Tuscan Termination

by Margaret Moore

  “I think I can allow you into the house by tomorrow. You have the keys of course?”

  “Yes, Robin, Mrs Proctor that is, gave them to me that evening. I had dinner there, then they left, at about midnight I suppose, as they were catching an early morning flight to Hong Kong from Rome.”

  “At what time?”

  “I think it was at about 6.30 a.m.”

  “It only takes a little over three hours to get to Rome, why did they leave so early?”

  “Well they had to be there an hour and a half before take-off and Nigel likes to drive slowly and have time in hand, in case of a puncture or an act of God or whatever.”

  “I see. Now, tell me about their relationship with Ettore Fagiolo. You say that they bought their house from him and that he did the work on it, but I understand that their relationship changed at some point. Why was that?”

  “Well the reason was that Nigel thought that he had been overcharged, as he had, in my opinion, and he’d heard stories from other foreigners who had had unfortunate experiences with him, Ettore that is, and he, Nigel I mean, felt he’d been made a fool of, especially as he had totally trusted Ettore up till then.” She felt flustered and knew that she sounded as though she was.

  “I see. So what you’re telling me is that it would be very unusual for Ettore to be in their house?”

  “Was he, in the house I mean?” Dottor di Girolamo smiled at her and said, “I ask the questions.” He waited.

  “Ettore has not been in the house for some time, to my knowledge, but I don’t know if I would know, if you see what I mean. They argued some time ago but as work on the pool had been started by then, Ettore carried it through, and that was finished by June. I do know that Nigel had decided not to pay the last instalment for the work, because he felt he’d been cheated so much.”

  “You see, you do know quite a lot about their affairs. Let’s see what else you know. Had Nigel expressed animosity towards this man?”

  “Animosity! Really! If you mean did he want to injure him physically, I would think not, he doesn’t seem a very violent sort of person to me. He was angry, but within normal limits, I mean he wasn’t obsessed by it or anything.”

  “So if Ettore had been invited to the house, he would have felt it safe to go there to talk things over?”

  “Well yes, I suppose so, but isn’t this all very hypothetical, how could he be invited to the house by Nigel, if he wasn’t there? Oh, I see, you mean as a trap, or something. That sounds a bit far fetched.”

  “Perhaps you invited him there in Nigel’s name, and then killed him for some reason of your own. You had the keys to the house.” He said this in a very mild and reasonable tone of voice.

  “What! Ah, so this is the theory that, whoever finds the body committed the crime. I find that laughable.” But she was shaken and he smiled at her discomfort.

  “Yes, perhaps I am joking.” There was a silence then he got up quickly out of his chair, his hand pressing the bell to summon an officer. Hilary rose to her feet, and he, speaking English, said to her “Come, we’ll take the fingerprints of this dangerous criminal.”

  He turned to the young police officer who had entered the room and said, “Take her down and print her, and then get her to sign the brief statement I’m sending down,” and to Hilary, “Thank you for your help. You will be accompanied to have your finger-prints taken, you will sign a statement, and then,” he paused, “you are free to go and water your flowers, but not until tomorrow. Buon giorno Signora.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two days later nothing much had happened. Hilary had been in to water Robin’s plants the day before but had stayed in the house only briefly. Nigel and Robin were due back in about ten days’ time, and Hilary thought they would have an unpleasant shock, unless perhaps they had already been informed. She thought that maybe Nigel would be pretty calm, after a bit of bluster, but she was sure Robin would have qualms about swimming in the pool now. At least they hadn’t actually seen the body floating there.

  She sat outside Gino’s bar, a newspaper in front of her, vaguely aware of twittering American ladies, at the next table. The words “cute” and “quaint” spattered their conversation. A group of young girls passed by and gazed in horror at the fat American women, who were wearing large shorts, and designer tee shirts, their cameras and bags were slung on the chairs. They both wore a large straw hat and incredibly large sunglasses that covered the sides of the eyes. Both wore ankle socks and walking shoes. The girls laughed quietly, and whispered to each other. Their linen dresses and shorts were cool and elegant. They were tanned and their hair looked perfectly natural, which Hilary knew meant that great care had been taken to make it look so. They wore thong sandals, and their toenails were delicately varnished. Hilary loved to see these beautiful girls, and had always thought it incredible that they all seemed to take such care of themselves. Even when she was younger, she had never managed to achieve this seemingly effortless grace. Now she admitted defeat, but neither would she ever look like these women at the next table.

  Marco came out with her cappuccino and brioche. He was still looking ill. The girls glanced at him once and then away as they murmured quietly, and Marco aware of their disdain, looked down at his feet, then raising his eyes, met Hilary’s and abruptly banged the cup and plate on the table, and bolted back into bar, the bead curtain clattering as he passed. From inside the bar she heard his father’s voice call “Marco,” but there was only the sound of a slamming door in answer. The girls languidly walked on, and the American women were calling “Hey Ronnie, Ed, would you two just come over here and siddown. It’s shady here, come on outta that sun.”

