Ruggero joined her, "I smelt the coffee. What a wonderful perfume to wake up to," he said. She did not reply, other than to say, "Mmm," for she resented his coming into her kitchen early in the morning, because she now realised she resented his intrusion into her life. They would never have considered marriage were it not for Cosimo. He was taking her choices away. She sat in silence while he got his breakfast.
"Did you want to be alone?" he asked, "only you look as though you prefer your own company."
She looked at him with angry blue eyes and said, "Yes, I love being alone. I'm used to it, and I'm trying to savour the last moments of aloneness that are left to me."
"I don't want to discuss things at this time of the morning, but you are free to choose what you do with your life. I'm not asking you for anything, Hilary, I don't need you, and, I don't want you to do anything that you don't truly want to do." He was angry too.
He left the room, and when he left the house fifteen minutes later, he did so without speaking to her again. She heard the door close, and sat alone in the silent house.
By midmorning, the sun was shining brightly, the frost had disappeared, and Hilary had already organised a cot and a high chair, and was regretting her momentary ill humour, which had been unkind, and probably unfair to Ruggero.
Jeremy phoned at lunch time and sounded anguished. He explained that he simply must get back for Christmas because, apart from his engagements, there was Clement to think of.
"Yes, I'm in for a very busy Christmas myself, Alex, Amanda and James, and a friend with a baby, are all coming to stay, so I'll have a full house." She said before he could get round to asking her for help.
"Oh," was all he said, then, "well, anyway I'm sort of hoping Miranda can make it out here to take my place as I can hardly ask Fenella with such a small baby."
"Quite. I know it's difficult when one's mother needs help, my own has a weak heart, and I have to make sure she's being looked after properly. It's always more complicated when there's distance involved. Still, there are three of you, and surely it won't be for long."
"Let's hope so. I must say that after she spoke that first day, I was very hopeful, but there's been nothing since. Not a glimmer. Oh well," he sighed audibly.
"If Miranda does come, tell her to contact me. She can always come up here if she wants an afternoon off from the hospital."
"That's very kind," said Jeremy, sounding as though he wouldn't mind an afternoon off himself. "Well, I'll let you know." He took a deep breath and added, "The thing is she's having trouble finding a flight. I have got a provisional flight back for tomorrow afternoon myself. It seemed wise to do that, book one, I mean." Another deep breath, then, "The thing is, I would really like to take it, if I could only be sure that Belle is in good hands,"
Hilary smiled to herself, as she thought, ‘The bastard decided to try anyway, even though I've told him how busy I am. Well sod that, she's not my responsibility.’ To Jeremy she merely said, "Well, let's hope Miranda gets lucky. Goodbye Jeremy, I simply must go, I'm in a terrible rush this morning, and in case we don't speak again, Happy Christmas." She put the phone down firmly, on his murmured and rather disconsolate " Oh, well, goodbye, and Happy Christmas to you too."
Ruggero did not come back to lunch, and at three, Amanda phoned and said, "Can you pick us up at the station at, at four twenty-two, please."
"Four twenty-two on the dot, rest assured."
She phoned Ruggero's office , and said, "I'm picking up Amanda and James at four-thirty. Just to let you know that they'll be there when you come home, and Ruggero. I'm sorry about this morning. It was a black mood, but it's gone."
"Good." He put the phone down, leaving her uncertain as to whether he was unable or unwilling to speak.
The autopsy performed early on the morning of December twenty-third, by a disgruntled pathologist who had been hoping to leave early for his skiing holiday in the French Alps, showed that Italo Franchini, aged 18, had died of multiple wounds to the head, probably procured with a blunt heavy instrument, which had caused a massive brain haemorrhage. There were multiple fractures to the skull and the brain had been severely damaged, as the fury of the blows to the skull had caused white matter to be splattered into the hair. This would probably also have been splattered on the assailant, along with minute fragments of bone, and blood. After death, the testicles had been cut off with a very sharp knife, and thrust into the mouth of the victim. Di Girolamo listened to this preliminary and not too abstrusely scientific, preliminary autopsy result over the phone. "Thank you. Yes, the written report would be welcome before Christmas." He replaced the receiver, and said to Maresciallo Biagioni, "He had his head bashed in just in case you didn't notice. Multiple blows, frenzied attack by the sound of it, and the assailant would be covered with blood, brain, and bone. The mutilation was done afterwards. By the way, that is not for the media. We keep that little detail a secret for now."
"An ace up your sleeve is always handy for false confessions and the like," remarked Maresciallo Biagioni.
"We should get the results on Valdese's clothes and shoes later this morning, not that it will tell us any more than he is telling us himself. It only means he had contact with the body and, don't forget, we haven't got the murder weapon."
"Well it wasn't in the house or their trash cans, and there was no collection, it being a Sunday. There are no refuse collection bins in the old town, because the council thinks they mess up the look of the place, so we went through every container down in the new part of town, and found nothing. His car was in the garage for repairs, because they are waiting for a part to arrive. It won't be ready till this afternoon. Anyway we've impounded it for examination. As for the murder weapon, my men are combing the area between where the body was found, and Valdese's house, again, but most of that area skirts the wood, so a hefty throw could have sent it flying well into the woods."
