Pandora (57 page)

A knock on her bedroom door made Patience moan even louder.

‘C-c-ome in.’

It was Dora bearing fizzing Resolve.

‘Try and keep it down, Mrs Cartwright.’

‘Oh, dear child, thank you. Is it true a valuable picture’s been stolen?’

‘It’s so annoying.’ Dora collapsed on Patience’s bed. ‘I fell asleep in Loofah’s shed waiting until the fireworks ended in case he was frightened. I didn’t wake up till this morning and my parents never came looking for me. I can’t decide whether to ring Children in Need or the press. Can I come and stay with you in London? Sophy and I caught Hanna and my brother Alizarin snogging, which won’t please my brother Jupiter.’

Nor can it have pleased poor darling Sophy, thought Patience.

Sophy had spent most of the night trying to comfort a demented Emerald, who had wept that she felt completely isolated.

‘Mummy’s passed out. Daddy’s completely spooked. Raymond’s out to lunch, Anthea’s bawling her head off. I’m sure something went on between her and Zac. Four useless parents. Zac was more of a father than any of them. I love him so much, Soph, and before we came to this house, he was mine, and now he’s gone.’

I love Alizarin so much, thought Sophy as she wearily patted Emerald’s shoulders, and he was never mine and now he’s gone too.

Ian was champing to escape from this hell-hole, so Emerald had to get up and drive him and the rest of the family back to London. Raymond, practically in tears, was the only person to wave them off in the pouring rain.

‘So sorry it turned out like this. I’m afraid Anthea’s too upset to say goodbye. You will come back this evening, won’t you, Emerald darling, Anthea’s going to need you,’ which didn’t please Patience and Ian very much.

‘Could I possibly say goodbye to Alizarin?’ asked a blushing Sophy.

‘I’m afraid he’s working, so’s Sienna. I’ll give them your love.’

Sienna, sobbing with rage, was painting horses who’d been imprisoned for forty-eight hours without food or water in airless jolting lorries, portraying them as a tangle of broken limbs. Alizarin was painting a so-called ‘Free Zone’ in Kosovo: thousands of people, their white faces in stark contrast to their colourful clothes, peering hopelessly through the wire netting of a refugee camp.

Hearing a car storming so furiously through the puddles the spray splashed his window, Alizarin looked out. Catching the briefest blurred glimpse of blond hair and a doleful pink face, he wondered if he was seeing tears or raindrops.

Inspector Gablecross had murderers, rapists and paedophiles to catch. Realizing regretfully that he would be able to spare little time looking for the Raphael, he dropped in on his wise old friend, Lily Hamilton, with whom he shared a passion for racing.

Approaching River Cottage, Gablecross admired the dark red roses, pale yellow hollyhocks, and first pink phlox fighting for space in her front garden. He also smiled at the teddy bears massed on the back ledge of her ancient Triumph and the large stuffed badger called Douglas secured by a safety belt in the passenger seat.

A hazardous driver – ‘Lily never misses a truck,’ her nephew Jonathan was fond of saying – she had only retained her licence because of her popularity with the local constabulary. It also drove Anthea crackers that Knightie and the Robenses were always doing extra hours for nothing because Lily gave them cake and sympathy and insisted they sat down and watched racing or exciting bits of
Kilroy
or
Richard and Judy
with her. Lily had inherited from her mother oodles of Irish charm, which the English often dismiss as calculation, but which actually stems from an intensely kind and enquiring heart.

Having been married to a diplomat for nearly thirty years, she had furnished the cottage from all over the world. Watercolours of the Bosporus and the Italian Lakes, African masks and Indian ivory rubbed shoulders with paintings by her nieces and nephews. It was such a relaxed household that all the books had taken off their jackets. On the window ledge were binoculars for bird-watching. A vase of wild flowers, another passion, were dropping their petals on a side table.

Despite getting ‘high as a coot’ last night and falling in the pond on the way home, Lily had been up since six and didn’t feel eleven o’clock was too early to open a half-bottle of champagne which she was sharing with her nephew Dicky, who was averting his eyes from one of Sienna’s nudes of Lily, proudly displayed above a red-lacquered upright piano.

