Score! rc-6

by Jilly Cooper

  But despite their expressionless faces as, armed with torches, they searched the sinister house and gardens, nothing could suppress the excitement of the police that this was bonanza time. The eyes of Scotland Yard, Interpol and the world would now be on little Rutminster. Every stop would be pulled out as they worked from dawn to long after midnight to find the killer. This would mean massive overtime to pay off mortgage and overdraft. Neither was the hunt tainted with sick revulsion over some fearful child abuse or loss of innocent life, only incredulity that no-one had murdered Rannaldini before.

  Detective Sergeant Gablecross stayed with the body until the scene-of-crime men arrived, then made his way up to the house. He lived in nearby Eldercombe and knew a local network of villains, including Clive, as extensive as the secret passages under Valhalla. A racing fanatic, appalled by Rannaldini’s cruelty to horses, he had been trying to nail Rannaldini for years, but it seemed the Grim Reaper had got to the Grim Raper first. Gablecross’s primary emotion was passionate relief that overtime from the murder would pay for his daughter Diane’s eighteenth birthday party.

  The tennis party, meanwhile, had retreated into the Summer Drawing Room.

  ‘This is diabolical,’ chuntered Alpheus. ‘Rannaldini’s name added billions to the film.’

  ‘You and Hermione will get top billing now,’ cried Griselda, as she waltzed round the room with Granny.

  ‘“A tombstone fell on him and squish-squash he died, squish-squash he died,”’ sang Granny, euphoric that with Rannaldini dead the police might not come and take him away. ‘“She went to heaven,”’ he trilled, ‘“and flip-flap she flied, flip-flap she flied.”’

  ‘For Chrissake, Granville,’ snapped Alpheus. ‘Most of us find this an unendurable strain.’

  A second later, his mobile rang.

  ‘Hi there, who did you say?’ Alpheus turned his back on the room. ‘The London Times? The New York, ah. Well, if it was handled in a dignified fashion. Right, give me your number. There’s no need to call my agent, he only handles my performing and recording rights.’

  Looking smug, he switched off his mobile.

  ‘As you’re about to sing to the rooftops,’ giggled Meredith, ‘Howie is surely entitled to his twenty per cent.’

  ‘I’ve had offers from the Express and the Mail,’ said Chloe gleefully, ‘and I’m not giving that lazy sod Howie a penny.’

  Bernard, a soldier used to death, was amazingly calm. His duty was to keep the film on course. Who would be needed for the masked ball tomorrow? Flora, Mikhail, Baby, Gloria, Hermione (who probably wouldn’t be up to it), Alpheus and Granny were on standby and if it rained as forecast they’d have to do cover shots in the Great Hall.

  Outside, the police were setting up a major incident van with statement forms, floodlights and its own generator.

  ‘Perhaps its generator will mate with our generator. “Love is in the air,”’ sang Meredith.

  No-one had thought to dim the chandeliers. Flora sat shuddering on the sofa, clutching Trevor for comfort, working her way down a bottle of white, trying to get Rannaldini’s grossly contorted features out of her head. She had never needed George more, but there was no answer from his house or his mobile. With her luck, the photographs would have been delivered before Rannaldini was murdered. She wished Baby were here to cheer things up.

  Sylvestre was comforting Jessica, DC Lightfoot Pushy, who was one moment sobbing hysterically, the next upgrading her parents’ house from 192 Station Approach to ‘Cherrylands’.

  Simone was talking to her mother in Paris. Lucy sat beside Flora, James at her feet, occasionally twitching his toes against her ankle to check she was there. Thank God Tristan was far away in Paris. No-one had had more of a motive.

  ‘Maman was very angry that I didn’t make the party,’ said Simone in awe, as she switched off her telephone, ‘but not nearly as angry as Aunt Hortense, because Uncle Tristan never showed up and Aunt Hortense had dispensed with protocol and put him, as her favourite nephew, on her right. His older brothers, including my father, were very angry. Tristan didn’t even telephone Aunt Hortense.’

  ‘Couldn’t tear himself away from Madame Lauzerte,’ muttered Ogborne.

  ‘Shut up, she’s in Wales,’ hissed Sylvestre.

