut; it saves going through town."

  "Right, you were taking the short cut. Now, did you see Italo Franchini, alive, or dead?"

  "Oh God!" Antonio put his hands over his face and wept.

  "We're not going to get very far if you keep bringing God into it. Pull yourself together man," said di Girolamo irritably

  "Oh God," repeated the other.

  "Antonio, your mother was washing the clothes you wore yesterday, and seemed very distressed when we found her doing so. Why was that do you think?"

  "My mother! Oh God!"

  "You're boringly repetitive, if you don't mind my saying so. Now listen to me. If there is blood on your clothes, we'll find it, despite your mother’s energetic efforts at scrubbing them, and furthermore you neglected to tell her about your shoes and if there is blood on them, you'll have to explain why. I think I know why, but I want you to tell me."

  "My shoes! Oh God!"

  Di Girolamo got up suddenly and stood over the pink-faced, plump young man, who cowered away from him. "Stop saying, ‘Oh God!’ Here take a look at this." He thrust the erotic magazine into the man's lap. "Is this your mother's? Does this have something to do with what happened? Is it because you’re homosexual? What happened, did they torment you? Was it more than you could take? Why did you kill those boys? For revenge? Or did you kill them because you enjoy torturing young boys. Did you sodomise them with a broomstick because your own member is too small for the job? Did they scream for mercy, and did you enjoy the sense of power it gave you. Well did you? Tell me." He machine gunned the words at the young man, who sat head bowed, holding the magazine which he had automatically grasped.

  "Even if I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

  "Try me"

  "It's no good. No one would ever believe me."

  "Tell me anyway." Di Girolamo remained standing behind Antonio. He lowered his voice and said not unkindly, "Tell me the truth Antonio. That's all I want."

  "Alright. I did take the footpath, but the batteries ran out in my pocket torch about halfway along, so I had to do the rest of path in the dark. It was creepy, and I kept hearing noises but I couldn't see anything. It was awful. I felt really frightened, you know thinking about the sex-maniac and everything. Well, I was sort of going quite fast because I'd heard all these noises, and then I fell over something. I realised it was a body, you know, I mean, I knew it was someone who was dead, but I couldn't see anything, not who it was or anything. I was practically lying on him. Oh God! My hands were wet with his blood. It was horrible and I was terrified. I thought I would be killed too, so I ran off as fast as I could in the pitch dark, and I fell over again, and got into a terrible state, and then I went home, My mother was out and, when I saw the state my clothes were in, well, I knew no one would believe me, so, I threw them in the cupboard under the stairs and got changed, so she wouldn't see anything. Then, when I saw the police car outside the house, I told her to wash the clothes."

  "I'm supposed to believe this?"

  "It's the truth, I swear before God."

  "And you told no one."

  Silence.

  "That was hardly the action of an innocent man."

  "I told you, you wouldn't believe me." He turned his pale blue eyes up to look at Di Girolamo with a pleading expression, his flabby lower lip trembling. "No one will ever believe me." Tears formed in his eyes, and Di Girolamo looked at him with disgust.

  "Take him down to the holding cell, give him something to eat and drink. I'll see his mother now." He snatched the magazine from the young man's trembling hands.

  When the Signora Valdese came in a few minutes later, she saw the magazine which he had left facing her side of the desk. Her eyes flickered over it, then she looked away.

  "Please sit down, Signora."

  She was dressed in black, and she had a round pink face very like her son's, though her hair was not the blonde that her son's was, but rather a faded greying blonde, tied back into a bun at the back of her head. Her eyes were the same blue, and the rather flabby lower lip was the same as his. She sat down smoothing her black skirt under her ample behind, and then after fleetingly touching the crucifix she wore rather ostentatiously on her respectable black woollen bosom, folded her reddened, swollen hands together and looked at him, her face a picture of martyrdom.

  "Signora Valdese, would you tell me exactly what you were doing, and why, when my men came to the house to collect your son's clothes?"

  Hilary spent the evening sorting out the bedrooms, and making a list of necessities. She would put Camilla in the small guest bedroom, and borrow a cot from a neighbour. The bathroom was next door to it, and also, because it was at the back of the house, it was the quietest room. Her son, Alex, would sleep in the attic bedroom, while Amanda and James would have the double bedroom next to her own. She emptied out the chest of drawers in the small guestroom, and put out fresh bed linen and towels, adding extra for the baby. Up in the attic, the room was small and had sloping ceilings, so the side walls, which were very low, were filled with chests and boxes, where the family kept their forgotten treasures. She opened a large wooden chest, and found some cot sheets, and a few old plastic toys, whi
ch she took down to the kitchen to wash. A quick search through the kitchen cupboards produced a plastic cup, a short wooden spoon, a serviette ring, and a plastic jar with screw lid. She put two small spoons into the jar and shook it, listening to the noise with approval. At the top of her list she wrote 'ask Francesca for cot, high chair and playpen.'

  In the sitting room, she moved the sofa so that there would be room for the playpen near the window, and checked that anything dangerous was out of reach. The standard lamp was banished to a corner behind the sofa, and two pot plants were taken out and put on the landing. It would do.

  When Ruggero came in at one o'clock, feeling tired and depressed, she was already asleep. He went into the kitchen, and saw the plastic toys on the draining board. He picked up a small rattle that had a mirror on one side, and saw his reflection, streaked with dripping water, like tears. It had been a hectic day, and he felt indefinably strange, as though the little mirror had guessed at his emotions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was the twenty third of December, and Hilary woke up with a feeling of urgency. She got out of bed, and opened the shutters. The sky was light grey, and the countryside twinkled with frost. It was early, and Ruggero was still asleep. She went down to the cold, silent kitchen and lit the fire. Cassius was asleep on a chair near the fire, and apparently did not hear her moving about as she made fresh coffee. Ah, this was nice, this being alone in the early morning. She fed some more small twigs into the fire, which crackled as they were quickly consumed. The kitchen windows were white with frost because she had forgotten to close the outside shutters, so she was glad to sit by there, by the fire, with a warm coffee cup in one hand, watching the flames. Soon it would all be over, her life alone, which she had constructed with such difficulty. At first it had been hard, after Guido's death, with two small children to look after, but now, after all the struggles, she could stand alone, and it was going to hard to give that up.