by Jilly Cooper
‘He did brilliantly,’ protested Gablecross, ‘performed like a trooper. Pity we can’t recruit him.’
‘How’s Montigny?’
‘Only a flesh wound, bullet lodged in the muscle. They’re operating now. Rozzy Pringle was so bats about him that he was the only one who could lure her out. He did fantastically too.’
‘And Lucy Latimer?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about her,’ said Gablecross. ‘She’s outwardly OK. In shock, of course, she had a terrible experience, devastated as well that her dog was killed. We don’t want the defence to nobble her, and if the press get onto her the whole case will collapse. She’s desperate to get away. I said we might be able to arrange a safe-house for her abroad until after the trial.’
In the next room they could hear Swallow’s voice rising.
‘All right, all right, Mr Campbell-Black, that’s entirely up to the Police Promotions Board. I don’t care if you do go over my head.
‘Jesus, that bastard gets on my wick,’ said Swallow, as he returned very red in the face. ‘Now where were we?’
Gablecross was so tired he didn’t at first take in that, in their roundabout way, both Swallow and Portland were congratulating him.
‘You saved our bacon,’ admitted Portland. ‘Not sure how much longer we could have gone on spending tax-payers’ money.’
‘You’ve done well, Tim. Better go home and put on a clean shirt before the press conference,’ said Swallow. ‘And I think DC Needham’s going to be every bit as good as Charlie.’
It must be tiredness and the fact that the Chief Constable had never called him Tim before but, for a hideous moment, Gablecross thought he was going to cry.
‘I absolutely agree, sir,’ he muttered.
Tristan came round to find his room full of flowers and sunlight. His shoulder throbbed, but he could move his arm, and the diamorphine was keeping any pain at bay. Sergeant Gablecross was his first visitor, carrying a bunch of purple chrysanthemums and a brown parcel.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ demanded Tristan. ‘Is she all right? I want to see her.’
‘She’s being debriefed,’ said Gablecross carefully. ‘She’s very anxious you should read this.’ He put the packet on the bedside table. ‘She handed it over to Rozzy for safe-keeping when she was arrested. Rozzy was intending to burn it. We’ll need it as evidence later. The sister said I mustn’t stay long. We’ll take a statement when you’re feeling stronger.’
How beautiful the boy was, he thought enviously. Even when he was running a temperature, the dark hair falling over the white forehead and the flush on the hollowed cheeks reminded you of black trees and snow warmed by a winter sunset.
Tristan, slumped back on his pillows, was constantly reminded of the horror of Lucy’s inert frozen body. ‘Are you sure she’s OK, or as OK as she can be? Is James really dead?’
‘We think so. Rupert’s going to advertise, so are we.’
‘I must get her a puppy.’ Tristan turned fretfully to the package. ‘“Private and Confidential”. I suppose that means everyone at Rutminster Police Station’s had a look.’
As soon as Gablecross had left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, Tristan opened the package.
The enclosed letter was headed ‘Hôtel de Ville, St Malo’, dated 16 July, and smelt faintly of the disturbing, overtly sexy scent Lucy had worn the morning he’d sacked her. Tristan shuddered at the memory.
Dear Tristan [what kind, generous handwriting Lucy had!]
I hope I bring you tidings of very great joy, but the facts are so overwhelming I thought you’d prefer to take them in when you’re on your own. Although Wolfie and I can answer any questions as best we can later.
Your aunt Hortense swore to your dad she would never tell the truth, but in the end was persuaded that promises should occasionally be broken.
You truly are a Montigny, Tristan, and Étienne was speaking the truth on his deathbed rambling on about your father being your grandfather. The problem was, Rannaldini got the wrong grandad. Étienne was your grandfather, Laurent your father.
Tristan slumped back against the pillows, reeling from the shock. He read on incredulously:
So in a way Étienne was Philip II and Laurent Posa, a soldier of noble lineage who hated staying idle, so he stirred up trouble in Chad, and got blown up for trying to right wrongs. On the other hand, he was also Carlos because he fell madly in love with your mum. She was just back froma disastrous honeymoon with Étienne, where she’d found she couldn’t bear him near her. Laurent came home all suntanned and handsome. She fell madly in love with him and fell pregnant with you, while Étienne was away painting in Australia.