  Two large red-faced men, with cameras slung round their necks that banged on their bellies as they moved, waddled to join their wives. They were sweating profusely, their shirts quite damp, and Hilary wondered if they were having a good time. They looked pretty cheerful. She finished her brioche, and drank the rest of her coffee, then folded the newspaper and left it on the table. The Americans had removed their hats and glasses and were discussing what to drink, as she walked by them and went into the bar. Inside it was dark and cool, a fan hummed quietly, and sitting motionless at a table, gazing at nothing, a neglected newspaper in front of him, was Gino, Marco’s father. He slowly brought his gaze round to meet hers, heaved himself to his feet, and went behind the counter to the till.

  “One euro fifty, Signora,” he said, giving her an empty smile. She felt great compassion for this man, had known him for years and would have liked to offer words of comfort, as though words could comfort a father who could feel his son slipping away from him, distancing himself in every way. This was a son, cherished as possibly only an Italian child can be, adored, cosseted and spoilt: an only child born late to these two kind people. Something was very wrong, and every one of them appeared to be suffering. She said nothing, paid, took her change, and said “Ciao Gino.”

  He sighed. “Arrivederci,” he said, looking her full in the eyes, which she knew meant, “you know and I know, but let’s leave it there.”

  Outside the Americans like gaudy butterflies on their seasonal run through a foreign country, were calling hopefully in uncertain voices, as she went past, “Cam-eri-air-ray. Does that sound right Ed?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s about it, try it a bit louder.” She hoped they would enjoy Italy. They were hot, sticky and tired, and couldn’t speak the language. They were probably doing Italy in a week, before moving on to do the rest of Europe. No doubt the folks back home would receive an edited account of their travels. She never helped English-speaking tourists, as she felt they should make their own discoveries, and finding ways to make oneself understood was part of it. As she walked away she could hear them talking to Gino and his kind voice replying.

  Walking through the old town on her way to Miriam Greene’s house, Hilary passed groups of music students carrying their instruments. The St. Christopher Music Festival was on again and for the next fou
r weeks the whole town would be filled with music, as musicians and singers practised and gave informal afternoon concerts. Then would come the evenings in the newly restored theatre, with small operas, often the first performance of a piece which had been neglected for well over two hundred years; and sacred music in the Duomo, which dominated the town and was dedicated to St.Christopher. In one of the small Piazzas, chairs were already set out for that afternoon’s concert and she made a mental note to go, and to phone Sue Browne, a friend of hers, to remind her.

  Miriam Greene was a writer who had lived nearly the whole of her adult life in Italy. She lived on the opposite side of town to Hilary, in a large 19th century house, which she jokingly referred to as, The Mausoleum. The house was set back from the main road into town, behind massive gates, and was almost hidden from the road by enormous trees. It had a huge front door, gained by ten stone steps of diminishing width, overlooked by a stone balcony. Hilary pressed the brass doorbell and was admitted by a young Italian woman, who smiled at her and said in Italian, with a strong southern accent “She’s longing to see you, wants all the sordid details and says you should have come ages ago.”

  “Oh does she. Well I only came now to bring her those documents. I suppose I’ll have to see her. Where is she, in the writing room?”

  “Of course, go on up.”

  Hilary always felt that Assunta was a little over familiar, and disliked herself for feeling that way.

  She moved towards the staircase, which was rather wide, and had carpeted stone steps and a French window on the landing, which stood open. The boughs of an enormously overgrown cherry tree almost entered the house. A dog’s barking heralded her entrance. The writing room was really a large corridor on the first floor, which had French windows at the end and a decorative cast iron railing, so that with the windows open it looked like an enclosed terrace. The window looked onto the mountains, and the famous view of the Apuan Alps. A rock formation, known as ‘the dead man’ that resembled a sleeping giant lying on his back with his knees drawn up, was clearly visible. Miriam had put her desk here and an enormous chair. The corridor was lined with bookcases on one side and there was a sofa for visitors. In an alcove facing the desk was a television hooked up to a stereo and C.D. player. On the massive desk was her computer. She had satellite T.V. and was linked to Internet.

  She had been writing romantic novels for years and had published an incredible amount, roughly a book a year, for the last fifty years. She sat now in her massive chair, a huge woman, vastly fat. Hilary had often wondered if the chair had been made to measure. As always, a cigarette burned in an ashtray. Miriam was not allowed to smoke, so she left a cigarette burning and just had an occasional illicit puff. Her puffy feet were on a footstool under the desk. Beside them were the little pink goblin slippers she wore. On the sofa, on a pink cushion sat a white poodle, her inseparable companion. Her name was Cherry (a pun on Cherie). She stopped barking, decided it wasn’t worth attacking Hilary, and curled up on the cushion. The television was on, and as usual, Hilary saw that Miriam had been watching an American soap opera. Apparently she considered them a source of inspiration.

  “Darling,” she said, “I thought you would never come and I am simply longing to know all about it. That Fagiolo thing I mean.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. You know more than I do. You read all the papers, and have your spies out to get all the gossip,” she paused, “I see you are still watching rubbish.”

