The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 8

  He wished he’d never met Ettore Fagiolo.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pia was slopping a very wet mop over the floor when Hilary came down in her dressing gown the next morning.

  “You’re late down this morning,” she said.

  “Yes, I was working till gone three. I wanted to finish.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s one of them black wasp things, you know, those long ones with a double body. It’s made a nest on top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom, and another on the beams. You’ll have to get some one in to get rid of it.”

  “I’ll ask Aldo when he comes to clean the gutters.”

  “You make sure you do, or we’ll have the house full in no time.”

  Hilary went into the kitchen. The door to the garden was open and the sun had nearly dried the floor. Pia had given a summary wipe over the surfaces. She’s getting past it, thought Hilary. Her eyesight wasn’t too good now, and her energy levels were low. Bending and stretching were limited. She was nearly seventy and had been a cleaner all her working life. She had worked for Hilary for over fifteen years, so she was loath to get rid of her. So she put up with it. Every so often she had what she called a Blitz on the house, herself, so that things didn’t get too bad. Pia had been great when the kids were younger and they were all fond of her. She grumbled at them all and shared her joys and sorrows with them. Now she said, “I hope you’re eating a proper breakfast, after working all night like that. You’re too thin as it is.”

  “Yes I will; porridge, bread and marmalade and milky coffee. That all right?”

  The bread was fresh as a van delivered it to the house every morning, and the marmalade was homemade by a friend who had come to stay last year, and wanted to make herself useful. Hilary said a mental ‘Thank you’ to her every morning. She cleared away the breakfast things and told Pia she was going up for a shower and to get dressed.

  “You shouldn’t shower after a meal, it’s bad for you. You’ll block your digestion, I’ve told you before.”

  “Well it has never happened before, so I don’t see why it should happen now. Don’t worry.”

  “You’re not getting any younger,” she replied

  “Well that’s true, but I’ll take the risk.”

  Pia looked unconvinced. Her generation had a firm set of beliefs and stuck rigidly to them. She had been brought up on an isolated farm in the mountains above Borgo San Cristoforo, the eldest of three sisters. The other two were called Maria and Immacolata, their names, like Pia’s, a testimony to their parents’ simple faith. Pia’s whole life had been regulated by taboos, and a strange mixture of Christian Faith and pagan rites, the one superimposed on the other, but never entirely taking its place. The elements were all powerful and strict adherence to rituals and the prescribed norms were necessary in order to avoid unpleasant, or even life threatening consequences.

  One of the most dangerous elements was water. Daily contact with it was strictly regulated and taboos on bathing were frequent; after eating, when menstruating, and after giving birth (the proscribed period was 40 days). Blood was a mysterious substance and water had an effect on its flux.

  The younger generation had only a vestigial interest or belief in these taboos, which had passed down over the centuries with little modification. The young were embracing modern and foreign ideas, but those of Pia’s generation had little choice but to placate deities and the elements, as their life depended on it.

  The moon also played a large part in governing life; the planting of seeds, the conception of children, the start of labour, even the re-growth of cut hair, were all affected by the phases of the moon. According to Pia her father had only fathered female children, as his wife was only fecund during the female phase of the moon. Another woman, one of seven girls, had told Hilary that her own parents had had the same problem.

  The devil was omniscient, and was always causing trouble. Pia had once made the sign of the cross over Hilary’s blackberry jelly “so as the devil won’t take a part.” Babies’ prams often had a red horn dangling over the baby, cheek by jowl with an image of the Virgin Mary.

  Probably these rituals gave a sense of security. The ability to navigate a course through life manoeuvring through a wealth of hazards, knowing that strict adherence to the governing norms would ensure one’s survival, must make one feel less vulnerable, more in control of one’s destiny. Pia had long ago decided that Hilary must be exempt from these, as a foreigner, for she seemed to survive flagrantly breaking taboos but, every now and then, she still felt obliged to warn her of the risks she was taking.

  When Hilary came downstairs again, Pia was polishing the dining room table and humming to herself. Hilary asked, “Pia did you go to the doctor about that rash?”

  “Yes I did. He says it’s St. Antony’s Fire, and I’ve got tablets to take.”

  “I hope you’re taking them, and don’t stop when it feels better, take them all.”

  Pia had a habit of stopping any course of medicine as soon as she felt the benefit. Each of the two women was conversant with her own sphere and instructed the other who was less expert.

  “Anyway, I went to Benito’s wife to be on the safe side.” Benito’s wife, never called by her own name, which Hilary couldn’t even remember, was a white witch who would ‘sign’ warts and other ailments, muttering strange words and making crosses in the air. Pia gave Hilary a look, which meant, each to his own.

