by Jilly Cooper
‘He was too involved in the film,’ muttered Lucy. ‘Goodness, I’ve forgotten to make you those coffees.’ She switched on the kettle again. ‘He didn’t want to sleep with me or anyone else,’ she stammered, ‘because he’s in love with my friend, Tabitha, and felt he could talk to me about her.’
‘Could he have killed Rannaldini?’
‘Certainly not, he adored him,’ said Lucy, too quickly. ‘He put up with murder – oh, God – from him.’
‘Was he in love with him?’
‘What a horrible thing to say!’
‘You claim he adored your friend Tab, but the night he got off with her Rannaldini made him back off. Any idea why?’
‘No,’ squeaked Lucy, getting three cups out of the cupboard again with a terrific clatter. Had they found out about Maxim raping Delphine?
‘Could Rannaldini have threatened to out Tristan?’ asked Gablecross.
‘Tristan finds it hard to form close relationships.’ Lucy was having great difficulty in unscrewing the Gold Blend jar because her hands were shaking so much. ‘His mother died just after he was born, so did his brother Laurent. Tristan’s vile father never forgave Tristan for being the one who lived. He was brought up by a hoary old aunt who never praised him. He may have been deprived of love, but he’s the kindest, most thoughtful person in the world.’ Glancing down, Lucy saw she had emptied the kettle into the full jar of coffee and burst into tears.
‘I like my coffee strong,’ said Gablecross gently, relieving her of the jar before she scalded herself. The only reason Lucy might have killed Rannaldini, he thought regretfully, was because she was madly in love with Tristan de Montigny. But he still had to go for the jugular.
‘Did you know Rannaldini raped your friend Tabitha on Sunday night and killed her stepmother’s dog, Gertrude?’
‘No, I don’t believe it,’ gasped Lucy, shaking her head from side to side so the sudden cascade of tears flew around. ‘Oh, poor darling Tab. Oh, poor Gertrude and poor Taggie. No wonder Rupert was so upset and horrible last night. If only people knew the truth. That must be why Tab hasn’t answered my calls.’
‘Could she have led Rannaldini on?’ asked Gablecross.
‘God, no.’ Lucy fumbled for a piece of kitchen roll to mop her eyes. ‘She’s far too cool, and she simply doesn’t need to.’
‘We’re off to see Baby,’ said Gablecross, getting to his feet. ‘Any idea where he might have been on Sunday night?’
‘None.’
‘Why does Chloe loathe him so much?’
‘Because he’s walking away with the film, and because he, Granny, Flora and me are always giggling in corners. Chloe says we’re like a ladies’ doubles match and just as boring. I love Baby.’ Lucy’s voice broke again. ‘Beneath that flip exterior, he’s determined to become a great singer. He’d only have killed Rannaldini for twiddling the knobs on his recording.’
After they’d gone, Lucy dug out her Switch card – she still couldn’t find her passport – and dialled the flower shop in Rutminster.
‘Mrs Lovell’s a very popular young lady,’ sighed the florist. ‘A gorgeous-sounding foreign gentleman’s just spent a fortune on an arrangement.’
Lucy proceeded to bawl her eyes out, then felt bitterly ashamed. Why wasn’t she thinking of poor Tab, who deserved to get together with Tristan again?
The heatwave had returned. The catmint round the terrace swarmed with butterflies.
‘Red admirals, peacocks, painted ladies of both sexes,’ said Gablecross disapprovingly. ‘Sums up the lot of them.’
In the summer drawing room they found the biggest peacock of them all. Having abandoned any attempt to sleep during the day, Baby was reading Viz and already, at eleven thirty, half-way down a large gin and tonic. ‘The Grand Inquisitor,’ he sang, ‘and DC Needham.’ Nodding at Karen, he rose to his feet and fell back again. ‘This is the room’, he went on, ‘to which I am summoned from the polo field for a pep talk from my father. Plus ça change.’
Gablecross’s lips tightened. ‘OK, Mr Spinosissimo,’ getting out the word was like navigating a lorry round Hyde Park Corner, ‘put that magazine away and tell us what you were doing on Sunday.’
‘I went to Oxford. I drove my own car – a red Ferrari – then looked at Magdalen and Christchurch. I checked in at Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons around teatime. Learned my words for Act Two, Scene Two, which was scheduled for Monday night. I was rather far down a bottle of Krug when I realized I’d been stood up, so I attacked another one. Then I must have passed out.’
