53
The post-mortem revealed a wonderfully fit body, showing no sign of ageing, with the huge shoulder muscles of a conductor and an athlete.
‘It would have taken a super-strong person to strangle him,’ Dr Meadows’s freckled face was perplexed, ‘or someone fuelled by such a hatred or fear. He died’, she consulted her notes, ‘some time between ten fifteen and eleven fifteen. There were broken blood vessels and deep tissue injuries to the neck, and whoever strangled him was wearing a large stone or a signet ring, probably on the little finger of the left hand. The stone cut into the flesh and appears to have swung round to the palm side, perhaps because the wearer had lost weight.’
‘Check on everyone wearing rings,’ said Portland.
For a second, Gablecross had visions of Rupert’s big gold ring glinting in Oscar’s lights.
‘He was shot through the heart by a gun of the.38 type,’ went on Dr Meadows, ‘but the angle of the exit wound in his back suggests it happened when he was lying down, fired by someone about twelve feet away.’
‘At the same time?’ asked Gablecross.
‘No, I reckon about fifteen minutes after the strangulation.’
‘He had lacerations on his face and a big gash on the side of his head, which suggests he was pushed or fell against a sharp object, or perhaps the murderer hit him with an iron bar or a spade.’
‘There was also’, she went on, ‘saliva on his chest hair, traces of saliva in his mouth, saliva, canine and human blood on his dressing-gown and a bite on the ankle from an old dog with very few teeth. In addition there was perfume and lipstick, human hair and flakes of skin on his dressing-gown, and flakes of skin under his fingernails.’
‘Quite a lot of activity,’ said Portland.
‘There was also extensive bruising on his chest and face, a couple of cracked ribs, semen stains down his left thigh and vaginal fluid on his penis, suggesting brief penetration then ejaculation after the victim managed to struggle away.’
‘That figures.’ Gablecross and Portland exchanged glances.
‘Carpet fibres on the elbows and outside edges of the forearms also suggest that intercourse or rape took place indoors.’
‘On the lounge floor of the watch-tower?’ suggested Gablecross.
‘The rape victim clearly put up one hell of a struggle,’ added Dr Meadows, ‘but from the colour of the bruises and the drying of the semen — now, this is interesting — the rape took place a good twenty minutes before the point of death. As I already surmised, the shooting took place a good quarter of an hour after that.’
‘So he pushed his victim on to the carpet,’ mused Gerry Portland, ‘raped her. Maybe the dog — probably Campbell-Black’s dog, Gertrude — bit and distracted him, and the victim escaped.’
‘He pursued her into the wood,’ said Gablecross.
‘And walked some seventy-five yards looking for her — grass seed, enchanter’s nightshade and traces of hemlock were all found on his bare feet and dressing gown,’ volunteered Dr Meadows. ‘There was no evidence he was dragged outside.’
‘Perhaps the rape victim waited behind a tree and surprised him,’ suggested Portland.
‘Perhaps, but the evidence shows he was retracing his steps, because he fell backwards, as he was strangled, with his feet pointing to the watch-tower.’
‘Probably heard Dame Hermione singing,’ said Gablecross, putting his palms to his forehead, desperately trying to visualize the whole thing. ‘It would be impossible to strangle someone while they were raping you then shoot them as well. You’d have to pull the trigger with your little toe.’
‘Another abnormality,’ went on Dr Meadows. ‘At the moment of death there was extreme sexual arousal but no hint of panic or fear. He was completely relaxed so the murderer appears to have been someone he knew and was delighted to see.’
‘Dame Hermione?’ pondered Gablecross. ‘He’d had a helluva row with her. Perhaps he was delighted she’d rolled up to make it up. Or perhaps he thought Tabitha had forgiven him.’
‘Or someone disguised as them,’ murmured Gerry Portland.
It would be hard to discern features at that hour of night, thought Gablecross, like Carlos mistaking Eboli for Elisabetta.
‘Finally,’ Dr Meadows turned over a page, ‘Rannaldini’s body was near enough to the watch-tower for the murderer realistically to hope he’d be torched in the fire and all the evidence of rape and DNA destroyed with him. There was ash on his body, but no smoke breathed into his lungs, so he died well before the watch-tower caught fire.’
‘Which the fire brigade think was started by paraffin around eleven twenty,’ said Portland, ‘presumably from the blue can found in the wood.’
‘From which all the fingerprints had been carefully wiped,’ added Gablecross.
‘So.’ Again the two men gazed at each other.
‘If one person had done all these things,’ said Portland quickly, ‘they would have been raped in Rannaldini’s watch-tower, strangled him outside, blasted him with a.38, had a butcher’s at the memoirs and decided to torch them as well.’
‘They would have to have humped a can of paraffin and a gun into the wood,’ continued Gablecross. ‘And Mr Brimscombe said Tab was empty-handed when he saw her running towards the watch-tower.’
‘Still could have used those hands to strangle him. Or after being raped she could have escaped, run to the phone, alerted Wolfgang or her dad, both of whom could have rolled up separately and taken out Rannaldini.’
‘They both wear signet rings on their little fingers.’
‘Perhaps Tabitha or someone strangled Rannaldini, found they weren’t strong enough and finished him off with the gun.’
Dr Meadows shrugged. ‘Possible but unlikely, bearing in mind the time lapses occurring between the two events.’
‘Unless someone quite separate from the rape’, said Gablecross, ‘turned up with a gun, shot him to steal the Montigny, the Picasso and the memoirs.’
‘And flogged them both for a fucking fortune. Good thinking. Could be the work of four isolated people, or a gang of people working together. Let’s DNA everyone who doesn’t check out.’
Portland turned to Meadows. ‘You have been a miracle as usual.’ He was about to kiss her hand but then, dubious at where it might have been, kissed her freckled, blushing cheek instead.
‘You and Karen buzz off,’ he added to Gablecross, ‘and see what you can find out from Lucy and Baby. Try to nail Isa Lovell and Granville Hastings as soon as possible. I’m off to the one and nines.’
Back at Valhalla, James, no respecter of the rigours of night-shooting, decided that ten thirty was time for a walk and squeaked and pawed the cupboards of the caravan until his weary mistress dressed and took him outside.
Walks, once her favourite pastime, gave Lucy no pleasure now. Every time James froze or dived into the undergrowth she expected the murderer to jump out. Resolutely avoiding Hangman’s Wood she headed north-east towards Cathedral Copse.
James, however, decided this was boring and swinging round, totally ignoring Lucy’s shrieks, hurtled towards Hangman’s Wood, bent on games with German shepherds.
Lucy had no option but to tear after him. Nothing much grew under the towering beeches of Cathedral Copse but in Hangman’s Wood, beneath ancient limes, chestnuts, oaks and sycamores broad enough in girth to conceal any lurking killer, thrived a treacherous tangle of traveller’s joy, nettles, brambles and goosegrass.