Score! (41 page)

Pretty woman, mused Alpheus. That would
really
annoy Rannaldini. He was about to offer Helen one of her own drinks when, most uncharacteristically, she poured herself a massive vodka and tonic with a frantically shaking hand.

‘Such a fascinating play on Puccini on Radio Three,’ she told Bernard. ‘I had no idea that he never finished
Turandot
and that Toscanini conducted the première.’

‘We won’t get any dinner out of her,’ murmured Ogborne to Lucy.

‘My God!’ shouted Griselda. ‘Our very own
auto da fe
.’

Swinging round, they saw Hangman’s Wood going up in flames and a shower of sparks, like an orange inferno. The crackling could be heard four hundred yards away as parched trees and dry undergrowth submitted helplessly to the fiery furnace. They could feel the heat from where they were standing, as the blaze lit up the entire valley.

‘Rannaldini’s watch-tower’s on fire,’ screamed Helen. ‘All his papers and compositions will be burnt.’

‘Hurrah,’ said Granny, pouring himself a drink.

‘Probably knew they were junk and set fire to them himself,’ crowed Griselda, holding out her glass.

All Rannaldini’s evidence against Tristan would be torched! Lucy felt giddy with relief.

‘What about the rushes?’ asked Alpheus, horrified because he was in them.

‘There’s a duplicate set at the lab,’ said Ogborne. ‘Hadn’t someone better call the fire brigade?’

Someone already had. With a manic jangling, a fleet of fire engines came pounding up the drive and were soon sending fountains of water into the wood.

Five minutes later, the firemen were joined by an hysterical Flora. Having run through brambles, thistles and nettles all the way from Angels’ Reach, she was panting so hard she could only croak.

‘What about Tabloid?’

‘Keep back, Miss,’ shouted a fireman in a yellow tin hat, aiming a huge hose at a blazing oak tree.

‘Rannaldini’s Rottweiler.’ Flora tugged frantically at his sleeve. ‘His kennel’s under the watch-tower — we’ve got to get him out.’

‘Too late, Miss, place’s been torched.’

‘He might be alive,’ panted Flora in desperation. ‘Please! Please!’

Shielding her eyes with her arm, she inched forward, but jumped back as the oak tree crashed to the ground, narrowly missing her and spraying sparks everywhere. Someone grabbed her arm, brushing her down and yanking her to safety. It was several dazed seconds before she recognized Clive behind the blackened face and hair.

‘Tabloid!’ she sobbed.

‘It’s OK. I took him back to the yard earlier.’

‘Are you sure?’ Flora yelled over the crashing and crackling.

She didn’t trust Clive.

‘Get back, for God’s sake!’ bellowed another fireman.

For a few seconds, the blaze had been pegged by the jets of water. But as the flames merrily leapt back to life again, Flora, hastily retreating, out of the corner of her eye, suddenly saw a body on the ground.

For a crazed second, she thought it was some leering Silenus, caught catnapping in the wood after a surfeit of dryads. Then, slowly, horrifically, she realized that the lolling tongue, the hideously engorged lascivious features belonged to Rannaldini. Alpheus’s pink and purple dressing-gown had fallen open to reveal a mini watch-tower of an erection. Flora began to scream.

‘That’s Rannaldini! He’s been murdered.’

‘We have found a body,’ admitted the chief fire officer cautiously, ‘and the police are on their way. If I were you,’ he added to Clive, ‘I’d take this young lady back to the house.’

People were always screaming at Valhalla, often to the accompaniment of classical music. Cars frequently hurtled up the drive, helicopters landed like swarms of fireflies, shots were heard in the wood. As television was so dire on Sunday nights, many of the inhabitants of Paradise had got into the habit of switching off their lights, turning round their chairs and focusing their binoculars on the great abbey.

Those watching the goings-on on Sunday, 8 July, included old Miss Cricklade who took in ironing, pretty Sally and Betty, the maids who worked at Valhalla, Pat and Cath, two village beauties with crushes on Tristan, and that Paradise worthy, Lady Chisledon.

Having clocked Dame Hermione’s return from Milan and been disappointed by no sightings of Tristan on the tennis court, the spectators had assumed the flaming watch-tower was part of filming. But when five fire engines had been followed by Detective Sergeant Gablecross, the area CID man, in his battered Rover, and the we-ay, we-ay, we-ay of a police car with a flashing blue light, they realized something was up.

They were then delighted by the arrival of Detective Chief Inspector Gerald Portland, a local pin-up, who was equally delighted to have just returned from sailing in Turkey with a mahogany tan to flaunt at forthcoming press conferences.

Having seen that Rannaldini had not only been strangled but also shot through the heart, he ascertained murder had taken place and set in motion the wheels of inquiry. No doubt Chief Constable Swallow, a dinner guest at Valhalla, would soon ring Lady Rannaldini to express his sympathy.

In no time, two uniformed police had cordoned off not only Hangman’s Wood with blue and white ribbon but also the Paradise — Cheltenham road, which passed the main gates at Valhalla, for two hundred yards in either direction. A uniform car halted and took the names and addresses of everyone entering and leaving.

Watchers all down the valley were even more excited to see men in white hoods, overalls and boots, like astronauts landed on the moon, moving around the smouldering remains under brilliant floodlights. These were the scene-of-crime officers, videoing, fingerprinting, taking soil samples, waiting for the fire and ashes to cool, cursing under their breath that the fire brigade, who were more concerned with saving lives than trapping murderers, had drenched the place, hurrying as the storm drew nearer. The pathologist, due from Cardiff in an hour or two, would get soaked.

Up at Valhalla, two uniformed policemen were collecting names and addresses. Within half an hour twenty more were swarming in through the east gate, followed by three times as many press.

Rutminster Police were still recovering from the infamous Valhalla orgy in 1991 when PC, now DC, Lightfoot had rolled up to investigate complaints about noise and only been returned to the station with staring eyes thirty-six hours later.

Rannaldini had been cordially detested in the area. He had bribed too many local councillors in return for planning permission. There were endless rumours of rapes and unnatural practices. Two of the comelier village girls had vanished without trace in the past three years. Dark tales had always come out of Valhalla. To the legends of the Hanging Blacksmith and the Paradise Lad was now added that of the Strangled Maestro.

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.’