As Clive and Tabloid entered the room, everyone reached mentally for their swords. Clive had been Rannaldini’s éminence grise, the devil’s right hand. For a second he and Tabloid hovered, two dogs without their master.
‘A favourite has no friend,’ murmured Flora.
Lucy leapt to her feet.
‘Sit next to me, Clive,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a whisky.’
‘Fanks, Lucy,’ said Clive, a tinge of colour creeping into his waxy white cheeks. ‘Fanks very much indeed.’
It was strange that the three fearsome dog rivals for Sharon’s paw lay down beside each other without a murmur.
Clive was followed by Mr and Mrs Brimscombe, both looking aged and shaken. Mr Brimscombe had taken off his boots.
‘Pooh,’ said Pushy, noticing his grimy toenails protruding through the holes in his socks.
Flora jumped up and hugged them both.
‘This must be absolutely horrible for you, but don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure Lady Rannaldini’ll keep you on. I know Mum would snap you up in a trice if she wasn’t so broke.’
Griselda patted the sofa beside her.
‘Come and sit down, Mrs B. Fantastic chocolate roulade — I’ve had thirds. How’s Lady Rannaldini taking it?’
‘In a shocking state.’ Mrs Brimscombe lowered her voice. ‘Poor soul keeps crying and laughing. She won’t go to bed. I wish Dr Benson was here to give her something.’
She flinched as a flash of lightning pierced even the thickly lined blue curtains, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Both James and Trevor leapt into their mistresses’ arms.
‘I expect they’ll drag the lake to find the murder weapon,’ Jessica could be excitedly heard telling Sylvestre.
‘The lake has dried up,’ said Mr Brimscombe bleakly.
At first it sounded like applause in extremely bad taste but the clapping grew louder and louder until they realized it was the rattle of rain on roof, window and very dry leaf.
‘It’s raining,’ screamed Flora, running out on to the terrace and thrusting her face up into the deluge.
‘Flora, Flora, Flora,’ shouted the paparazzi, simultaneously trying to shield their cameras and take a picture.
Everyone’s clothes and names and addresses had at last been taken. They could now go home or to bed. Night-shooting would start around six p.m.
‘I still haven’t been able to contact the DOP, the operator or the director,’ Bernard told Gablecross. ‘It’ll be a terrible shock to Tristan — Rannaldini was like a father to him.’
At that moment, a spectacularly good-looking young man wandered in. Rain had darkened and flattened his hair back from his forehead, throwing his angelic features into relief. A drenched duck-egg blue shirt and white jeans clung to his body. Only under the chandeliers could his grey complexion and red eyes be detected.
Montigny, assumed Gablecross.
‘Baby,’ cried Flora, shooting in through the french windows into his arms.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ said the young man. Then, looking into her anguished eyes, ‘Hey, hey, what’s up with you?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ said Bernard. ‘Rannaldini’s dead.’
Baby didn’t miss a beat. ‘About time too,’ he said approvingly, and crossing to the drinks tray poured himself a large whisky and soda with a completely steady hand.
‘Murdered,’ said Alpheus sternly.
‘Really?’ Baby looked only mildly interested. ‘I’ll buy whoever did it a huge drink. Miracle it hasn’t happened before.’
‘At least show some respect for Lady Rannaldini,’ spluttered Alpheus.
‘“The widow howling for her dead husband”.’ Baby dropped his voice an octave to sing Mikhail’s line. ‘And she’s a very rich widow now, which should appeal to you, Alpheus.’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Gablecross, Baby,’ said Bernard hastily, ‘who’ll want to question you tomorrow.’
‘The Grand Inquisitor,’ sang Baby in amusement. ‘You’re so rugged, Sergeant, it’ll be a temptation to tell you everything.’
Totally undeterred by Gablecross’s black, pugnacious scowl, Baby went on, ‘For a start, all these people have a motive.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ roared Alpheus.
‘Undeclared tax and cuckoldry in your case,’ drawled Baby. ‘Sexual romps with ruminants in Chloe’s.’
‘I’ll kill you!’ screamed Chloe.
‘Jocking off in Isa Lovell’s case. Excessive cruelty in Helen’s, excessive cruelty to Tristan in Lucy’s.’
‘Stop it, Baby,’ yelled Lucy, blushing furiously.
Utterly unfazed, Baby turned back to Flora and drew her into an alcove.
‘Rannaldini had photographs of us making love on the lawn at Angels’ Reach,’ she said numbly. ‘He was going to blackmail George, and if George didn’t back off about the bypass, he was going to send them to Gordon Dillon and, as if that wasn’t enough, he said you were HIV positive.’
‘Glad he thought I was positive about something. That man was such a liar.’ Baby rubbed Flora’s hands to warm them. ‘You poor angel, what a terrible weekend you’ve had. But I promise you, I’m clean. I had a medical for an insurance policy last month. And, frankly,’ he added, pushing the rain-soaked tendrils back from her forehead, ‘we’ll finish twice as fast now the bastard’s dead. Then I can take you back to Oz, away from all this squalor.’
‘It’s too late,’ sobbed Flora.
Baby pulled her into his arms.
‘For God’s sake, a man has been murdered.’ Bernard tapped Baby furiously on the shoulder.
‘May he roast in peace,’ said Baby. ‘Unless you’re going to let me identify the body to make sure the conniving shit really is dead, I’m off to bed. One must always leave a party early to give everyone a chance to talk about one. Come on, Flora darling.’
The rumble of disapproval died on people’s lips as Helen appeared in the doorway in a long white nightgown.
‘I don’t know what to do about locking up,’ she told Gablecross, in a high, singsong voice. ‘Rannaldini’s not back yet and I hate leaving the front door open.’
Next minute, she was thrust aside by Miss Bussage who, having handed over her clothes, was now sporting a man’s dressing-gown, slippers and a hairnet that flattened her cropped hair. ‘The Maestro may have passed away,’ she called out defiantly, ‘but his genius lives on. I’ve got all his compositions and his last will on disk, not to mention a copy of his memoirs and duplicates of all the photographs.’
For a second, Gablecross noticed collective horror on everyone’s faces. Then there was a thud as Helen Rannaldini fainted.
42
A strange quiet lay over Valhalla. The deluge had shredded roses all over the lawn and flattened the dreaming spires of Rannaldini’s delphinium bed. Mr Brimscombe tugged on his boots and hobbled as fast as possible to hoover up the petals before his master surfaced, then suddenly realized that Rannaldini would never shout at him again.
Waking, also realizing his father was dead, Wolfie was ashamed to feel as if a poisoned spear had been yanked out of his side. Then he blushed with shame and revulsion as he remembered Tab had been raped. He longed to ring her but felt it would only remind her of Rannaldini. Instead he got dressed and set about the long haul of comforting staff and telephoning relations, including Gisela, his mother, in Munich. Rannaldini’s body still lay under canvas in Hangman’s Wood. They would all feel better when it left for the morgue.
Meanwhile every radio station was playing Rannaldini’s music. Howie had been on to American Bravo and instigated a massive re-press of all his records. BBC TV had already announced they would be rerunning Rannaldini’s masterpiece, Don Giovanni, starring Hermione Harefield and Cecilia Rannaldini tomorrow evening in conjunction with Radio 3. News programmes worldwide led on the murder, showing clips of the Don Carlos press conference with Rannaldini and Tristan swearing eternal brotherhood and, to Ogborne’s delight, of Alpheus rearranging the police car driving-mirror in order to comb his hair before facing the media.