‘How could I have hurt you?’ moaned Rozzy.
‘It’s nothing.’ Tristan moved towards her, then, taking a deep breath, ‘The murderer’s on the loose. I was so scared for you.’
If he rammed her against the torture chamber door and kissed her, he could surreptitiously reach up and turn off the switch. Unfortunately, she was bearing down on him. ‘Let me wrap this round your shoulder,’ she tugged off her red feather boa, ‘till we reach the outside world.’
As she coiled it round his neck, hanging on to the two ends to contain him, he nearly bolted.
‘I’ve come to take you to the wrap party.’ He forced himself to sound light-hearted. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Rozzy coyly. ‘Orphee.’
‘There is, because you’re in danger.’ He seized her left hand and found it empty. The gun must be in her bag, or concealed in the folds of Rannaldini’s cloak. ‘I love you.’ Tristan crossed his fingers as he led her up the tunnel.
‘I always knew you did, darling,’ said Rozzy adoringly.
As they passed the entrance where Clive and the others were lurking, Rozzy stopped and so did Tristan’s heart. ‘Look at me,’ she insisted.
‘Orpheus wasn’t allowed to look at Eurydice.’ Tristan tried to sound playful.
‘Take me away,’ begged Rozzy, ‘to Paris and then your house in the Tarn. I want to meet Aunt Hortense and see where you grew up.’
If he got his arms round her, he could clamp hers down, but he didn’t know whether his right arm was strong enough — it didn’t seem to belong to him any more. He felt increasingly dizzy and the feather boa was tightening terrifyingly round his neck. But as he lured her round to the right, he could see Clive stealing, like a ghost, out of the side entrance.
‘What’s that noise?’ she asked sharply.
‘Probably a rat — oh, Rozzy.’
She jumped as she heard another footstep, but as she spun round, Tristan grabbed her. ‘You look so young.’ He took her face between his hands.
‘You don’t still love Claudine?’
‘Of course not,’ breathed Tristan. ‘I just never in a million years presumed someone as beautiful as you could love me back.’
Utterly repelled, he felt her scrawny fingers, entrapping his neck like a sea anemone, the bumpy ribs, the razor-sharp collarbones, the slack breasts beneath the grey chiffon. By contrast her tongue was bone hard as she rammed it between his lips almost down his throat, and rubbed her body feverishly against his. The sour milk stench of her breath was enough to make him gag.
‘Make love to me, Tristan.’
With Lucy drowning? he thought in fury.
Then he felt her clawing fingers tightening round his neck and her big black bag, which was still hanging from her arm, pressing against his chest.
‘You’re in danger,’ he mumbled, dickering as to whether to grab the bag. ‘Lucy’ll take out anyone I love.’
‘Lucy’s taken care of.’ Rozzy smiled beatifically, and Tristan found himself looking into the eyes of true madness, as Rozzy went into hysterical laughter. ‘We needn’t worry about Lucy any more.’
To stop her laughter, Tristan kissed her again, on and on as, in frenzied rage, he grabbed her arms forcing them behind her back, gripping her tighter and tighter, until the pain in his shoulder became unbearable.
‘Let me go, darling.’ Rozzy was laughing and struggling.
Christ, she was strong, as she bucked and writhed against him. He was going to black out, he couldn’t hold on any longer.
Then, mercifully, he was aware of shadowy figures approaching and seizing her. But Rozzy had wriggled out of their grasp.
‘Bastard! You double-crossed me!’ She was ranting, screaming, foaming at the mouth, lunging forward to plunge her teeth into Tristan’s chest, trying to knee him in the groin and claw his face, as Rupert and Gablecross dragged her off. It took all their strength to yank her arms back, so Karen could clip on the handcuffs. ‘Gotcha!’ yelled Gablecross.
As Rozzy’s bag fell to the floor, Karen leapt forward and up-ended it. Out fell gun, mobile, mask and wig. Karen pounced on a huge set of keys, glinting in the torchlight.
‘Which one belongs to the torture chamber, Rozzy?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m not telling you,’ giggled Rozzy. ‘You’re too late. The randy bitch’ll be dead by now.’
She went into more crazed laughter, which turned into a howl of agony as Rupert seized her arm. ‘I’ll break it unless you tell us.’
‘I can take pain, you bastard,
‘And to open the inside door?’ With no compunction, Rupert applied more pressure.
‘Ouch! Oh, no!’ Rozzy’s head fell forward. ‘It’s the steel one splashed with blue paint,’ she whispered.
Rupert raced down the passage to where Clive and Bernard were trying to break down the door. Uniformed police were pouring down the stairs. Everyone was yelling instructions.
Tristan stumbled after Rupert, his shirt totally red now.
Rupert fumbled with the key. ‘Give me some light, for Christ’s sake.’
Four torch beams found the keyhole.
The door swung open, and a blast of icy wind from the lake slapped them in the face. All they could see in the dim light was churning rising water.
‘We’re too late,’ thought Karen in despair.
Reaching past her, Clive pressed the button. As Tristan jumped down into the pit, turning the water red with his blood, the manacles sprang back and he groped and found Lucy and with his last ounce of strength dragged her to the surface.
How white and still and dreadfully cold she was.
‘Oh, please don’t die,’ he groaned.
Next moment Rupert, Karen and Clive were in the water helping him lift her on to the bed.
Trying to remember his first aid, Tristan dragged himself up beside her, fighting to stop his lips trembling as he put them on her frozen ones. Oh, God, that the first kiss he gave her should be the last. He tried to breathe in, then collapsed, covering her torn pink dress with blood.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Rupert, gently shoving Tristan out of the way. ‘You’ve lost too much blood.’
‘Get the fucking paramedics!’ shouted Gablecross.
They all watched, frantically willing and praying, as Rupert breathed in and out.
‘Come on, Lucy, don’t give up on us,’ pleaded Karen.
But after a minute or two, Rupert stopped and for a moment rested his head on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘I think it’s too late.’
‘Let me have a go.’ Tristan lurched forward, slumped against Lucy, his arms round her. ‘Lucy darling, don’t leave me, I love you.’
Suddenly she gave a shudder and a gulp, then water gushed out of her mouth, as the paramedics stormed in.
‘She’s going to be OK, lad.’ Gablecross patted Tristan’s hand as he was lifted on to a stretcher. ‘We’d better get you both to hospital. Of the two of you I’d say you were in the worst shape.’
‘Well done.’ Briefly Rupert squeezed Tristan’s thigh. ‘Was Sarah Bernhardt one of your relations?’
‘Probably,’ said Tristan, and passed out.
‘Rosalind Pringle,’ said Gablecross, ‘I am arresting you for the murders of Roberto Rannaldini and Beatrice Johnson, and the attempted murders of Lucy Latimer, Tabitha Lovell and Tristan de Montigny.’ But as he reeled off the names, he had an eerie feeling that the murderer had vanished, and he’d never be able to get a conviction on this discreet, gently smiling, suddenly old lady, who kept nodding and saying, ‘Where’s Tristan? I mustn’t be late — he’s taking me to tea with Aunt Hortense.’
