by Jilly Cooper
‘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.
‘Bubbly for the bobby, bubbly for the bobby,’ chortled Hermione, as she weaved up the drive.
Gablecross sighed. He obviously wasn’t going to get home to Margaret for a while.
85
In a mad frenzy of superstition, Tristan locked himself away editing twenty-four hours a day. Only when Don Carlos was finished and an unqualified triumph would he feel worthy of seeking out Lucy. It was an agonizing task because every frame with people in it was a testament to her genius.
How could she have made his cast so beautiful yet so full of character? Hermione looked not a day over twenty-five, Flora disturbingly boyish, Baby so pale, wan and fond, Chloe so languorously seductive, Mikhail so noble, Granny so unrelentingly evil, Alpheus so tortured yet kingly.
‘She’s actually made that prat look like a gent,’ observed Rupert, who popped in most days and got frightfully excited over the special effects. Tristan’s filming of the grey, writhing traveller’s joy in winter suggested a wonderfully ghostly Charles V.
On each visit, Tristan begged Rupert for information about Lucy’s whereabouts. Every day he telephoned Gablecross but met the same stonewalling refusal. Too much money was invested in the trial to allow any slip-up.
Another reason Tristan worked through the night was the bad dreams that racked him if he tried to sleep, of Lucy drowning in a sea of blood, of the painting of Cleopatra and the asp in Buckingham Palace — except it was Lucy’s face not Cleopatra’s from which the colour was draining.
Having finished editing, Tristan had to bite his nails until he showed the final cut to the press on 11 January and went into even deeper despair that the whole thing was junk.
‘You’re too close to it,’ said Wolfie soothingly.
‘But will the man in the street like it?’
‘You couldn’t get more philistine than my future father-in-law,’ confessed Wolfie, ‘and he’s mad about it. Admittedly, he’s convinced he directed the entire film. I even heard him singing “Morte de Posa” in the bath the other morning.’
But Tristan wasn’t to be reassured. He was always cold, always miserable. He dreamt of crumpets, big log fires and Lucy winning the mothers’ race. The only glimmer of cheer was that The Lily in the Valley had been nominated many times over in the incredibly prestigious Academia Awards in Edinburgh, which boded well for the Oscars in February. It was widely rumoured that Claudine Lauzerte would be flying up to Scotland for the ceremony. If so, she must have been tipped off she’d won Best Actress. She wouldn’t put her head on the block otherwise.
January 11 and 12 were a hellish two days for Tristan: carrying the coffin at Aunt Hortense’s funeral on the Tuesday morning, flying to London for the première and press screening of Don Carlos, followed by interviews, which would probably go on all night, with a breakfast script conference for Hercule first thing Wednesday morning, then off to Edinburgh for the Academia Awards ceremony.
Tristan arrived at the première in Leicester Square in dark glasses so no-one could see his reddened eyes. He had been icily in control during Hortense’s funeral, and only given way to helpless weeping when he’d reached the sanctuary of his room at the Savoy. He had grown increasingly close to her in his frequent visits to Montvert in the last six months, as they had unlocked his past together. Hortense was also his last link with Lucy. He arrived at the première alone, which fuelled the gossip-mongers, who knew he was meeting Claudine tomorrow. Leicester Square, swarming with police keeping back the huge crowds and the paparazzi, was also horribly reminiscent of Valhalla. He longed to bolt into the cinema.
Alas, the red carpet had already been appropriated by Hermione, resplendent in extremely low-cut purple velvet, arm in arm with Sexton, posing for the huge pack of cameras and press photographers, determined even the Rutminster Echo should have the chance of a decent picture.
‘Hermione.’ ‘Hermione to me.’ ‘Big smile, Hermione.’ ‘Who’s your date, Hermione?’
‘Why, didn’t you know? It’s Sexton Kemp, our producer.’
‘Look this way, Sexton.’ ‘To me, Sexton.’ ‘Sexton.’
Sexton was in heaven. Tri
stan was going through the roof.
‘“Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my cock erect,”’ sang a voice in Tristan’s ear. ‘“And whistle a happy tune.” Can’t you give the old cow direction to move on?’
It was Baby, straight out of an Australian summer, his bronzed beauty enhanced by a dinner jacket with black satin facings, worn with a black silk shirt and a satin bow-tie.
The press were going nuts trying to identify him.
‘They won’t have to ask after tonight,’ said Tristan, as they finally fought their way in. ‘Everyone will know who you are.’
