‘When did you last see Rannaldini?’ he asked.
‘On Saturday morning. He’d caught me watering his plants very early. I couldn’t bear the way he let them die in the drought. He pulled me into his study and shouted at me. It didn’t last long.’
‘He seems to have rowed with everyone recently,’ Gablecross said, starting on the tomato sandwiches. ‘Didn’t he and Tristan de Montigny fight over Tabitha Campbell-Black?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Gablecross had noticed that women’s voices grew shrill and men’s thickened whenever Tabitha’s name was mentioned.
‘We gather she was the only woman Tristan showed any interest in.’ Gablecross knew it was cruel, but he wanted to test Rozzy.
Rozzy went on pouring tea into his cup until it spilled over.
‘Tabitha had nearly burnt to death,’ she said sharply. ‘She was badly frightened. He was a grown-up comforting a child.’
‘Whose fault was it that the newspaper caught fire?’
‘Wolfie’s. He hadn’t checked properly and one can still contained petrol.’
‘Could he have tried to kill Tabitha?’
‘Of course not, but Tab and Tristan are quite unsuited. He reads Bach cello suites for pleasure in the evening. Tab’s thick, insensitive, and arrogant — just like her father. Tristan’s interest in her was over before it began.
‘Rannaldini gave Tristan a hard time,’ went on Rozzy, clearly not wanting to discuss Tab any more, ‘but he did love his godson. Tristan and I get on really well too. He’s doing Rosenkavalier at Glyndebourne and he’s asked me to sing Octavian.’
‘Who could have killed Rannaldini?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps it was some Mafia plot.’
‘When did you come back to Valhalla?’
‘Early this…’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens, it’s after midnight. Early yesterday morning.’
‘How far’s Mallowfield?’
‘About fifty miles away.’
Seeing his detective constable was falling asleep, Gablecross ate the last sandwich and called it a day.
‘What a lovely lady,’ sighed Karen.
‘Bit too good to be true. We’d better talk to Glyn and check out her alibi, but it looks as though she’s in the clear. I wonder how DC Miller got on with Rupert Campbell-Black.’
47
‘There are some advantages to this job, if you get to meet Rupert Campbell-Black,’ said DC Miller in excitement. ‘He’s supposed to be the handsomest man in England.’
‘Only because he’s loaded and owns a bloody great mansion,’ snapped DS Fanshawe, slamming his foot on the accelerator as he turned into Rupert’s drive in the hope of smearing the rose-pink lipstick DC Miller was applying to her delectable mouth.
The beeches, forming a halo round Rupert’s lovely, pale gold Queen Anne house, were already turning. In the park below, beautiful horses with whisking tails had taken refuge from the heat under great bell-like trees. The rim of brown rush above the water’s edge showed how much the lake had dropped. A dozen cars were parked outside an open front door, but no-one answered the bell.
‘He’s not worried about burglars,’ said Debbie Miller.
Shuffling down a rose walk, ankle deep in petals, ducking to avoid spiky unpruned branches, they reached Rupert’s yard, which was immaculate but deserted except for a comely girl groom, who was reading a handsome chestnut colt his Daily Mail horoscope.
‘It’s Peppy Koala,’ said Debbie in awe. ‘Oh, can I stroke him?’
‘He’s almost as good-looking as you are.’ Fanshawe, who considered he had a way with the ladies, smiled at the girl groom. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, waving his ID card.
‘Down at the graveyard. I’d wait until they come back.’
But Fanshawe was in a hurry, and paused only to take the serial number of the dark blue helicopter parked in a field behind the stables. Beyond a tennis court surrounded by a shaggy beech hedge, under the shade of a huge cedar, half an acre of grass was fenced off, before the land rolled into fields. For generations, the Campbell-Blacks had buried their best-loved animals here.
Grouped round a single grave were about a hundred people — estate-workers, grooms, gardeners, Rupert’s ancient housekeeper Mrs Bodkin and her husband — most of whom were in tears.
‘That’s Lord O’Hara, and his wife Maud in the big black hat,’ hissed Debbie, who scoured the tabloids every day. ‘They’re Rupert’s in-laws, and there’s Taggie’s elder brother, Patrick — isn’t he to die for? And his partner Cameron Cook, she makes films, and there’s Taggie’s sister Caitlin. She married Lord Baddingham’s son, Archie, and Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who show-jumped for England, and his wife Janey, Beattie Johnson’s great rival. Beattie’s already been digging up the dirt down at Valhalla. Next to her, that gorgeous boy who’s crying is Lysander Hawkley. Now this is interesting, he’s married to Rannaldini’s third wife, Kitty — she’s the round-faced one comforting him. And oh, look, there’s Ricky France-Lynch! Isn’t he gorgeous? And his wife Daisy, the pretty dark one, she paints. They must have driven over from Eldercombe.’
‘You ought to work for Hello!,’ said Fanshawe sourly. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Edging forward, they caught sight of Tabitha, who looked as though she’d been struck by lightning. A big purple bruise on her left temple and cuts down her right cheek added the only colour to her deathly pale face. She seemed about to collapse, and was being supported by Rupert’s head groom, Dizzy. Next to them, with a face of granite, stood Rupert, holding Xavier and Bianca by the hand. In her other hand Bianca clutched a jam-jar full of harebells, scabious and meadowsweet, while Xavier held on to a carrier-bag and a Labrador as sleek and black as his face. A dozen other dogs milled round, snapping at flies and panting but unusually quiet, and on the other side of the fence, in silent sympathy, stood Rupert’s great horse, Penscombe Pride, Tiny the Shetland, and several red and white cows.
Taggie Campbell-Black, paler even than Tabitha, biting her lip to stop herself crying, held Gertrude, wrapped in an old orange and blue blanket, in her arms. Dropping a last kiss on her white forehead, she laid the little dog on her beanbag, already in the grave. On a wonky wooden cross, Taggie had written the words: ‘Gurtrude, are most preshous treshure, is berried hear.’
No-one had corrected her spelling.
Stepping forward, Xav dropped a packet of Kit-Kats and a box of Bonios into the grave beside Gertrude, then took his mother’s hand. Suddenly Bianca ran forward and knelt by the grave.
‘If you’re just pretending, Gertrude,’ she called out, in a shrill voice, ‘now’s the time to wake up.’
For a second, laughter rippled round. Then Declan O’Hara stepped forward. Known to cry on every possible occasion, today he was dry-eyed.
‘We all loved Gertrude.’ His deep, tender Irish brogue echoed round the fields. ‘She lived with us in London and the Priory opposite for eight years, and then with Rupert and Taggie for ten. But even this year she would struggle across the valley every morning for a Bonio and a bowl of milk. What we will remember is Gertrude’s kindness and her merriness, but none of us would have imagined that such a frail body contained a heart as stout as Beth Gelert.’
As Tab gave a sob, covering her face with her hand, Debbie noticed the dark bruises along the side and up the little fingers. She must have fought someone off like a wild cat. For a second, she swayed. As Rupert caught her, she buried her face in his shoulder.