‘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.’
39
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
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
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