More than can be said for you, thought Baby. Tristan had lost so much weight he was almost unrecognizable.
Outside, the press was going into further frenzy, as a blond couple emerged from an orange Lamborghini.
‘Must be Chloe Catford,’ said the Mirror.
‘It’s Tabitha Campbell-Black,’ said the Sun. ‘Isn’t she fucking gorgeous?’
‘She’s Tabitha Lovell now,’ said the Mail, ‘about to be Rannaldini. She’s marrying Wolfie next month. He’s the hunk beside her, and here’s Rupert.’
A great cheer went up from the crowd.
‘Been saving any more lives, Rupe?’ ‘Put your arm round Taggie.’ ‘A bit happier.’ ‘To me, Rupe.’ ‘Can we have all four of you for a family group?’
‘That’s quite enough,’ snapped an extremely uptight Rupert, shoving them all inside.
After that people arrived in a great rush: Alpheus and Cheryl just on speaking terms, Chloe ravishing in Prussian blue taffeta, Flora and George flashing wedding rings and wall-to-wall smiles for the photographers, Mikhail and Lara in splendid form, until Mikhail caught sight of Alpheus, turned as green as a cooking apple and fled to the gents.
‘Russians don’t have the big-match temperament,’ said Alpheus dismissively.
‘Bollocks,’ murmured Baby, grabbing two glasses of champagne and handing one to Chloe. ‘Mikhail’s gone to whip off those priceless diamond cufflinks, which he’s just remembered he nicked from Alpheus during the recording. He’ll have pickpocketed another pair by the end of the screening. Doesn’t Tristan look appalling?’
‘Probably sick with nerves,’ said Chloe. ‘I know I am. The advance publicity’s been so overwhelming there’s bound to be a backlash. Oh, here’s Simone and Griselda who’s wearing a dinner jacket. Gosh, they look blissful, and so do Granny and Giuseppe, although Giuseppe’s just cannoned off that pillar.’
‘Pissed already,’ said Baby. ‘Who’s that stunning guy with Helen?’
‘Lysander’s father, David Hawkley,’ whispered Flora. ‘He’s a headmaster, a classical scholar and rather glam in a geriatric way.’
‘Perfect for Helen because he’s just got his K,’ boomed Griselda. ‘She loved being Lady Rannaldini, but Lady Hawkley sounds even more kosher. I must say, she looks great.’
‘Naturally, I’m in mourning for my late husband,’ Helen was telling the Times Diary. ‘The police are still refusing to let us bury him. Have you met Sir David Hawkley?’
Hermione’s great white breasts, meanwhile, were nearly popping out of her low-cut dress in indignation.
‘Helen’s only wearing black because she knows it suits her,’ she hissed to Sexton. ‘Purple is the colour of mourning. And have you seen how dreadful Tristan looks?’
Everyone was bemoaning the fact that Lucy had been spirited away by the police and would miss the fun yet again.
‘Regards, some colossal stars must have arrived!’ Little Simone was jumping to see over the crowds as a white-hot firework display of flashbulbs exploded up the other end of the room.
‘They certainly have.’ Griselda lifted her up to have a look. ‘It’s DS Gablecross and DC Needham.’
‘She looks stunning,’ raved Simone, ‘and the pretty woman with them must be Madame Gablecross.’
‘And there’s Abby and Viking,’ giggled Flora. ‘They keep waking their baby up with a torch in the middle of the night to see if it’s OK. Must be rather like the Nuremberg trials. Oh, look at my George blushing because Alexei Nemerovsky’s remembered him from the gala two years ago. Nemerovsky’s Marcus Campbell-Black’s boyfriend,’ she added to Griselda and Simone. ‘And there’s Marcus.’ Belting across the room, Flora fell into her old friend’s arms.
‘Goodness, you look well,’ they cried in unison.
‘I’m so pleased we were asked and not Gerry Portland and the Chief Constable,’ muttered Karen. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Timothy Gablecross, Mrs Margaret Gablecross and Detective Constable Karen Needham,’ she happily told the photographer, who had produced a notebook. ‘Nice to see someone, rather than us, scribbling things down. Who’s it for?’
‘Tatler,’ said the photographer.
Karen glanced at the Gablecrosses and went off into peals of laughter. ‘Portland and the Chief really will fire us now.’
‘Any information on Rozzy Pringle’s trial, Sarge?’ asked the Sun.
‘Only that it’s coming up at the end of April,’ said Gablecross firmly.