‘Which room were you staying in?’ asked Karen, who was feeling really sorry for him.
‘It was called Hydrangea. You’ll find it booked under Alpheus Shaw. There’s so much press interest in this film, one cannot be too careful.’ Then, seeing the disapproval on Gablecross’s square face, ‘It’s a joke, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Not a very funny one. How did you pay?’
‘With huge difficulty – sorry, another joke, falling even flatter. I paid in cash. I had a win at Ascot on Road Test.’
‘A good horse,’ said Gablecross, remembering the peace interview technique. ‘Did anyone see you arrive?’
‘Of course – and leave around two o’clock. I’d sobered enough to drive home. I patted the night porter on the head.’
‘Did you stop on the way back?’
‘For petrol, I don’t remember where.’
‘Did you keep the receipt?’
‘I guess not. My ambition is to be so rich it doesn’t matter if I do.’
‘Was there a balcony outside your room?’
‘Yes, I went out and practised a bit. Act Two, Scene Two changed Carlos’s life – and mine, too, for that matter.’ Getting to his feet, Baby poured another gin and tonic for himself, then long glasses of iced orange juice for the others.
‘Presumably there was a fire escape by which you could have left and come back,’ said Gablecross.
‘I didn’t check.’
‘Did anyone see you during those’, Gablecross counted on his fingers, ‘nine hours?’
‘A waiter brought me the second bottle of Krug – Raymondo, I think his name was. I’d have delayed him if he’d been prettier.’
‘What was the name of the lady who stood you up?’ snapped Gablecross.
Baby was ashen beneath his suntan, his jaw rigid with pain, but still he joked, ‘Even for those eyelashes – really, you must dye them for full impact, Sergeant – I am not going to tell you.’
‘You need an alibi,’ pleaded Karen.
‘I don’t care.’
Out in the park, Baby could see a black horse rolling, its back legs whisking from side to side like a bottom-slimming exercise. When it struggled to its feet, grey with dust, much bigger than the horses around it, Baby recognized The Prince of Darkness.
‘It was a guy,’ he said flatly, ‘married, very high profile, wouldn’t do either of our careers any good and would create a frightful scandal, which would break his very straight family’s hearts.’ Then, seeing Gablecross frowning and perplexed, Baby laughed. ‘No, it’s not Alpheus.’
‘You need this other gentleman’s corroboration, even if he didn’t show up,’ said Gablecross mulishly. ‘Two bottles of Krug don’t constitute an alibi.’
‘And a bar of chocolate and some jellybeans?’
‘Don’t upset the detective,’ said Gablecross angrily. ‘If you play ball with us, we won’t shop you.’
‘I can’t.’
Seeing the hurt in his eyes, Karen said, ‘Were you very close?’
‘The closeness, I guess, was on my side. He pleases himself. What pisses me off is I’ve been had – or, rather, wasn’t had on Sunday night.’
‘Did you know Rannaldini had two-way mirrors and bugs in every room, even Lucy’s caravan?’
‘Really?’ Baby cheered up instantly. ‘No wonder he was so vindictive, after hearing the terrible things people said about him.’
‘Any idea who might have
killed him?’
‘Harder to think who might not – question of bottle.’
‘What about Tabitha?’
‘Only thing she’d kill for is cruelty to animals, although I gather that Rannaldini killed her stepmother’s dog. My money’d be on . . .’ Baby looked furtively round the room ‘. . . our hostess. She’d been cut out of the will. According to Clive, there was a horrific photograph of her in the memoirs.’
Gablecross returned to the attack. ‘You weren’t meeting Tristan de Montigny?’
‘I wish,’ sighed Baby. ‘Tristan’s definitely not gay. He asked me to the cinema and didn’t put his hand on my crotch once.’
Karen burst out laughing. Gablecross snorted in disapproval. ‘The man you went to meet, does his wife know he’s gay?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You’re lying,’ snapped Gablecross. ‘It was Flora Seymour stood you up, wasn’t it? Because Rannaldini showed her these.’
‘Shit.’ As Baby gazed at the photographs, he looked shocked for the first time. ‘Where did you find those?’
‘In the pockets of the dressing-gown Rannaldini was wearing when he was murdered.’
‘Does Flora know where you found them?’