"Do an inch by inch search, I want it."
"Is it him?"
"I hope so, that way the whole thing is over and done with. We'll have to step up the pressure on him, because he looks the sort that might break down eventually."
"Maybe. What about his mother?"
"What about her?"
"Well, she's been here overnight, and she's not a young woman, she's a very religious lady, and well it's a bit awkward keeping her here, the parish priest phoned up this morning about her."
"Oh did he? Meddling clergy; that's all we need." He noted Maresciallo Biagioni's disapproving look, and said, "Bring her up, we'll talk to her once more, and then let her go home."
He looked through the folder on his desk while he waited. It seemed that if they were lucky they might be able to tie Valdese to this murder, but unless something new came up, they didn't stand much chance of tying him to the first two. Of course there was always the possibility that he had only done this one. He sighed, thinking that a confession would be wonderful, but of course there was the mother's testimony giving her son an alibi for the first two. Hmmm. He looked up as the door opened and Signora Valdese came in. He indicated the chair and she sat down carefully on it, assuming the martyred expression she had worn the day before, which irritated him into barking at her," Concealing evidence Madam, makes you an accomplice to murder."
That shook her, and she said, "I’ve done nothing wrong, and neither has my son. If you knew him, as I, his mother, know him, you’d know he’s incapable of violence."
"Just how well do you think you know him," he tossed the magazine at her, but she ignored it and let it fall to the floor, "That belongs to your son, at least, it was found in your house, so unless it's yours…"
"No, it isn't mine."
"Did you know your son is a queer, a gay, a fairy," he jeered at her, using words that he knew she would find offensive, trying to provoke her. "That's a sin isn't it, Sodom and Gomorrah. Did you know?"
"I don't believe you."
"Signora, your son has already committed a sexual offence. Touching up c
hoirboys is often just the beginning."
"He didn't, it was a misunderstanding
"Believe what you want." He bent and picked up the magazine opening it to an obscenely graphic photograph, which he thrust under her nose.
"Look at this, Signora; that's a disgusting perversion in your book isn't it." She closed her eyes.
"What do you think about mothers who protect their psychopathic sons? Do you think its right for you to wash your sons' bloodstained clothes, to try and wash away your son's sins, and on the Sabbath too! Signora, do you realise how guilty you are?"
"I…I didn't"
"But you did. You looked for the clothing, and having seen what state it was in, you washed it. What did you think when you found it? What did you think while you were doing the washing out there in the cold, on the Sabbath? I wonder, I wonder what justification you found for doing that."
She made no reply.
"Signora, you are a liar. If you lied once, then I'm sure you have lied more than once. What about the alibi you gave your son for both the evenings that two young boys were savagely, brutally, tortured and murdered. Should I believe you? How can I believe the word of a confirmed liar? No, Signora, I'm afraid your alibi for your son is worthless."
"I didn't lie."
"You didn't lie then, but you are lying now, is that it?"
"I told the truth. He was in the house with me, on both of those evenings. I swear to God."
"Ah, and do you swear to God, that your son's clothing wasn't bloodstained, and that you didn't wash it to save him. Do you swear that before God, Signora?"
She bowed her head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The two carriage train from Pisa chugged into the tiny station, and disgorged a few students coming home from university, and Amanda and James, looking terribly, if indefinably, English. Perhaps it was their clothing; the cut or the colours, that stamped them as foreigners, but there was nothing English in Amanda's greeting to her mother. James stood a little diffidently to one side, and when Amanda had finished hugging her mother, and stemmed the torrent of Italian, he stepped forward and extended his hand, which Amanda brushed aside saying, "Don't be so bloody English, James,” so he moved to be hugged in his turn. Hilary gave him two resounding kisses on his cheeks, and said, "Oh it's lovely to have you both. Come on, jump in the car, its bloody freezing out here"
"When's Alex coming?" asked Amanda.
"Today or tomorrow, but don't ask me how, he didn't seem to know himself."
"Typical Alex."
"Well, tell me all your news," said Hilary
"Nothing much really, all the usual things, you know …What about you, anything new?"
"Several things, but we'll talk about that later. Oh it is good to see you! You both look so well."
"Oh yes, we're blooming," she giggled and looked at James with complicity.
"What's cooking?"
"We'll talk about it later too. The car is not the place."
"Well, we're nearly there anyway."
The car topped the hill, and they drove along the summit, the ground falling away on either side of the road. In several places there were the fresh scars of recent landslides the consequence of the severe rainfall in the November storms. To their left, the sun was falling behind the Apuan Alps, tingeing the sky with red and orange, while on the opposite side, the snow on the Apennines had turned pink, reflecting the sun's rays.
"Oh it's so beautiful!" cried Amanda, "Sometimes I wonder how I can live without it."
The outline of the Duomo was visible now, and the town looked peaceful and very beautiful, an unlikely place for brutal murder.
Hilary parked the car, and James unloaded the two suitcases. Cassius came to greet them at the door, and Amanda hugged him with joy. "You lovely old thing. Oh look, he's got a tattered ear! What have you been doing?" She scolded him. Hilary closed the door, and took a deep breath as though to fortify herself for the task ahead of her, and followed her daughter into the kitchen, to find that she was unscrewing the coffee-pot. "First things first. I want a coffee, that's the ritual."