The paper was shaking so violently, he could hardly read, let alone turn the page.
When Laurent died, all his things were sent back. Love-letters from Delphine, plans for naming the baby Tristan, if it was a boy, plans they would run away together the moment he came out of the army, how Laurent wanted tobe there when Delphine broke the news to Étienne because he knew what a temper his father had.
The extraordinary thing is that Don Carlos must be in your genes, because Étienne’s humiliation and heartbreak must have been so like Philip’s. You can now understand his animosity and harshness towards you. How would Philip have reacted, if he’d been left to bring up Elisabetta’s and Carlos’s orphaned son?
All the letters and photos are here for you and, perhapsmost important, a self-portrait painted by Étienne the year you were born, just after he found out about Laurent being your father. I think it must be the saddest, most beautiful and humane painting he ever did. Hortense said he wanted you to have it after his death, so perhaps you could understand and forgive him.
The words swam before Tristan’s eyes. The whole thing was too enormous for him to take in. His hands were trembling so much and he was so weak, it was a struggle to open the envelope. Letters and photos cascaded all over the bed. There was Delphine, Christ, she was sweet – not at all like the tawdry temptress of The Snake Charmer, and so pretty, despite the ghastly high-heeled boots, square fringe and pastel lipstick of the sixties. There was Laurent, so dashing in his uniform, the ideal Monsieur Droit, and the letters so passionate they burnt the page.
Tristan felt rage welling inside him, as he examined the little pencil drawing of himself as a newborn baby. There was pride in every centimetre. ‘Tristan Laurent Blaize, a beautiful boy. One hour old,’ Étienne had written on the back.
The self-portrait was in bubble wrap. It was small, fifteen inches by twelve, but an undoubted masterpiece. The tears glittered like Rutshire streams as they flowed down Étienne’s wrinkles; all the hurt pride and pain was contained in the narrow eyes and the clenched mouth.
‘Papa, Papa,’ cried Tristan.
Étienne was still his father, and at last he understood everything. What an absolute shit Laurent must have been. If only he could ring Étienne beyond the grave to tell him how much he loved him.
He lay for a long time listening to the wood pigeons cooing and the distant rumble of traffic. But only when he glanced up at the red plastic bag of blood dripping strength and vitality back into his body, did he realize the full implications. He was a Montigny, of the blood, if on the wrong side of the blanket. He was nothing to do with Maxim. He could marry and have children with whom he chose.
Giddy with happiness, he glanced at the bottom of Lucy’s letter. ‘With all my love’, she had written.
There was a knock at the door. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, Wolfie walked in. He was grey with fatigue, but it would have been impossible to find anyone looking happier.
‘How’s Tab?’ asked Tristan.
‘Seriously wonderful,’ sighed Wolfie. ‘Oh, Tristan, I am so lucky.’ Then, with typical lack of ego, ‘But how are you feeling? I hear you saved Lucy’s life.’
‘You and Lucy give me back mine,’ said Tristan, pointing to the letters and photographs strewn over the bed.
Wolfie picked up Étienne
’s self-portrait. Taking it to the window he whistled. ‘I didn’t see that. Christ, it’s powerful – Christ-like in a way, carrying that weight of suffering in one face.’
‘I can’t take it in. Tell me what happened.’
‘Lucy did it. She put up with a hell of a lot of stick from Aunt Hortense and eventually won her over. We were summoned back as we were leaving and allowed to go into Laurent’s room – which reminds me, I must find out what’s happened to Papa’s Gulf.’
‘Lucy did all that for me?’ said Tristan, in bewilderment.
‘She wanted you to find happiness.’
‘And I fire her because I was furious she let me down, and I back off even last night, because I didn’t think . . . I must find her.’ Reaching up, he kept his finger on the bell.
‘Where is Lucy Latimer?’ he demanded, as a fleet of alarmed nurses rushed in.
