No one spoke. Emily's exopthalmic eyes appeared to bulge terribly as she listened to Di Girolamo. Arturo maintained an expression of scorn.
Di Girolamo continued, his eyes fixed on Arturo. “Arturo had argued with Diana, and was tired of living here, under her thumb, his wife virtually a servant.” Emily began weeping quietly into a handkerchief.
“His plan was conceived when he noted that the axe had been left near the pergola. He waited a while, working out the details in his mind, and then later sent Emily up to the house to fetch him a cream. He was immediately behind her, and the minute she went into the house, he came up to the pergola and killed Diana. He cleaned the axe and was about to leave when he heard a van approaching, and had to wait until it left before he could rush back to the pool, and plunge in to wash off any blood.”
Emily stood up and looked at her husband, tears coursed down her cheeks, “How could you? You killed mother! Oh God! Who are you? I don’t know you.” She turned blindly towards the others, and surprisingly, it was Francesca who stood up and took her in her arms, embracing her unfortunate sister. Her other sisters and brothers moved towards her, all instinctively putting distance between themselves and Arturo.
He saw he was isolated, and cried, “I didn’t do it, they can’t prove anything!”
“They don’t need to. I know just by looking at you,” screamed Emily hysterically. “Even if a court found you innocent, I would know. Get away from me.”
He crumpled suddenly. “ I did it for you, Emily. I couldn't bear it any longer. She treated you like a servant. We would never have been free of her. I did it for you.”
Di Girolamo nodded at the Maresciallo who stepped forward and arrested Arturo.
He waited until they had left the room, collected his things in his briefcase, and looked at the family. They had drawn together, enclosing Emily, taking her into the circle of blood ties. He found he had nothing to say to them.
He left the Villa, but did not look back.
EPILOGUE
“I wonder what they will all do now” said Hilary as the car rolled slowly down the hill. At last they were off on their holiday together. It had taken quite a while to sort out all the paper work but when Ruggero was finally free they threw a few things into a case and left Borgo San Cristoforo gladly. She looked back at the Duomo that crowned the hill, the cypress trees beside it giving it a unique outline. Then, as the car took a very large curve in the road, it vanished from view and she gave her attention to Ruggero, who was replying, “Emily has totally abandoned her husband you know. His own family are standing by him but she will have nothing to do with him at all.”
“Hmm, well, she was very attached to Diana, and Arturo was never more than an interloper. I think she only married him to have something of her own. Diana was so very demanding and Emily was never able to deny her mother anything. Anyway he did give her the children and they are quite lovely.”
“Yes, but with their father facing the rest of his life in jail, how are they going to feel? You can’t deny that it will have a tremendous impact on their lives. Their father killed their grandmother.”
“Of course, I realise that, but he might get off on an insanity plea. I understand that he has gone quite off his head.”
“Yes, but was he, when he did it?”
“I think so, but then I always think that kind of murder is caused by insanity of one form or another.”
“There was premeditation,” said Ruggero soberly.
“Does that mean that he was sane when he did it?”
“I believe that the court will rule that way.”
“What about that case of a battered wife who killed her husband when he was asleep and at that moment posed no actual threat to her? I know of more than one case like that and most of them were let off. Couldn’t Arturo be considered in the same light?”
“I believe that is what his lawyer will try for.”
“So the girls might well have an insane father, rather than just a murderer for a father.”
“Whatever. They will never see him again anyway. Emily is divorcing him.”
“Hardly surprising. I wonder whether they will stay here now.”
“Would you?”
“No. I think I would go away and take the girls somewhere, where no one knows about their father. It would at least give them a chance.”
“Orlando has already gone, you know.”
“With Anna?”
“Yes. I feel quite bad about that. Her husband found out about Orlando and beat her up so badly that she needed surgery. This time she came to us. He has been arrested. He tried to kill her.”
“I had no idea… when?”
“The day after Arturo’s arrest. I was extremely sorry that she had to be involved at all. We knew her situation was bad, and the man is extremely violent. He broke both her arms and she had bad internal injuries as well. Anyway Orlando has had her transferred to a private clinic in Milan and has taken the child there with him.”
