‘You’re going to cheer up my Kitty,’ he told the puppy who cocked her head on one side, ‘for not having a baby, and don’t let her get pregnant. Sleep on her bed and bite Rannaldini’s willy whenever he comes near her.’
The silence was eerie. Valhalla was strangled by thick veils of floating grey fog. At the edge of the park Lysander could distinguish rusty iron railings and ancient trees looming up like bison or great horned stags. His heart was pounding his rib cage, a lunatic trying to escape from a padded cell. Then Jack and the puppy started yapping furiously as the fearsome Prince of Darkness in a New Zealand rug galloped out of the mist and thundered away. Ahead the woods reared up like cliffs, treacherous to mariners, and there was the house, greyer than the fog itself, with its gables, tall chimneys and small secretive windows, as though the stonework between the panes formed prison bars.
Gathering up the puppy, Lysander went up to the great front door, resting against it for a second before setting the rusty bell jangling mournfully. If Kitty answered the door, he was tempted to kidnap her. But the nose that peered out was long and red-veined.
For a second Mrs Brinscombe’s face lit up, then she looked terrified.
‘You mustn’t come here, it’s more than my life’s worth. Oh, the sweet little duck.’ She put up a red, roughened hand to stroke the puppy.
‘Where’s Kitty? Please, please, Mrs B, I’ve got to see her.’
‘She’s gone shopping in Rutminster.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
‘No.’ She shrank from him. ‘Clive’s being paid to follow her and he’s a villain. Please don’t risk it. Rannaldini’ll sack me and Mr B, and he’ll take it out on Kitty.’
‘Is she OK?’
Mrs Brimscombe loved Lysander and hated to see him so thin and ghost-pale. She had endured enough of Mr Brimscombe’s indiscriminate lechery to have huge sympathy with Kitty.
‘She’s all right on the surface.’ Mrs Brimscombe thought for a second. ‘But she reminds me of one of those prisoners of war that Saddam Hussein keeps parading on TV, that looks all bruised and beaten and dazed, but keeps on telling you what a good man Saddam is, and how wicked the Allies are to fight him. She don’t seem natural.’
‘Oh, God!’ Lysander was frantic. ‘Poor little Kitty. Is he bullying her?’
‘No. That’s what don’t seem natural either. He’s being so nice.’
‘Well, give her this, and this.’ Lysander shoved the puppy and his letter into Mrs Brimscombe’s unwelcoming hands. ‘Tell Clive she’s a stray wandered in from the wood, but please see that Kitty gets her.’
Stumbling in despair back to his car, he reminded Mrs Brimscombe of one of those poor wretched seabirds, helpless and paralysed by oil in the Gulf. With no other thought but oblivion, Lysander headed for The Pearly Gates.
Returning from Rutminster, Kitty was greeted by a very over-excited Mrs B, who managed to slip her the letter. ‘Put it in yer bra, m’duck,’ and whispered that the puppy came from Lysander before Clive walked in buckling under the two trays of Bounce for Rannaldini’s guard-dogs.
‘What’s this?’ he said, as the puppy padded trustfully towards him. ‘Gorgeous little thing.’ He put out a hand ringed like a knuckle-duster. ‘Where’s it come from?’
‘It’s a stray. Mrs B found it wanderin’ outside,’ said Kitty quickly.
‘Doesn’t look like one.’ The puppy yelped as Clive picked it up by the scruff of the neck. ‘It’s well fed, and its paws aren’t marked. I’ll pop it down to the local rescue kennels.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Kitty with surprising sharpness.
‘You’re scared of dogs,’ said Clive rudely.
‘Not this one. Give it to me.’
‘Rannaldini don’t like dogs in the house.’ Clive’s pale fleshless face was alight with malice, his pale grey eyes had the innocence of a psychopath. ‘Canine dogs, that is.’
‘I’ll deal with Rannaldini.’ Kitty was fired with sudden courage.’
‘And it over. Now clear off.’
As she grabbed the puppy from Clive, it covered her face with little licks. Shutting her eyes, Kitty breathed in its sweet, fresh oatmeal smell. It was the first Valentine she’d ever had.
Only when the puppy had been fed and watered and they’d both retreated to the safety of her bedroom did she open Lysander’s letter kindly dictated by Ferdie. She read:
Darling Kitty,
This is Maggie’s puppy, Lassie II, to replace the one from Harrods those bastards at customs ripped open. Unless you have a dog that needs taking out, you never get out at night. But when you look up at the moon, and the great Bear and Orion the Hunter with his dogs, think of them looking down on me and Jack who both love you, Lysander.
Kitty gave a sob. Her dark little room, which faced north into the wood was lightened today by sheets of snowdrops which reminded her unbearably of the nursery slopes at Monthaut. She should have burnt Lysander’s letter, but she read it over and over again before hiding it under the lining paper of her tights drawer.
Jumping at the knock on the door, she shoved the drawer shut just in time. It was Clive bearing a huge bunch of dark red roses and a jewel box wrapped in shiny red paper. Inside was a ruby brooch in the shape of a heart.
To my Valentine, said the card, whose price is far above rubies, with all my love, Rannaldini.
Marigold was in despair. Although Larry was trying frantically to build up some kind of business again — you don’t go from 10p to ten million by stroking the cat, was one of his favourite sayings — no-one wanted to buy Paradise Grange, or Magpie Cottage or the villa in France, and all the pictures had gone for knockdown prices.
But far, far worse, Larry hadn’t sent her a Valentine. Last year, when he’d been with Nikki, was the only other year he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d gone back to her to boost his ego. Marigold had so little confidence, any little thing triggered off the panic. She must keep calm, but when Larry rang just before lunch, she found herself shouting at him, ‘I thought we were traying to mend our marriage, you beast.’ Then she burst into noisy sobs.
‘Princess, princess.’ When Larry finally could get a word in, he said rather smugly, ‘If you go and ’ave a butchers be’ind the mirror in the ’all.’
Rushing out, Marigold found a large box of chocolates, a card with a red heart on the front, and a page of kisses inside. There was also a letter. Dear Mr Lockton, read Marigold incredulously, and felt the blush of joy creeping slowly over her.
Down the telephone Larry could hear her scream of delight.
‘Oh, Ay love you, Sir Laurence,’ she said in a choked voice as she picked up the telephone. ‘No-one deserves a knaighthood more.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased, Lady Lockton. But Mum’s the word till it’s in the papers.’
Behaving like the ideal husband on the surface, Rannaldini put a coded Valentine message in the Independent: Little wild thing, the big leopard longs for you.
As he called all his mistresses ‘Little wild thing’, Hermione, Chloe, Rachel, Cecilia, even for a giddy second, Flora, and most of the ladies of the London Met thought Rannaldini was sending secret signals to them.
Returning from the Highlands where he had been looking for locations for Macbeth with Cameron Cook, Rannaldini was decidedly unamused to find Lassie in situ. She had already made herself thoroughly at home romping along the passages after Kitty and peeing everywhere.
‘Let her go to the stables with Clive.’
‘No, she’s mine.’ Kitty’s eyes were terrified.
Lassie got up and stretched, turning her toes backwards, trailing along, then attacking the red-and-yellow rose-patterned Aubusson in the morning room, and shaking it furiously.