  ‘I told you I saw Tristan at Valhalla,’ pouted Jessica.

  That was why James had leapt forward earlier, thought Lucy, in panic.

  ‘Oh, look, you’ve spilt your wine over that lovely new settee,’ cried Pushy.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry.’ Lucy gazed down as the stain, like a dark red jellyfish, invaded the sea-blue silk. ‘Rannaldini will murder me.’

  ‘It’s all right, dearie.’ Meredith patted Lucy’s hanging head. ‘He’s dead now. Run and get some salt, Jessica.’

  ‘And bring me some grub,’ Ogborne called after her.

  ‘Ooo, look at that lovely man just come in,’ squealed Pushy.

  ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Gablecross, our local sleuth,’ said Meredith hastily arranging his curls in a nearby pier-glass.

  Although his athlete’s body had grown too big for his suits, as a result of too many hastily snatched hamburgers and bags of chips, there was an undeniable force about Tim Gablecross. His square, ruddy, freckled farmer’s face, with its uncompromising mouth and jutting jaw, was only softened by light brown hair, which waved when it rained, and turned-down emerald-green eyes. These were fringed with such long, curly eyelashes, that as a uniformed officer they had stopped his cap falling over his broken nose. Despite a West Country drawl as slow as the smile that occasionally drifted across his face, he was as tough as a police-canteen steak.

  Gablecross’s wife, Margaret, was crazy about opera so he instantly recognized Alpheus Shaw and Chloe Catford. No wonder DC Lightfoot was going scarlet as he took down Chloe’s name and address. Last time he’d seen her, at the Valhalla orgy, she’d only been wearing Diorissimo. Gablecross also recognized Meredith Whalen, who was local, and Granville Hastings, who was waltzing decorously with Lady Griselda, whom he had often booked for speeding. All three looked as though they’d won the pools.

  Flora Seymour, on the other hand, gazed into space, cuddling a terrier and shaking uncontrollably. Gablecross remembered her singing in The Creation in the cathedral water-meadows, and knew that she lived with George Hungerford, almost more of a wide boy than Rannaldini.

  The only thing he noticed about the others was that they were all pissed and on their mobiles, except Bernard Guérin who came over and introduced himself. Gablecross liked Bernard on sight, finding him ex-army, efficient, practical and with a sense of priorities. Bernard had still failed to contact either Sexton or Tristan, who was probably already on his way back from France. As Bernard clapped his hands, the room fell silent.

  ‘You’ll all know by now a body has been found,’ announced Gablecross, ‘and we are making inquiries. We would like you to co-operate and let us retain the clothes you are wearing or, if you’ve changed, the ones you were wearing earlier.’

  ‘For you, Detective Sergeant, anything,’ smiled Meredith.

  Gablecross, who battled constantly against homophobia, didn’t smile back.

  ‘A man hasn’t asked me to take off my clothes for yonks,’ said Griselda, with a shout of laughter.

  ‘The police could use her dress as an incident tent,’ hissed Ogborne.

  ‘What happens to our clothes?’ simpered Pushy. ‘I was hoping to wear this little cardie to an audition next week.’

  ‘They’re labelled, numbered and put in brown-paper bags,’ said Gablecross.

  ‘You weren’t wearing those clothes earlier, anyway,’ the hawk-eyed Simone told Pushy. ‘Nor was Chloe.’

  ‘Yes I was, smartass,’ snapped Chloe, opening her long blue cardigan to show a white shirt and pleated shorts, ‘but Alpheus has changed.’

  ‘My clothes are back at Jasmine Cottage,’ said Alpheus quickly. ‘I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘A police officer will drive you, Mr Shaw
,’ said Gablecross firmly.

  Ogborne was gazing out on the ever-increasing crowd of media.

  ‘I’m going to film them. Always wanted to be an operator,’ he muttered, sliding out of a side door.

  ‘Why are all those men wandering around Hangman’s Wood in space suits?’ asked Jessica, coming back without any salt.

  ‘To avoid contamination of the body,’ explained DC Lightfoot admiringly.

  ‘Would have thought it was the other way round,’ said Granny sourly.

  ‘I’ll get my job back now.’ Griselda collapsed on a sofa, drumming her feet excitedly on the floor like a little girl.