  “My dear, how else would I manage to write this drivel? I find them stimulating. I run out of ideas you know and I am reduced to stealing other people’s ideas, and if I live much longer I shall be reduced to stealing from real events. Perhaps I could put Fagiolo, in a book, I could make him bi-sexual and have him killed by his jealous lover, male of course.”

  “I didn’t know characters in your books knew about sex especially, what you might call, deviant sex. I thought a discrete veil was drawn across or something.”

  “My dear, I move with the times. But you are trying to distract me, I want to know all about it.”

  “But you do know all about it. You’re bound to have heard more gossip than me, because you go out of your way to hear it, and I don’t.”

  “Quite true, but that’s not quite the same as from the horse’s mouth. Tell all, or have they told you not to, the cops I mean.”

  “Miriam they don’t call them ‘the cops’ anymore, and no they haven’t, because I really do know nothing. I looked out of my bedroom window, saw the body, and reported it, that’s all.”

  “Well that’s a fat lot of bloody good, you sound like a girl-guide doing her good deed for the day. I thought you must have seen something. Didn’t you even hear anything, voices, a car, a splash…. I mean, why did they keep you down there so long if you didn’t have something to tell them.”

  “How did you know? No don’t tell me. Listen I didn’t see, or hear anything, I was in bed asleep.” But thinking back, she had heard a car; in fact she seemed to remember hearing car doors slam and a car starting up.

  “Miriam, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Look, I’ve brought you your stuff, it’s quite simple, so unless there’s anything else, I’ve got to go. I’m behind with my work, and I want to get some done, and then go to the concert this afternoon.”

  “What! You’re not even staying for a cup of coffee. I don’t know why you bothered to come in the first place.”

  “I came because you said you wanted the translation, but I promise I’ll come back and stay longer next time.”

  She could have stayed longer, but she didn’t want to talk about Ettore Fagiolo, or as Miriam called him “The Bean.” She had been feeling a little uneasy since her visit to the police station, and preferred to keep off the subject.

  “Alright, bugger off then, but make sure that you bring me some interesting gossip next time. I feel quite thwarted. Are you sure you didn’t do it yourself? I can’t think why you should, but you certainly had the opportunity! Oh wait a minute, didn’t he do something rather nasty to your daughter once, there you are, there’s your motive,” she cackled and wheezed and coughed, tears coursing down her face. “Don’t look like that! You’ll only make me laugh more.”

  Hilary supposed that her face showed the shock she felt, that Miriam should so casually refer to something she had thought was a secret. She said calmly “You’ll choke yourself to death if you carry on like that, and then I’ll be accused of a double murder.”

  Miriam wheezed and coughed even more at that, but finally got herself under control, and said “Tell that bloody lazy girl to bring me a gin and tonic” and after a stern look from Hilary “OK just a tonic, but with lots of ice and lemon, and come back soon. Ciao.” The fat hand was raised in salute, rings glinting, and bracelets clanking on her plump wrists.

  Hilary went down the stairs reflecting, Oh yes, he’d done something nasty to her daughter alright, he’d more or less raped her, but he had been drunk and so had her daughter, at a rather wild party, and it had been some years ago, “forget it and forget all about it. It never happened,” her daughter had insisted, and so it had been. Hilary wondered how Miriam knew about it, because if she did, then how many others had the same knowledge. Maybe Ettore had bragged about it. Also had Miriam just said what other people were maybe saying behind her back? Did everyone discuss her and judge her? Did people think she had killed Ettore? “No, this is paranoia,” she said to herself.

  While she was letting herself out of the gates, a police car drove slowly past and she saw Di Girolamo in it, he turned his head a fraction and looked at her. Was he having her watched, she wondered? As she hurried on, she heard the car accelerating away on the road to Lucca.

  Miriam looked up as Assunta came in with her tonic water. She had found Assunta and her husband Salvatore, both Sicilians, through an agency three years previously, when her elderly housekeeper had died and her gardener/chauffeur had decided to retire. They had good references from a family in Catania. Their prev
ious employer, an ancient noblewoman, had died and the couple were interested in moving further north. She had grown used to the southern lilt in their speech, but found them incomprehensible when they spoke together in dialect. Assunta was a good housekeeper, cooked well, and saw to it that the house was well cleaned, harrying the cleaners mercilessly. Also, Miriam sent her to the shops every morning, to glean gossip for her. Salvatore drove well, and was able to do a thousand small jobs, as well as looking after the garden. There was an extensive vegetable garden at the back of the house, and a chicken run, for eggs and now and then a capon. She employed a local boy, slow-witted but strong, to help him. Assunta and Salvatore seemed to have integrated well into the small town. There were not the racial prejudices here about southerners or “terroni” (a derogatory name) as some people called them, that unfortunately were being fomented by the Northern league in some of the towns in the north of Italy. Yes, on the whole she thought she had made a lucky choice. They were young enough to get out and about, ears to the ground as Miriam put it, and they brought her a plentiful supply of local gossip. She chuckled inwardly, remembering Hilary’s face when she had let her know that she had knowledge of the incident between Ettore and Amanda. It had been brought to her by Salvatore, after an evening in a bar drinking and swapping stories.