  Hilary said, “Well you’re well covered then. I’m sure you’ll get well soon, but take the medicine just to ‘be on the safe side’,”

  She laughed and Pia laughed too and said, “Well two’s better than one.”

  The phone rang. She knew it was Bruno. He was so predictable.

  “Good morning. You finished late, I saw your light was still on at two this morning.”

  “Yes, I finished just after three, so I only got up half an hour ago. I’m going out to post the wretched thing now. I can’t wait to get rid of it.”

  “You always say that,” he laughed “Look, about tonight, I thought we could go down to the coast to that concert, Uto Ughi is playing. I thought we could eat at ‘La Morosa’ on the way down, if we leave early.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Alright, I’ll book then, for 7.15 ish. See you at 6.30. Ciao.”

  She put the phone down and stood lost in thought for a few moments, gazing out of the window. Now that she knew Bruno was back and available, she suddenly realised that she didn’t really care whether she saw him or not. Good dependable Bruno, always the same, always there for her. Why didn’t she feel more excited about his return? What did she really feel about him? Telling herself it was still too early in the morning to answer questions like that, she shrugged and went off to the kitchen to make some more coffee and wake up properly. She felt as though she was moving in slow motion, and even her thought process seemed slowed down. A strange dissatisfaction weighed on her while a feeling of unease troubled her. The thought of Ettore’s death crept between her and everything else.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pia seemed to be hovering about, like the embodiment of Hilary’s worries. The thought of hearing of some family trouble seemed too enormous to bear, so hoping to avoid whatever Pia was about to tell her, Hilary picked up her package and said brusquely, “I’m going out. See you tomorrow.”

  Pia took a deep breath and blurted out, “Something’s been worrying me.” She paused. “I don’t know if I should say anything or not.” She ground to a halt, looking flustered. Hilary turned from the door and came back into the kitchen. She sat down and put her bag on the table.

  “What is it Pia? Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Pia wrung her hands together and then sat down abruptly.

  “It’s probably nothing, but you remember that night that Ettore Fagiolo got himself killed, well I’d been to my cousin’s house to take a present for her daughter, who’s getting married, and I stayed a bit late. Anyw
ay, I came home past your house. Your lights were out, but the Proctors’ car was in the garage, and I think it was about one o’clock, because I remember thinking how late it was and how I was coming to you earlier than usual the next morning, you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. Your uncle was in hospital. But are you sure it was that late?”

  “Oh yes. I’m pretty sure it was, or near enough, because either before or after I passed the house, anyway, somewhere along the road, I know I heard the Duomo bells, that’s when I remember thinking about having to get up earlier than usual.”

  “Well why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I don’t know, the murder sort of put it out of my mind, but when my cousin’s daughter got married on Sunday, then it all came back to me.”

  “I see. But it can’t be. You mean the Proctors were here? No wait a minute, I saw them leave at midnight. Nigel always sticks to his plans, and I did actually see them go.” She paused, “They must have come back.”

  “I suppose so. That’s what’s worrying me, if they came back, then perhaps they were there when Ettore was killed.”

  “Not necessarily. I don’t think the police know precisely at what time he died. Perhaps they came back for something and then whizzed off again.”

  “Yes, but should I say something, you know, to the carabinieri. I don’t want to get them into trouble, but if they were there maybe they saw something.”

  “You mean if they were there, then maybe they did something. Look, if they did nothing they have probably already told the police that they had to come back. If they haven’t told the police it doesn’t look too good for them. Either way, you have to tell the police. You can’t risk them not knowing.”

  “So I’ve got to go there.” Pia looked utterly miserable.

  “Yes. Look, don’t worry. They’ll be pleased that you came. I saw the magistrate from Lucca and he was a very nice person.”

  “But everyone will see me go there,” she wailed, and that, Hilary knew, was the real problem.

  “Listen, do you want me to phone and talk to them for you, perhaps they could fix it so you don’t have to go there?”

  “I’m not having them come to the house!” Pia cried, horrified.

  “No, no. Let me think. Shall I see if someone could come here while you are here, at my house, then people would think they were coming to see me?”

  “Do you think they would?” She turned it over in her mind “Well if they agree, I suppose that’s alright. Hey! Don’t tell them my name, or they’ll be waiting for me at home when I get there.”

  Hilary picked up the phone and dialled, while Pia hovered anxiously beside her.

  “Pronto, could I speak to Dottor di Girolamo please, I am Hilary Wright, yes, yes, thank-you.” Silence. “Good morning, yes, it’s Hilary Wright.”

  “Ah! You have called to confess?” Di Girolamo sounded quite jovial.

  “No of course not!”

  “What a disappointment.” He chuckled. “ How can I help you?”

  “ I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yes. Ask.”

  “If someone had some information that might be important, but they were unwilling to be seen coming to the police station, or to have you seen going to their house, would you consider meeting that person on neutral ground?”