‘I told her on Monday.’
‘Oh, hell, she told me Rannaldini had pictures of us. But she’d shoved off to London by the time I’d come off the set on Monday night. I suppose George Hungerford’s seen them by now.’
‘Two witnesses saw George in Paradise around ten thirty.’
‘Well, there’s your murderer.’ Baby had regained control of himself. ‘They’re very good.’ He picked up the pictures. ‘I must have lost ten pounds and my double chin’s gone.’
‘Did you really see a ghost on Friday night?’
‘No,’ confessed Baby. ‘I was so pissed off with Dame Hermione masking me. Fainting was the only way to make sure they didn’t use that take. I must go and practise.’ Wandering out on to the terrace, he threw out his arms and opened his lungs: ‘“Drunk with love, full of an immense joy, Elisabetta, my dear, my happiness, I await you.”’
‘What a pity that guy’s gay,’ sighed Karen.
‘As fags go, I rather like him,’ confessed Gablecross. ‘But I wonder if he really was meeting anyone at the Manoir.’
Meanwhile, news of DNA testing had roused others from their beds in panic.
‘It’s so definite,’ grumbled Griselda. ‘I might have pricked my finger when I was turning down that dressing-gown for Alpheus, or put my saliva on it when I broke off the cotton with my teeth.’
‘And Alpheus might have left semen stains on it any time as he romped with Hermione, Chloe and Pushy,’ said Ogborne.
‘Ugh!’ said Simone.
‘And Mikhail could easily have gobbed on it during the quartet, or Dame Hermione, or Chloe, even.’
‘I do not gob,’ snapped Chloe.
‘Granny and Sharon were in the earlier part of the scene, Sharon slobbers on everyone, bless her,’ said Griselda.
‘And how many peoples might Rannaldini have bonked in it, since he neeked it from Alpheus,’ yawned Sylvestre.
‘I cannot find my passport anywhere,’ moaned Lucy. ‘We’ve got to produce proper identification. I wonder if my driving licence will do.’
Gablecross was dreading the next encounter. They found Granny gazing wistfully at a strip of wasteground. Covered in thistles, poisonous hemlock, mildewed burdock, gaudy pink willowherb, rusting sorrel, yellowing nettles, it divided the footpath from one of Rannaldini’s wonderfully cherished fields of wheat stretching golden to infinity.
‘This disgusting piece of land is called a set-aside,’ said Granny, his diction as silvery as his hair in the late-afternoon sunlight. ‘Unlovable and neglected, just as I feel having been cast aside by my young man.’
Linking arms with Karen on one side and Gablecross on the other, he led them gently into the shade of an elder tree, overhanging and snowing down pale star-shaped flowers on a fallen log, which he brushed clear so they could all sit down.
He was impeccably dressed, Karen noticed, in primrose-yellow cords, an off-white linen jacket and a grey silk spotted tie.
‘One must always wear a tie,’ said Granny, as if reading her thoughts. ‘It can double up as a noose, if things get too unbearable. I got my Dear John letter from Giuseppe this morning,’ he produced a page of scrawl with a shaking hand, ‘saying he and I are finished. He has dumped me after five years for a record producer called Serena Westwood. Just for a contract with Bravo he left me. It’s entirely Rannaldini’s doing. He knew Giuseppe was greedy, and as my career declined I would be less able to keep him in fast cars and expensive red wine, so he delighted in goading me by introducing my boy to rich, successful young women. It’s strange the departure of such a little hustler should cause so much anguish. I want to howl like a dog.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ Karen took his hand.
Gablecross asked him about Sunday night.
‘The tennis tournament was a lark. Gratifying for two old fossils like Grisel and me to get so far, but hard to concentrate with young Wolfgang gleaming like the young Siegfried on the other side of the net. We cheered ourselves up pretending Rannaldini was the ball.
‘Afterwards, we got even drunker and I searched for balls with Grisel, Bernard and Lucy, I think. It was awfully dark by then.’
The vibrations in his beautiful voice became more pronounced, as he described the cutting up of his patchwork quilt.
‘Ghastly to know someone hates you so much. One thing that has struck me: every time Tristan is nice to anyone – Lucy, Tab, Flora – something horrible happens to them. I was favori du roi on Friday. I was telling everyone in the canteen how Tristan had kicked ghastly Howie Denston up the ass for not getting me work, then offered me a dream of a part: Ochs in Der Rosenkavalier. A few hours later the patchwork quilt was in ribbons. Only a theory.’