When he discovered Lucy had been discharged several hours ago, he went berserk, panic-stricken she was dead. He’d forgotten to salute that single magpie that flew past the window just now; he was being punished for pretending to be in love with Rozzy. He was about to pull out all the drips, and leap out of bed, when Gablecross and Rupert came running in.
‘Where the fuck’s Lucy?’ he snarled.
‘You must persuade him to stay,’ said a worried sister. ‘He’s running a high temperature and he’s lost so much blood.’
‘Lucy wanted out, Tristan.’ Gablecross sat down on the bed. ‘She had a terrifying ordeal. And if the press or defence get hold of her the whole case could collapse. We’ve found her a safe-house.’
‘How can she be safe without me?’
‘Very easily,’ drawled Rupert.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Gablecross. ‘She’ll be quite OK,’ he added, prising himself out of the stranglehold of Tristan’s good arm. ‘But she was insistent that no-one should be given the forwarding address.’
‘For how long?’ whispered Tristan in horror.
‘Nine months, perhaps a year.’
Tristan slumped back in bed, the picture of desolation.
‘This is crazy, I need to thank her. I need her.’
‘Best thanks you can give her at the moment’, said Rupert, who was reading about his heroic exploits in the Daily Express, ‘is to leave her alone.’
‘But I am in a different position now. I thought I was Maxim’s bastard child without any money, a maimed being who could not have children.’
‘You’ve hardly got a good track record.’ Rupert turned to page three, smirking over the headline: ‘Rupert’s Kiss of Life Saves Lucy.’
‘But she must feel something for me to have gone to France.’
‘She was freeing you for Tab,’ said Rupert bluntly. ‘She didn’t know anything about Claudine Lauzerte. That knocked her for six. If I were you, pretty boy, I’d get on with what you’re good at, editing our film.’
At that moment an excited nurse popped her head round the door. ‘I know you’re not taking any calls, Tristan, but it’s Claudine Lauzerte on the line.’
‘We’ll leave you to her,’ said Rupert, and sauntered out.
In the corridor, he turned to Gablecross. ‘Let the young puppy sweat. Let him find out he’s really missing her.’
Rupert was extremely happy. Peppy Koala was favourite for the St Leger. He was convinced he had masterminded Lucy’s rescue and produced what was going to be an incredibly successful film. Outside the window, a sea of press and television cameras filled the car park right up to the door.
He was delighted that Xavier had taken a terrific shine to Karen. This afternoon they were going off with Bianca to choose a puppy for Taggie’s birthday.
Rupert was also enchanted with his future son-in-law. All that was needed was to organize a quickie divorce for Tab. Helen didn’t seem wildly keen on the idea, she’d always felt Wolfie was her admirer and that it was all too close to home. Tab’s grandfather, Eddie, wasn’t wild about it either.
‘How can you marry a Kraut, darling? I spent half the war fighting them in the Middle East.’
The only cloud on the horizon for Rupert was that Bluey, his first jockey, had yesterday announced that he was going to live in America, having conveniently fallen in love with a trainer’s daughter. But as one door closes . . .
When Isa Lovell had walked unannounced into his office at Penscombe that morning, Rupert had reached for his gun, which was back in his desk drawer. But to his amazement, Isa held out his hand.
‘This feud’s gone on too long. I’m sorry I fucked up your daughter because I hated you so much. But it looks as though she’s found the right bloke at last. I came to say my father’s been forced, for medical reasons, to jack in the yard. He and Mum’ll need supporting, so I wondered if you’d like me to come and ride for you.’
It took a lot to silence Rupert. Finally he said coldly:
‘We’re almost entirely flat here now.’
‘I know,’ said Isa, ‘but yesterday I tried out a mare who could win the National and the Gold Cup.’
Rupert stared at Isa’s pale, impassive gypsy face, so like Jake’s twenty-five years ago. It must have taken courage to come here. Getting to his feet, he took Isa’s hand. ‘I’ll have to check with Wolfie and Tab, but I’ve never turned down a good offer or one that might irritate my first wife. And I reckon if you and I joined forces no-one in the world could beat us.’