  “This is not hypothetical, I presume.”

  “Do I have to answer that one?”

  “No. Let’s say that I would be willing.”

  “Good.” She smiled encouragingly at Pia

  “Good, and what. Are you going to tell me more?”

  “Yes, of course. This person has some information concerning the Fagiolo murder, that might be important.”

  “May I know the name of this person?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s not you, I presume?”

  “No. This person has asked me to fix a meeting with the police, and I have suggested my house as neutral ground.”

  “I see. You should inform this person that while we are grateful for information from the public, it is a criminal offence to withhold evidence.”

  “I don’t see the necessity to threaten. This person has only just remembered something and is anxious to inform you, but is worried about others being aware of that fact. This is a small town.”

  “I understand; I hope you will understand that I would like this information as soon as possible.”

  “Would tomorrow morning do?”

  “This morning if you please.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that is possible, as I still have to contact the person in question. It might be possible this afternoon.” She looked at Pia, who looked back at her and nodded with a resigned expression on her face. “I’ll get in touch and phone you back about the time.”

  “Please do that as soon as possible, or I will be forced to pay you an unexpected visit, and I might just do it with an escort of cars and the sirens going.” He laughed. “I would hazard a guess that the person is standing beside you right now.”

  “I’m glad you have a sense of humour,” she risked saying. “I’ll phone back within a quarter of an hour.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” he said and the line went dead.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pia went off home for lunch, muttering and moaning. “I wish I’d never told you,” she said to Hilary “I know I’ll live to regret it.”

  “No you won’t. You’re doing the right thing. It might be very important but, even if it’s not, then your conscience is clear. You can sleep at nights. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  She had fixed up with di Girolamo for him to come at four thirty, as she knew Pia always had a rest in the afternoons before going shopping. It would look quite normal for her to be dressed to go shopping, rather than cleaning, and popping in to see Hilary for a cup of tea was also normal. Not many people would notice di Girolamo. He was coming alone, and if they did see him, well, he was going to Hilary’s house, not Pia’s. All these things were repeated over and over to Pia but she still didn’t feel happy about it. The only certain thing was that she would be there.

  Hilary heated up some leftovers in the oven. The day before she had stuffed a large number of marrow flowers from the garden with a mixture of her own vegetables, an egg and Parmesan cheese, garlic and basil and placed them in an oven dish, having added a trickle of olive oil. She had baked them for an hour. She liked to eat them piping hot with a plate of her home-grown tomatoes dressed simply with oil, aromatic vinegar, and a little fresh basil. Fresh crusty bread and some local sheep’s cheese completed the meal. She ate out on the little terrace overlooking the garden. The terrace was shady and cool in the summer, as it was almost totally covered by an ancient but extremely vigorous wisteria. Huge lilac blooms hung down from the supporting structure, and long tendrils waved about in search of new areas to cover. It had to be vigorously pruned at frequent intervals. On the table, wedged against her plate, and propped up by the fruit bowl, she had an open book, but barely glanced at it today, as she was thinking about the implications of Pia’s information. What she mainly did, was to ask herself if she thought it possible that Nigel had killed Ettore. On the whole she thought it possible, but not very likely. She imagined that Nigel had come back to fetch some forgotten item, found Ettore there, for whatever reason, and had accidentally killed him, during an argument perhaps, and had then gone off as though nothing had happened. She munched on her bread and cheese. Why was Ettore there, and where was he anyway? It didn’t seem likely that he would be down by the pool; it was much too cool for swimming that evening. There had been a storm, which had lasted till about nine o’clock and the temperature had dropped considerably after it. Perhaps the burglar theory was correct, and in that case it had not been Nigel who had killed him. Why else should Ettore be down by the pool? Or perhaps Ettore had been in the house, and Nigel had found him there and then given chase and had an argument etc etc. It seemed much more probable to her
, that Nigel had come back before Ettore was there, had retrieved his forgotten stuff, driven off and not thought it worthwhile mentioning the fact, and maybe had already told the police, in which case she was wasting their time. She turned back to her book, an improbable detective story set in Italy.

  At four fifteen p.m. Pia arrived dressed in her shopping dress, a flowery short-sleeved frock with a white collar. She was wearing black sandals that covered most of her misshapen feet, and stockings, which Hilary knew were rolled down to just below the knee, even though Pia knew how bad it was for her varicose veins. She had brought her shopping bag with her and had even bought a few things on the way. As usual, her grey hair was made into a plait that was then wound around her head and fixed with pins. She also wore a very anxious expression and her plump face twitched a little, under stress.

  “Come in Pia. We’ll start making tea shall we? You look as though you need something. Did you eat lunch?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t very hungry.”