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 Times? The New York, ah. Well, if it was handled in a dignified fashion. Right, give me your number. There’s no need to call my agent, he only handles my performing and recording rights.’
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 Express and the Mail,’ said Chloe gleefully, ‘and I’m not giving that lazy sod Howie a penny.’
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 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 Creation in the cathedral water-meadows, and knew that she lived with George Hungerford, almost more of a wide boy than Rannaldini.
The only thing he noticed about the others was that they were all pissed and on their mobiles, except Bernard Guérin 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 has changed.’