‘Police are bound to think I took the Raphael,’ Dicky was saying gloomily, ‘because of my debts. It’s going to take me a hundred years to pay the fête committee back for Alizarin’s painting. And I got such a lousy report, I’ll never get a job when I grow up.’ He turned pale when he saw Gablecross. ‘I’d better go. Mum might be worried about me.’

‘Some hope,’ snorted Lily as he scuttled out.

Gablecross refused a glass of champagne but, when she returned from the kitchen, having made him toast with black cherry jam, Lily emptied a miniature brandy into his cup of coffee.

‘Ta very much.’ Gablecross couldn’t get up from the sofa because Lily’s vast white cat, Brigadier, was sprawled across his lap, purring thunderously.

‘What d’you reckon on last night?’ he asked Lily, who poured the remains of the half-bottle into her glass, and lit a cheroot.

‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Rosemary Pulborough rang me first thing. Evidently it was her busybodying little husband who told Raymond all London was saying the Raphael was stolen.

‘I cannot understand this fuss about looted art.’ She shook her head. ‘Raymond rescued the Raphael from a burning château. When I rescued Brigadier’ – she smiled fondly at her cat who was covering Gablecross’s dark blue trousers with white fur – ‘he was as thin as a rake and terrified of everything. There’s no way I’d ever give him back. People make such a fuss about the SS too, but it was rather like being in the Guards.

‘Oh well, I’m old,’ she grumbled as Gablecross raised an eyebrow, ‘I’m allowed to be unpolitically correct.’

‘Any idea who might have taken it?’

‘None,’ said Lily firmly. ‘Gypsies were camped on the wild-flower meadow last night. Million pounds’ worth of art in their possession.’

‘This looks like an inside job, made to look like a burglary.’ Gablecross bit into a folded piece of toast. ‘Footsteps under windows, doors to secret passages left open.’

‘Would you still prosecute?’ Lily took a thoughtful sip of champagne.

‘Probably not, if the thief could be persuaded to return it. On the other hand,’ he went on, licking jam off his fingers, ‘that American, Zachary Ansteig, who claims it’s his, will probably press charges. In America, the fine for that could be half a million dollars, or five years inside. We’re not so hot on looted art in the UK, but it could be nasty.’

‘Could be an act of defiance,’ Lily mused. ‘Whole family been upended by Emerald’s arrival – such a confused child.’

‘Si Greenbridge and Somerford Keynes can provide alibis for each other,’ said Gablecross.

‘Both could have paid someone else to steal it,’ suggested Lily. ‘Somerford’s boyfriend’s a burglar; I should think Mr Greenbridge is dripping with unsavoury friends. Rosemary wouldn’t bother to steal it, she’s got her own money. David could easily have taken it. As Jonathan walked me home, I remember seeing the little weasel creeping back from the direction of the Old Rectory.’ Then, as Gablecross made a note: ‘He could be in league with Anthea, very keen on each other over the years. She’s also keen on Zachary Ansteig; I saw her slipping her cradle-snatching hand into his as they walked up from the boathouse.’

‘Pretty woman,’ sighed Gablecross.

‘I thought you had better taste,’ said Lily tartly. ‘Pretty frightful mother, and if anything happened to Raymond, she’d have me out of here in a trice.

‘Jupiter could have taken it for the insurance, he’s very greedy, and hot on his rights,’ she continued. ‘Jonathan and Alizarin are chronically short of money. Jonathan spends it as fast as he makes it. It’s just the sort of prank he’d enjoy, never dreaming Jupiter’d call the police.’

‘What about the punk one? She was hysterical.’

‘Sienna’s a darling, just mixed up. As the rumour was circulating that the picture was looted, any of the family might have taken it to stop it going back to its original owner, such is their affection.’

‘And Jupiter’s wife?’

‘Terribly unhappy, Jupiter keeps her very short, marriage is very rocky. Jupiter’s bats about Emerald. He can’t sleep, prowls around his cottage at three in the morning.’

Bird-watching isn’t the only thing you use those binoculars for, thought Gablecross, then he said, ‘The popular view is that Ansteig and Emerald are in it together.’

‘I’m sure not. He was using her. Deeply humiliating for someone that beautiful to be used.’

‘What about the Cartwrights?’

‘Certainly not. Utterly straight and couldn’t have known about the Raphael unless Zac had tipped them off, and there is clearly no love lost between them and Zac. Ian Cartwright detests him. Terrified he’s going to marry Emerald.’