‘Except, perhaps, Little Cosmo,’ said Isa drily.
Bernard comforted Tristan the most by putting things in perspective.
‘When Étienne sent Laurent into his own regiment, hoping it would straighten the boy out, he asked me to keep an eye on him. I tried but Laurent was bent on bucking the system. They were torturing prisoners in Chad, Laurent hit a senior officer across the mess and there were persistent rumours of anti-French activities. Of course, there was outrage at the time that he’d been taken out by his own side but I think it would have happened sooner or later.’
‘I hate Laurent and my mother for what they did to Papa.’ Tristan’s face was haggard.
‘Laurent was the best-looking lad I ever saw,’ admitted Bernard. ‘He was your father’s most adored son, the true favori du roi, which made the betrayal much worse. He had all Posa’s charisma and courage.’
‘And his ruthlessness,’ snapped Tristan. ‘Pretty shabby cuckolding your own father.’
‘He was terribly young, only twenty, and she was sixteen. I loved Laurent,’ confessed Bernard. ‘I held him in my arms as he lay dying and he said, “Look after my son.”’
‘So you knew?’ said Tristan in amazement. ‘That’s why you came out of the army, and went into films, and became my first assistant.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘You’ve been my guardian angel,’ he mumbled, grabbing Bernard’s hand.
‘Guardian angels don’t have brick-red faces and black moustaches.’
There was a pause. Tristan longed to pour his heart out about Lucy, but felt under the circumstances it was tactless.
‘I’m sorry about Rozzy.’
Bernard shrugged. ‘I’ve got a family at home. They’ve never seemed more precious.’
The Shaven Crown was packed out with members of the Inner Cabinet getting drunk. Gablecross usually felt sad at the end of a murder, even if they’d caught the criminal: it didn’t bring back the victims. Beattie had probably had a mother who was fond of her. But it was hard to feel upset about a monster like Rannaldini.
‘Well done, Karen.’ Gablecross patted her arm. ‘My second Charlie.’
Karen’s face lit up. But embarrassed, because she felt so colossally honoured, she immediately changed the subject. ‘Poor Rozzy seemed such a nice lady. What made her do it?’
‘Low self-esteem. Couldn’t hack not being loved by everyone. Kill anyone who slighted her. The exposure made her feel important, the centre of attention. She’s a singer, after all. Then she got a taste for it. In the end she’d have killed Tristan because he couldn’t have reciprocated her love. I’ll drive you
home,’ he went on, seeing Karen suppress a yawn.
It was such a beautiful night. Moths danced in the headlamps. Shooting stars careered across a drained blue sky. The scent of limes drifted through the car windows. Gablecross had dropped Karen off and was turning off the Paradise Road towards Eldercombe. He was just congratulating himself on being home early for Margaret for once, so they could discuss Diane’s eighteenth birthday party, which he could easily pay for now, when he heard singing:
‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes, She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes, Singing ay yay yippy, ay yay yippy . . .’
Some nutter was turning up his stereo at full blast. Next moment a huge maroon Roller roared past, shattering the peace of the evening.
Gablecross gave chase. But every time the road widened enough for him to catch up, the Roller’s driver put his foot down, and the laughter and singing grew more raucous. He finally managed to block them in as they swung into River House’s drive. Inside he found Hermione and Sexton.
‘“She’ll be coming round the mountain—” Sergeant Gablecross!’ cried Hermione, in amazement. ‘We thought you were our good friend the Chief Constable going home.’
Gablecross got out his notebook, and was just pondering whether to book them for speeding, drunk-driving, not wearing seat-belts, or creating a nuisance when Sexton said:
‘Come in and celebrate.’
‘You both appear to have been celebrating for several hours, sir.’
‘Indeed,’ Hermione bowed, ‘and with cause, Timothy. We want you to be the first to know. We are with child. A sibling for Little Cosmo.’
Gablecross hoped it would be a little brother, or Cosmo would certainly put her on the game.
‘We’ve got a smashin’ bottle of Krug in the fridge,’ said Sexton cosily.