“What about the others?”
“Well, I expect Riccardo and Ambra will marry, and Chiara will probably go on with her plans to open a riding stable. Francesca is already in her new house, so that leaves Cosimo and Angelo. They are both in Venice at the moment. Angelo is convalescing. I would guess that the house will be bought by one of the heirs and that the others will all disperse, but I’d be hard put to guess which one would want it.”
“I wonder. Perhaps Ambra will. Riccardo can make that land pay for itself and don’t forget she will have an heir. It will be interesting to see how they all make out. It seems incredible that Diana is dead and yet, at the same time, it seems that it all happened a long time ago. We have all moved on, only Diana remains as she was that day, fixed in our memories like that forever.”
“Well not quite, Giorgio Paconi has written an appalling article in Music news, all about Pier Francesco Guerrazzi and Diana. He makes himself out to have been an intimate member of the family and reveals all.”
“Diana would have been furious.”
“Probably.”
They drove on for a while in a comfortable silence.
“Ruggero?”
“Yes.”
“I think I am getting very fond of having you around.”
“What does that mean? Fond, like you are of your cat, or what?”
“No, not exactly, though I am terribly fond of Cassius, no, fond like a woman feels towards a man.”
“Only fond?”
“Don’t rush me.”
“I won’t, but you must adapt your vocabulary. It is really quite imprecise.”
“You think so. What would you have said?”
“I would have said that, I think I love you.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, but that is because I do love you.”
“Do you?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. Your vocabulary is not at all precise either. That’s not surprised. It’s happy.”
TUSCAN TERROR
MARGARET MOORE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
>
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
TUSCAN TEMPER
Margaret Moore
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY.NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
TUSCAN TERROR
MARGARET MOORE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTYTWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTYFOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PROLOGUE
It was early morning. There was ice on the roads but the sun, climbing the blue sky, promised to melt it. A small, ancient, three- wheeled vehicle, an Ape truck, of a dull blue colour, much scratched and rather battered, drew to a noisy halt beside the rubbish bins. A man got out, and stood for a moment scrutinising the area, then evidently satisfied that no one had noticed him, placed a plastic bag on the ground in front of the largest green bin. He climbed back in, and the vehicle was set into rackety motion again. As it got further and further away it sounded more and more like the insect it was named after, the bee. As the sound faded, another more acute one took its place, a wail, the cry of a baby.
CHAPTER ONE
At the Platone Magistrale School, which prepared students for a career in teaching, Signorina Bianchi surveyed her class of fifteen and sixteen year olds. They were all making a big deal out of looking bored. She mentally girded her loins, and drew a simple sketch of the female reproductive organs on the blackboard. Ignoring the whispered obscenities from the back bench where two unattractive, acne-ridden boys guffawed knowingly, she told the class the correct names of the various organs. She explained about ovulation and, in a neutral voice, asked a plump girl who was seated in the middle of the classroom if she could explain the duration of a menstrual cycle.
"I don't know"
"Well, for example how long is your menstrual cycle, Grazia?"
"How should I know?" The class tittered.
"Well it's your body, how do you know when you're due?" she snapped, feeling irritated
"I don't know. It just comes."
This time the whole class roared with laughter, but the teacher saw that the girl looked embarrassed and almost tearful. She hurriedly moved on, mentally kicking herself for her insensitivity, and discussed the fertilisation of the ova by the sperm, drawing more crude whispers from the back bench, and at last reached the part of the lesson that she considered of paramount importance; contraception, and AIDS. She was a modern, free- thinking teacher, and knew she would be in trouble with some of the more staid members of the teaching staff, but in this day and age, she felt that the children must have information. She handed out the government prepared 'Lupo Alberto' cartoon books that explained the virus in a simple manner. She explained that condoms protected against AIDS and would also ensure that there were no unwanted pregnancies. The next day two representatives of the Catholic Parents Association would accuse her of instigating their children to promiscuous sexual behaviour. Her behaviour had been reported and she knew she could well be in trouble. Although there was a now a legal separation of church and state, the influence of the Catholic Church was still very strong. Religious instruction although not compulsory was difficult to avoid. Those who opted out were penalised in subtle or even quite open ways. Sex education was minimal, and a gynaecologist who usually instructed the children had explicitly ignored reality, informing bored and disbelieving kids that the only way to avoid AIDS, and unwanted pregnancy, was through chastity.