‘Ansteig’s a very tough customer,’ said Gablecross. ‘Admitted he was poised to nick it himself, then someone pre-empted him. Wouldn’t tell me how he took those photographs of the picture.’

‘More coffee?’ Lily heaved herself out of her chair. ‘No, don’t get up. House rule: if you’ve got a cat on your lap, you stay put.’

For someone who was supposed to have been so plastered she fell in the pond, Lily had picked up an awful lot, thought Gablecross. Her eyes and skin were clear. She showed no evidence of a hangover. Perhaps she and Jonathan were in cahoots.

‘D’you know how to get into the Blue Tower?’ he asked.

‘I should do,’ Lily laughed, ‘I lost my virginity up there.’

‘What about the servants?’ enquired a rather pink Gablecross. ‘Mr Robens was sent to get more wine from the cellar during dinner. Could he have flicked off the alarm?’

‘Wouldn’t blame him, Anthea pays them such piddling wages. But I think Knightie and the Robenses are far too scared of Galena’s ghost, particularly at midnight, to risk going up to the Blue Tower.’

Lily picked up her binoculars. Now the sun had come out, the glare from the river was blinding.

‘I saw a kingfisher last week. Oh good, here’s Rosemary, I told her to drop in.’

The wind had whipped up the colour in Rosemary’s pale cheeks, her eyes sparkled and a beautiful Art Nouveau silver daffodil gleamed on the lapel of her rather dreary brown suit.

‘What excitement,’ she cried, putting a bottle of Sancerre and a box of cheese straws down on the table. ‘I’ve just seen Green Jean in the village shop, so outraged she missed the fun last night, she couldn’t look me in the eye. Green Jean’s our vicar’s wife, Inspector, always raiding people’s dustbins and inveighing against disposable nappies and unrecycled envelopes. She’s worse than Visitor. Talk of the devil,’ she giggled as Visitor waddled in. ‘Hello, darling. Just in time for these cheese straws.’ She tore at the cellophane with her teeth.

‘Have you been drinking?’ asked Lily.

Rosemary shook her head, then, to the amazement of her listeners: ‘I think Si Greenbridge is the nicest man I’ve ever met. He’s just sent me an e-mail asking me and Virty Cartwright to Le Manoir.’

‘Did he give you that brooch? I’m sure I’ve seen it before.’

‘No, Geraldine did.’ Rosemary went off into peals of laughter. ‘Before my husband tackled your brother on the subject of looted Raphaels, Lily, he obviously whisked Geraldine home for a quickie and the silly old bat left her lovely brooch on my bedside table as a tip.’

For the rest of Thursday, police interviewed suspects and sifted through the evidence. The theft had been too late for the nationals, but they had moved in in force by Thursday lunchtime, whereupon a devastated Raymond plied them with tea and Mrs Robens’s fudge cake, and begged them to help him find his Raphael.

On Friday morning Jupiter had a terrible shock. Convinced the police would take little further action beyond placing the Raphael on the Art Loss Register, he was looking forward to a massive payout from the insurance company. He was therefore insane with rage to discover that Raymond, perhaps nervous of setting off alarm bells, hadn’t raised the valuation on the Raphael since the early Sixties when he had insured it for only £80,000. This meant that the insurance company, who only bothered with pictures worth more than £100,000, would now make no attempt to trace it. Jupiter could have throttled Raymond, but for the moment his priority was to find Pandora and prove she wasn’t Zac’s.

Suspicion was in fact hardening on Zac, when the frame of the Raphael, covered in his fingerprints, was found in the rushes by the pond. Zac, however, had vanished. So had Sienna, Emerald and Jonathan. Ignoring police requests to stay put, they had all dispersed north, south, east and west like Lars Porsena’s messengers.

To escape Jupiter’s icy rage, Raymond fled to London. Anthea, having lied that she had left the Blue Tower door open at six-thirty on Wednesday night, was panicking that the police might pick up clues that she’d been in bed earlier with Zac. Longing for someone to blame, she turned her fury on Alizarin.

‘I’m sure he’s involved,’ she spluttered to Jupiter. ‘He told the police that during the fireworks he fetched a tranquillizer for Visitor from the Lodge. He could easily have borrowed one of Grenville’s tablets and everyone knows Visitor hasn’t a nerve in his podgy body.’