  ‘So will I,’ said Meredith. ‘I did redecorate this room nicely, didn’t I? Those onyx pillars are to die for. Wonder if anyone’s told Hermione.’

  ‘Wonder how upset she’ll be?’ mused Griselda. ‘They go back a long way. She probably did it.’

  ‘That singing in the wood sounded almost too good for her,’ observed Sylvestre, the constant listener. ‘Perhaps Rannaldini had replaced her with some young chick.’

  ‘Then she certainly did it,’ said Meredith.

  ‘The murderer is most likely to be a member of the family,’ volunteered Jessica, who never missed an instalment of The Bill.

  ‘With four wives, eight kiddiwinks, and a million steps and illegits to take into consideration,’ giggled Meredith, as he handed Sylvestre a bottle of red to open, ‘the police will be spoilt for choice.’

  ‘“He went to t’other place and frizzled and fried,”’ sang Granny happily.

  Christ, what a bunch, thought Gablecross, and leaving DC Lightfoot and DS Fanshawe to get their clothes off them, went off to break the news to Lady Rannaldini.

  40

  Detective Sergeant Gablecross found Helen in a terrible state, mindlessly tidying her little study, straightening straight objects, looking around with huge, darting eyes, her grey face such a contrast to the lilacs and honeysuckles blooming so luxuriantly on her beautiful silk dress.

  Gablecross felt desperately sorry for her, but with murder it was his duty to zap her and start scribbling straight away. ‘I’m afraid we’ve found your husband’s body in the wood, Lady Rannaldini.’

  ‘What?’ Helen went utterly still, except for her darting eyes. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t mean he was caught in the fire? How terrible! They say you suffocate first,’ she pleaded.

  ‘No, no, Sir Roberto died from strangulation and gunshot wounds.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident?’

  Gablecross could have sworn it was relief that flickered over her face. There was a long pause which he let her fill.

  ‘Is everything in his watchtower destroyed?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘All his precious compositions,’ whispered Helen, a muscle jumping in her freckled cheek. ‘His life’s work gone! I can’t bear it.’

  ‘What were your husband’s movements today?’

  ‘He went to his watchtower mid-afternoon.’ She was twisting her very loose wedding ring round and round. ‘Earlier I saw him walking round the garden with Flora Seymour, who looked very upset. He also rowed with Rozzy Pringle and Alpheus Shaw — I heard them both shouting, I don’t know what about. Artistic people shout all the time.’

  A red glass paperweight trembled like a raspberry jelly as she straightened it.

  ‘Then some very important rushes arrived of my husband conducting the first and last scenes in the film, and Mr Brimscombe, our gardener, and Clive, my husband’s bodyguard, carried this machine out to his tower so he could watch them. My husband was very particular about how he looked on the rostrum.’

  ‘Did he have anything to eat?’

  ‘He had a late lunch of caviare with blinis and sour cream, and some peaches from our conservatory, taken out to the watchtower around four.’

  ‘Who would have prepared that?’

  ‘Mrs Brimscombe. Clive would have taken it out. Rannaldini didn’t like people…’ she paused ‘… people he didn’t want, to visit his tower. Are you sure he suffocated first, Officer?’

  ‘What did you do this evening?’

  ‘I got my clothes ready for London. I’ve got several committee meetings and a dinner in aid of the Red Cross tomorrow. Rannaldini’s letting me have the helicopter,’ she added proudly. ‘Then, at nine thirty, I listened to a play on Radio Three about Puccini, by Declan O’Hara’s son, Patrick. D’you know his work? It’s excellent. Did you know Puccini didn’t finish Turandot?’

  Like a tap whose washer had gone. Gablecross knew she’d give him the whole plot, but he let her run on, captivated by her slight American accent.

  ‘Toscanini conducted the première but only as far as Puccini had written.’ Helen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Toscanini knew my husband, and rated him very highly as a conductor.’

  ‘Did you leave your room while you were listening to the play?’

  ‘The phone rang in the kitchen around ten past ten. But the machine had picked it up by the time I got there, so I left it. The calls are always for my husband.’

  ‘That was the only time you left the room?’

  ‘Yes, but I missed the end of the play, which was maddening.’

  ‘Did you have any supper?’