Paradoxically, the children who most needed information were those least likely to get it.
Later, just before lunch, Signorina Bianchi sat in the empty staff room. She had offered confidential information to anyone who needed it but did not expect to be approached. A girl looked in as she passed the open door. Their eyes locked briefly, then the girl ran off, the moment passed. Signorina Bianchi felt that she had failed, and perhaps she had.
A few days later she would feel vindicated. What had happened would never have happened if they gave their children correct information.
*
Isabelle Plunkett- Smith breathed in deeply. The air was cool and clear. It was all so marvellous, she thought as she surveyed her land. Only now, her thoughts ran on in their usual romantic fashion, could she really it feel it her own, for today she was taking possession, as it were. Tonight she would sleep in her lovely house for the first time.
She was a short woman, pleasantly plump as her ex husband used to call her in the days when things were still good between them; he had moved on to calling her ‘fat cow’ when things began to deteriorate. She had blonde hair, not a ferociously blonde colour, but what she preferred to call a silver blonde. It was cut to jaw length, and the parted on one side, the longer side swept back from her face. Her eyes were pale blue, her complexion pale and pink. Under her sheepskin jacket, she was wearing a long mid-blue woollen skirt with an ethnic border in a darker tone of the same blue. A long, matching over- jersey with side slits helped mask her plumpness and made her look taller. She also wore sheepskin-lined boots and thick dark blue tights. A Laura Ashley scarf was knotted at her neck. On her plump white hands she still wore her wedding ring, and a sapphire ring inherited from her great aunt. On her right wrist was a heavy, richly-worked silver bracelet, on her left, a small expensive wristwatch. Isabelle was ready for
work.
Although her house appeared to be completely isolated, in reality was it was only a few minutes walk from the hamlet of Altamura, where there was a small bar cum village store and a public telephone. It was a splendid December morning; the sun was shining, and had already started to melt the ice that had formed during the night. The sky was a cloudless blue, and the mountains were clearly visible, snow capping the highest peaks. However, despite the sunshine, it was absolutely freezing, and a bitterly cold wind was whistling round the exposed house. Standing in the doorway, out of the wind, the sun's rays warmed her face briefly. She stood for a moment surveying the countryside with satisfaction then turned and fitted the long, heavy key into its ancient lock. There was a metallic grating noise, and then a loud click as the door opened. She entered the house. The chill was very evident inside, a strong contrast to the tepid warmth of the sun in the protected doorway. Actually the chill was awful, it had a dark penetrating quality, and she hastened to the thermostat to turn on her rather primitive central heating system, which ran on giant gas cylinders hidden below a grassy bank to the left of the house. She had planted ivy near to them hoping that one day it would cover the area and make them less evident.
All her furniture had arrived from England, and had been placed according to a minutely detailed plan that she had worked out months ago when trying to decide which pieces to send to Italy and which to store in England. Admittedly, the table did fill up the room rather more than she had expected, and her Welsh dresser was rather overwhelming. But, all in all, she was happy with the result.
She plumped her basket on the table. It contained fresh bread, a piece of the local 'pecorino' sheep's cheese, and a flask of wine, which had been filled from a demijohn of wine earlier that morning by Mario, at that wonderful little ‘alimentare’, the grocery store, in Borgo San Cristoforo, (the town where she had been staying for the last few months in order to oversee the finalising of the work on her house). There was also a bag of oranges which, although she was unaware of it, came from Spain. The basket itself came from ‘an absolutely marvellous shop in London', where it had cost about ten times its real value, but had, what she liked to call, 'a pleasantly peasant' feel to it.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 48
