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 only thing he noticed about the others was that they were all pissed and on their mobiles, except Bernard Guerin 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.’
‘For you, Detective Sergeant, anything,’ smiled Meredith.
Gablecross, who battled constantly against homophobia, didn’t smile back.
‘A man hasn’t asked me to take off my clothes for yonks,’ said Griselda, with a shout of laughter.
‘The police could use her dress as an incident tent,’ hissed Ogborne.
‘What happens to our clothes?’ simpered Pushy. ‘I was hoping to wear this little cardie to an audition next week.’
‘They’re labelled, numbered and put in brown-paper bags,’ said Gablecross.
‘You weren’t wearing those clothes earlier, anyway,’ the hawk-eyed Simone told Pushy. ‘Nor was Chloe.’
‘Yes I was, smartass,’ snapped Chloe, opening her long blue cardigan to show a white shirt and pleated shorts, ‘but Alpheus
‘My clothes are back at Jasmine Cottage,’ said Alpheus quickly. ‘I’ll go and get them.’
‘A police officer will drive you, Mr Shaw,’ said Gablecross firmly.
Ogborne was gazing out on the ever-increasing crowd of media.
‘I’m going to film them. Always wanted to be an operator,’ he muttered, sliding out of a side door.
‘Why are all those men wandering around Hangman’s Wood in space suits?’ asked Jessica, coming back without any salt.
‘To avoid contamination of the body,’ explained DC Lightfoot admiringly.
‘Would have thought it was the other way round,’ said Granny sourly.
‘I’ll get my job back now.’ Griselda collapsed on a sofa, drumming her feet excitedly on the floor like a little girl.
‘So will I,’ said Meredith. ‘I did redecorate this room nicely, didn’t I? Those onyx pillars are to die for. Wonder if anyone’s told Hermione.’
‘Wonder how upset she’ll be?’ mused Griselda. ‘They go back a long way. She probably did it.’
‘That singing in the wood sounded almost too good for her,’ observed Sylvestre, the constant listener. ‘Perhaps Rannaldini had replaced her with some young chick.’
‘Then she certainly did it,’ said Meredith.
‘The murderer is most likely to be a member of the family,’ volunteered Jessica, who never missed an instalment of
‘With four wives, eight kiddiwinks, and a million steps and illegits to take into consideration,’ giggled Meredith, as he handed Sylvestre a bottle of red to open, ‘the police will be spoilt for choice.’
‘“He went to t’other place and frizzled and fried,”’ sang Granny happily.
Christ, what a bunch, thought Gablecross, and leaving DC Lightfoot and DS Fanshawe to get their clothes off them, went off to break the news to Lady Rannaldini.
40
Detective Sergeant Gablecross found Helen in a terrible state, mindlessly tidying her little study, straightening straight objects, looking around with huge, darting eyes, her grey face such a contrast to the lilacs and honeysuckles blooming so luxuriantly on her beautiful silk dress.
Gablecross felt desperately sorry for her, but with murder it was his duty to zap her and start scribbling straight away. ‘I’m afraid we’ve found your husband’s body in the wood, Lady Rannaldini.’
‘What?’ Helen went utterly still, except for her darting eyes. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t mean he was caught in the fire? How terrible! They say you suffocate first,’ she pleaded.
‘No, no, Sir Roberto died from strangulation and gunshot wounds.’
‘It wasn’t an accident?’
Gablecross could have sworn it was relief that flickered over her face. There was a long pause which he let her fill.
‘Is everything in his watchtower destroyed?’
‘I guess so.’
‘All his precious compositions,’ whispered Helen, a muscle jumping in her freckled cheek. ‘His life’s work gone! I can’t bear it.’