  ‘Mrs Brimscombe’s so dear, she tried to tempt me with an omelette but I’m afraid I chucked it down the john. It was so hot and I had a headache.’

  ‘You didn’t feel like joining the tennis party?’

  ‘I popped down earlier with Eulalia Harrison, a charming journalist from the Sentinel, who was actually interested in hearing my views for a change.’

  For a second her bitterness at always playing second fiddle showed through.

  ‘But I didn’t stay. Frankly, Officer,’ she started to shake again, ‘I feel like Clarissa Eden. The crew and the cast have been flowing through this place as if it was the Suez Canal for three and a half months. I want my house back.’

  ‘Having seen that lot,’ said Gablecross drily, ‘I’d feel more like Mrs Noah, frantic for a first glimpse of Mount Ararat.’ He was touched by the gratitude that swept her face.

  ‘Oh, you do understand. And now Rannaldini’s not going to be here to revel in those big rooms, which have been revamped like Buckingham Palace. This is about the only place that hasn’t been Meredithed.’ She glanced bitterly round the exquisite little study. ‘They do say you suffocate before the flames burn you.’

  She was shuddering so violently she had dislodged a false eyelash, a funny thing to wear to listen to the radio on Sunday night, thought Gablecross.

  ‘I keep expecting him to burst in, Officer. He was so dynamic.’

  ‘We’d like you to hand over the clothes you wore today.’

  ‘I haven’t changed out of this dress.’

  ‘That’s fine. Could you let us have it when you go to bed? I’d also like…’ he consulted his notebook ‘… to speak to your son Wolfgang, and your daughter Tabitha.’

  It was as if he had mentioned people she’d forgotten existed. In a state of grief and shock, people invariably look for others to blame. ‘Why aren’t they here?’ exploded Helen.

  ‘Any idea where they might be?’

  ‘Wolfie was organizing the tennis. How dare he disappear when he should be here for me? Tab’s just as thoughtless. My son Marcus is quite different.’ She picked up a silver-framed photograph of a beautiful boy seated at a piano. ‘He won the Appleton, you know. Marcus would never abandon me at a time like this.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have killed your husband?’

  Gablecross let an unbearably long pause elapse, until Helen said in a low voice, ‘Tristan de Montigny tried to kill him on Friday night. Hermione, Chloe and Gloria Prescott were all furious they hadn’t got a particular part. Particularly Gloria who everyone nicknamed Pushy. My husband’s been so kind to her, lending her the limo and the helicopter. She took so much for granted.

  ‘He had that terrible row with Alpheus this morning, and one wi
th Mikhail, and Hermione too. He felt she hadn’t sung her part very well. But my husband fights with everyone.’

  A moth was banging like a muffled funeral drum against the window.

  ‘He can’t bear music to be any less beautiful than he hears it in his head.’

  Her mobile rang. Helen snatched it up.

  ‘Rannaldini? It’s the Scorpion,’ she whispered in terror.

  Gablecross seized the mobile. ‘Piss off,’ he roared.

  Next moment, two photographers had rammed their lenses against the window. ‘Look this way, Helen.’

  ‘Bugger off,’ bellowed Gablecross, yanking the dove-grey curtains across their faces.

  From now on, the media would move into Paradise waving their cheque-books, like flies round a cowpat, eyes in their backsides, making the work of the police ten times more difficult.

  Turning back to Helen, Gablecross caught a glimpse of a photograph, pushed to the back of a shelf, of Rannaldini smiling down at a ravishing girl. She was the spitting image of Rupert Campbell-Black. It must be Helen’s daughter.

  ‘How did your husband get on with Tabitha?’

  Images of the photographs in Rannaldini’s watchtower swam before Helen’s eyes, with a naked, scornful Tabitha on the top. As she burst into tears, there was an impatient knock and a tall young man in a dark blue polo shirt and tennis shorts barged in. With his dark blue eyes, gold hair and thighs as strong, smooth and brown as its onyx pillars, the drawing room, leading out on to the terrace, might have been decorated to compliment his handsomeness, but he looked much too large in here. Wolfie disliked Helen intensely for neglecting Tab, but he hated to see anyone in distress.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we’ve found your father’s body, sir.’