‘An interesting one,’ said Karen. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘We were in the middle of a party.’
‘Well, next day, then.’
‘I assumed it was Rannaldini, and he was quite above the law.’
Gablecross steeled himself. ‘Was this the reason?’
For a second, Granny stared at the photographs of himself, it seemed at first, in a giant airing-cupboard. Later photographs showed him shoving loot into a shopping-bag. He gripped Karen’s hand even tighter, and started to cry, tears falling quietly in time to the raining elderflowers.
‘I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what came over me, losing the patchwork quilt, which was pretty, or losing Giuseppe, who was even prettier. He only stayed an hour on Friday night, arrived in a chauffeur-driven limo from the airport, came out of the tomb, made Baby faint – he had that effect on men – then buggered back to London and Miss Westwood, without removing his make-up. I knew it was all up.
‘On Saturday morning I went into Peggy Parker’s. Clive must have followed me to Rutminster. I only took a couple of double damask tablecloths and some napkins. Goodness knows who I was planning to have to dinner. I’ve never done anything like this before but it’ll be all over the papers. Menopausal old queen remanded for psychiatric counselling.’
‘I’m sure Peggy Parker won’t press charges.’ Karen hugged him. ‘She’s such a music lover.’
‘She might ask you to sing at one of her soirées,’ said Gablecross drily.
‘Prison would be the favourable option.’ Granny wafted English Fern, as he mopped his eyes with a pale blue silk handkerchief. ‘You children have been so sweet to me.’
‘Why should anyone want to kill Rannaldini?’ asked Karen.
‘For peace,’ sighed Granny.
‘What a darling old boy,’ said Karen, as they trailed back to the car.
‘I’ll have a word with George Hungerford, when he gets back from Germany.’ Gablecross made a note. ‘He and Peggy Parker are on the board of the Rutshire Symphony Orchestra.’
‘
George’ll owe you a few favours if he really was in Paradise at ten twenty on Sunday,’ said Karen.
Having conveniently discarded Debbie Miller and arranged to meet Pushy in the Pearly Gates at lunchtime, Fanshawe found her giving her own press conference to a crowd of reporters. Only his knowledge of the back lanes of Rutshire enabled him to shake them off and find privacy in the Green Dragon at Eldercombe.
Pushy looked enticingly pretty. Her simple black dress clung to her tiny figure, her newly washed blonde ringlets were tied back with a velvet ribbon, but she wore too much eye make-up for real mourning.
‘Roberto Rannaldini was the most vital person Ay’ve ever met,’ she confided, as she sipped a Babycham. ‘He begged me to be the next Lady Rannaldini, and although he was much too old, Ay felt Ay could grow to love him. Off the record, Kevin, it made folk very jealous.’
Having slipped the photos of a nude lip-licking Pushy straddling Rannaldini’s sofa into his hip pocket, Fanshawe asked if Lady Rannaldini had known her husband was having an affaire with Pushy.
‘Course not. Ay never slept with him. That’s why he respected as well as loved me.’ Gloria’s eyes filled with just enough tears not to swamp her mascara. ‘Roberto was so caring. When Ay left a party frock at home, he sent the helly to get it, if Ay wanted to go shopping he lent me the limo, but Ay was careful not to upstage Lady Rannaldini.’
Fanshawe got out his notebook. ‘What did you do on the night of the murder?’
‘Ay was so choked not to be in the finals Ay went for a walk – it was such a lovely evening. Then Ay came into the house to phone Mum – as Ay told you Ay always do on a Sunday night – because Roberto had urged me to use the Valhalla phones at all taymes.
‘Anyway, Ay nipped into Lady Rannaldini’s cosy den next to the kitchen to borrow her Harpers. Some play about Puccini was on the radio but she wasn’t there. So Ay borrowed her handset, Ay know it was cheeky, and settled into the big sofa in the hall between the kitchen and Lady Rannaldini’s den.
‘It’s very spooky, that part of the house. When Ay became Lady Rannaldini Ay was going to whaytewash all that dark panelling. Anyway, Ay’d rung Mum and was still reading Harpers, Tabitha’s dad and stepmum were in it. Ay don’t know if Ay’m telling tales.’