Signora Valdese opened the door with trembling fingers. The young carabiniere, who was with her, followed her into the chilly house. She went straight into the kitchen, opened a small cupboard and took out a packet of pills. He took them gently from her hand, and read the contents, before removing one tablet from the packet, and handing it to her. She poured some water into a glass, put the pill in her mouth and drank it down, then moved out of the kitchen, glancing at the ‘stufa economica’, the little wood-burning stove, as she went through the door. She went up the stairs to the bedroom, and began sorting out some fresh clothes for her son, putting them into a small hold-all. The young man watched her in silence, and when the bag was closed took it from her. They went back down the stairs together, but instead of going out of the front door, the young policeman went into the kitchen, took the iron rod that hung from the side of the stove, and deftly hooked it into the hole in the middle of the steel plate on the top of the stove. He removed the centre ring, and then the successively larger thin rings until the he could see into the area where the wood burned. This stove had been alight when they had searched the house the day before, but now it was cold, and filled with wood ash. He poked around in the ash stirring it with the rod, and then hearing the sound of metal on metal, used his fingers to remove a curved metal object that looked very like a hammer head.
"I'm sorry Signora, but you'll have to come back with me. I think Dr di Girolamo will want to talk to you about this. He held the object in his hand and as she looked at it, she burst into tears.
Word of Antonio Valdese's probable arrest had circulated pretty fast through town, and was on the television news that day. A serious faced journalist, standing in the freezing cold, with the mountains behind him intoned, "There has been a new development in the Borgo San Cristoforo murders. Last night a young man was taken to the police station for questioning. It is believed that he can give useful evidence regarding the brutal murders of two boys, Giovanni Lazzerini, Walter Verdone last week, and the more recent death of Italo Franchini, eighteen years old, a housepainter.
We asked Dr. Ruggero Di Girolamo, who heads the investigation, if this last murder is connected with the first two."
A quick glimpse of Ruggero as he arrived at the police station, dodging the microphones that were being thrust at him, "I'm afraid that we are unable to say at the moment what, if any, the connection could be. I have no further comments to make at the moment, thank-you."
"As you have just heard, the connection is not certain, and we understand, that so far, no murder weapon has been found.
This town, a charming and quiet little town, has recently been thrust into the news; first an abandoned baby, that is still not off the danger list, and then, these appalling murders. What has happened here? Masked by the quiet normality of these industrious Tuscans, there is something rotten." The journalist began a recap of the last ten days, and Hilary clicked off the television. "That's what's been going on here, as I told you. Unbelievable isn't it?"
"Italo Franchini! He played football with Alex in the summer tournament. I can't believe it. They were all so young. Do you think Antonio Valdese did it?"
"I've no idea. I haven't really spoken to Ruggero since he took him in, so I can't tell you anything."
"Well, Antonio's pretty gruesome, I mean, he's a real creep, but it's really unbelievable that he could do this, but then I can't think of anyone else who could, so… I suppose it could be him."
"Do you know him?" asked James.
"Everyone knows everyone in Borgo, so, yes, but he's certainly not a friend. James, he is truly awful. He has this pink round face, blonde hair, and blue eyes, rather like a fat cherub, but with this awful flabby lower lip, and a pious expression. Ugh!"
Krishna felt an absurd and total relief as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He had heard through the village grapevine about AntonioValdes
e, and felt only a great deliverance. Wallowing in the release from tension, he played cards with his little brother Last, who informed him, "I don't like being Last. Anyway, I mean, what a stupid name! Everyone laughs at me, so I'm going to ask Mum if I can be called by my second name. "
"What's that?" asked Krishna who couldn't even remember having ever heard it.
"Michele, after grandfather. Now that's a normal name. Do you think they'll let me? SNAP! And I think I've just won this hand."
"Yes, you have, you little wretch. Well, I never was very good at snap."
"You're only saying that anyway ‘cos you don't like losing to someone who's only nearly six."
"Yes, I expect you're right."
"Of course I am. Anyway, do you think they'll let me?"
"How should I know? Ask them."
"I will, and anyway, it's my name, and I want to choose."
The evening of the twenty-third of December, weather permitting, the whole town turned out to produce a living Nativity. The three Kings set out from the various city gates, and the holy family, accompanied by an ass, wandered the streets of Borgo, where everyone seemed to have turned their cantina into a workshop of some kind, purporting to be similar to the artisans’ workshops or wine cellars of the era. There were groups of shepherds with real lambs, and here and there a donkey. A knife sharpener plied his ancient trade with a wheel activated by a foot pedal.
Borgo San Cristoforo filled with people from nearby towns, who scattered about the medieval town centre. At strategic points, there were fires where frozen pilgrims could warm their hands, and drink vin brulé which would heat them from the inside. The meeting point, at midnight, was the field beside the Duomo, where a stall had been fashioned, and it was there that the birth of Jesus took place, though usually a somewhat older baby was used to represent the Christ child.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 61