It was such a jolly party, most people didn’t feel nervous until they spilled into the dimly lit cinema.
‘How’s Rozzy?’ Simone whispered to Karen.
‘Very, very mad now.’
Tristan, Rupert and Taggie, who’d taken refuge in a side room, slid into their seats at the last moment.
‘I’m so nervous for Uncle Tristan,’ muttered Simone, catching sight of his grey, frozen face as the lights dimmed.
But she needn’t have worried. From the moment the royal family appeared in the royal box, there was cheering and clapping, followed by screams of delighted recognition, at the shot of Granny, as Gordon Dillon, glowering across at them from the opposite box, then a shiver of excitement as Rannaldini swept in.
God, he was attractive, thought Flora, with a shudder, as he tossed aside his highwayman’s cloak, brought down his stick and the orchestra exploded.
Then there was the beautiful shot of the armies meeting on the skyline, merging into the hunt streaming down the valley, which in turn merged into the hard colours of heatwave and the violence of the polo, then back to Baby singing in Cathedral Copse.
‘Listen to the clapping,’ murmured an amazed Rupert to Taggie, as applause broke out again and again, at Valhalla in the snow and sunset, at Meredith’s red drawing room, at the wonderful horses, at Griselda’s inspired costumes, and at the end of every aria, but not for too long, in case something was missed.
And the music sounded glorious. ‘Who composed this stuff?’ demanded a bigwig from Disney at the end of ‘Morte de Posa’. ‘Can’t we sign him?’
Things were also pepped up by the sub-plot of the murders.
‘That was just after Tab’s leather was cut,’ whispered Griselda to Anne Robinson, as Tab and Baby collided in front of the goal. ‘And that was when Tristan was arrested,’ she added, as Baby, Chloe and Mikhail squabbled over pistols in the maze.
There was an added frisson as Rozzy made her solo appearance, which Tristan had refused to cut.
‘“Do not cry, my dearest friend, do not cry,”’ sang Hermione, as she stroked a sobbing Rozzy’s face.
‘Boo,’ hissed Baby from the back stalls. ‘I’d watch out, Hermsie, Rozzy’s probably got a flick-knife hidden in the folds of that skirt.’
There was a long, horrified silence, followed by howls of laughter. There was laughter, too, when Sharon chewed up Alpheus’s slippers.
Tristan had been apprehensive about the nude scenes. But they were so magically filmed and lit, so genuinely erotic, and so wonderfully woven into the fantasies of the characters, that everyone loved and clapped them.
Roars of applause and end-of-game whistling, however, greeted Hermione’s bonk with Alpheus, and at one moment eager fans started singing, ‘England, England,’ in time to her bobbing bottom.
‘One is more popular than the other singers,’ whispered a gratified Hermione to Sexton.
But the audience needed these brief momen
ts of laughter to relieve the heartbreak of the story and the horrors of the auto da fe. All round the cinema people were hiding their faces as the executioners set fire to the piles of newspaper beneath the heretics.
Tab, who loathed classical music and had intended to neck in the back stalls with Wolfie, except when Sharon or the horses came on, had watched every second.
‘Daddy keeps crying,’ she murmured to Wolfie. ‘Normally he only cries in Lassie or The Incredible Journey.’
Wolfie was simply dying with pride, because despite the feuds, the tensions and even the murders, Tristan had produced the most beautiful and thrilling film he had ever seen.
The two hours seemed to flash by. Carlos and Elisabetta had bidden their poignant farewells. Then Carlos was led off by Charles V, leaving Elisabetta, looking very like Princess Diana, to face the paparazzi lining up with their long lenses like a firing squad, until she fell to the ground riddled with bullets. Then the paparazzi became the Inquisition in their black habits with Valhalla’s four massive triangular cypresses echoing them along the skyline, cutting briefly to Rannaldini on the rostrum, handsome head thrown back, eyes closed, bringing the music to a triumphant close.
There was total, total silence. But as the end titles rolled up, before the lights went on, the cinema exploded. Hugs were exchanged, hands clasped, cheeks kissed, everyone was embracing, jumping up and down, cheering their heads off, as though a war or lottery had been won.
It was no longer a question of whether Carlos was going to be a hit, but how much bigger it was going to be than anything in years.
‘I must go and congratulate Tristan,’ cried Tab, as everyone surged into the ballroom next door. ‘He looked like one of his own ghosts earlier. Oh, I wish Lucy was here.’
