‘Hum,’ said Rupert. ‘Did you kill your father?’
‘When Tab told me he’d r-r-raped her I wanted to, but it seemed more important to find out if she was safe.’
Wolfie longed to ask if Rupert had killed his father. He felt the man was quite capable of murder but also had enough sense of fair play that, if he had killed Rannaldini and Beattie, not to want Tristan to take the rap.
Was that why Rupert was so sure Tristan wasn’t guilty? On the other hand, had he come down here to check out the Montignys as suitable in-laws for Tab, or was he merely a commercial animal in search of his director?
‘I know Tabitha loves Tristan,’ Wolfie added wistfully, ‘but I’m in that state of love so well described by Stendhal, “utter despair poisoned still further by a shred of hope”.’
He is a clever boy, thought Rupert, probably too clever for Tab.
‘Tab’s not perfect,’ he told Wolfie. ‘She’s got my terrible temper, she can be an appalling drama queen, and she doesn’t have the greatest sense of humour.’
‘Nor do I,’ sighed Wolfie. ‘People always tell me I’m too serious. I’ve heard all those jokes about slim volumes containing two thousand years of German humour.’
‘I like Krauts,’ said Rupert. ‘I knew a lot on the show-jumping circuit — good blokes, feet on the ground but knew how to party.’
Getting up, he wandered unsteadily over to the window, unzipped his flies, peed into the garden, causing scuffling and angry mewings from Madame’s two cats, and only just zipped up in time as a besotted Madame returned with an even more ancient bottle of brandy. If Monsieur Campbell-Black would come into the back room, Tristan’s arrest was on the late-night news.
Clips were being shown of Valhalla, of Rannaldini conducting, of Tristan arriving at the police station and of Étienne in a big straw hat painting in the château gardens. When Hermione appeared, opening her big eyes and saying she had every confidence because her very good friends Chief Constable Swallow, Rupert Campbell-Black and Sexton Kemp were now at the helm, Rupert and Wolfie collapsed with howls of drunken laughter.
‘I’m suffering from Dutch Helm Disease,’ said Rupert, pretending to fall over.
‘Poor old Tristan, but bloody good publicity,’ said Wolfie wiping his eyes.
‘Christ, she’s beautiful,’ sighed Rupert, as Claudine Lauzerte was shown talking to Tristan on the set of The Lily in the Valley.
‘Très jolie, très chic,’ agreed Madame.
‘Oscar’s lighting helped,’ said Wolfie quickly. ‘Tab’s much more beautiful.’
‘So’s Taggie,’ admitted Rupert. ‘Even so, I wouldn’t mind having Madame Lauzerte as my luxury on Desert Island Discs.’
‘Thank you,’ said Wolfie, as Madame filled up his glass. ‘I should like to pick up the tab on this,’ he told Rupert firmly. ‘I should like to pick up Tab any time,’ he added.
Perhaps he did have a sense of humour after all.
‘You have a very charming son,’ Madame told Rupert skittishly. ‘It is rare for fathers and sons to get on so well.’
‘Very,’ agreed Rupert, then turning to Wolfie, ‘If Tristan had really loved Tab, he wouldn’t have backed off after a one-night stand. I don’t believe in that kind of sacrifice.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Wolfie resolutely. ‘Tab told me you backed off for nearly a year because you didn’t feel you were good enough for Taggie.’
‘Maybe I did.’ Rupert scratched his head in pleased surprise. ‘Maybe I did. And, talking of self-sacrifice, why’s Lucy here?’
‘Because she wants to slay the dragon of this frightful calumny,’ said Wolfie. ‘And unconsciously in the hope that Tristan will be so touched by her enterprise and nobility, he’ll realize she’s the one he loves not Tab.’
‘He won’t, unfortunately. Men don’t love buckets like that, just for their virtues.’
‘Lucy’s not a bucket,’ protested Wolfie. ‘She can look gorgeous.’
Rupert raised a sleek sceptical blond eyebrow.
‘I wouldn’t ask you to shoot on a cocks-only day,’ he drawled.
‘Telephone,’ called out Madame.
It was Lucy.
‘Any progress?’ Wolfie asked her.
‘None.’ Lucy lowered her voice. ‘She’s a stubborn old bat. She wouldn’t squeal when the Gestapo tugged out her toenails and she’s not likely to tell me anything. She was wandering so badly this evening that she insisted on having the blackout put up in her room.’
Hearing a burst of music, Wolfie looked round and saw Madame was teaching Rupert the can-can and started to laugh.
‘Do you want us to come and get you?’
‘Neither of you sounds capable,’ snapped Lucy, then after a pause, ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, but Florence is letting me stay the night. She made me a gorgeous Gruyère omelette and opened a bottle of Sancerre. I just wish… Are you OK, Wolfie?’
‘Hunky-dory. Thingsh will be better in the morning. Goo’ night, Lucy.’
Lucy couldn’t remember ever being more tired. But just as she was about to fall into the arms of Morpheus she thought of Tristan in his small cell, and how much she would prefer the arms to be his. By this time, Morpheus had retreated in a sulk, and Lucy was left to agonize until four in the morning, when the roar of the combines and the waiting started again.
She went downstairs and raided the family albums, poring over photographs of picnics, balls and shooting-parties, of weddings and christenings, when the limes in the avenue were only shoulder high and the jasmine round the house wasn’t planted. Étienne was everywhere, always surrounded by adoring women, while Hortense and his three elder sons looked on, stolid and disapproving. But she found no sign of Laurent, unless he was that beautiful young man with the lively, restless, not-very-happy face to the rear of one group, gazing down at a girl whose slim back was to the camera and whose long dark hair was tied back with a scarlet ribbon.
Around ten on Sunday morning Lucy was toying with a croissant, black cherry jam and coffee so dark brown it reminded her of Tristan’s eyes, when a bell jangled in the kitchen.
‘I’m plunged in pitch darkness, I don’t know if I’m alive or dead,’ said a querulous voice over the intercom. ‘Will someone immediately bring me a cup of tea?’
‘Let me take it,’ Lucy begged Florence.
‘Haven’t you gone?’ snapped Hortense, as Lucy opened the shutters.
‘Not yet. I haven’t got what I came for.’
‘I suppose you’re in love with my nephew like the rest of them. You’re certainly no oil painting.’
‘Just as well, judging by some of the oils downstairs,’ said Lucy. ‘I’d hate to be as fat as the Rubens nude or as bloated as that Francis Bacon cardinal.’
Aunt Hortense gave a snort of laughter.
‘Does Tristan love you?’
‘No, a great friend of mine, a most beautiful girl.’
‘Bien élevée?’
‘Very, and she adores him.’
‘Married, I suppose.’
‘Not acutely. She’s got a horrid husband and Rannaldini told Tristan he couldn’t marry her because he wasn’t a Montigny, and because of his bad blood because Maxim had raped his mother.’
Carefully, laboriously, Lucy went though the whole story until Hortense said sharply, ‘You told me all that last night.’
Lucy raised her eyes to heaven.
‘But you haven’t told me whether it’s true.’
‘I swore to my brother Étienne never to discuss the matter.’
‘But it’s so unfair to Tristan.’
‘Life has always been unfair to Tristan. He was such a sweet little boy — I was far too strict with him. I didn’t want him to grow into a cissy. I knew women, and possibly men, would spoil him later.’