Score!

39

People were always screaming at Valhalla, often to the accompaniment of classical music. Cars frequently hurtled up the drive, helicopters landed like swarms of fireflies, shots were heard in the wood. As television was so dire on Sunday nights, many of the inhabitants of Paradise had got into the habit of switching off their lights, turning round their chairs and focusing their binoculars on the great abbey.

Those watching the goings-on on Sunday, 8 July, included old Miss Cricklade who took in ironing, pretty Sally and Betty, the maids who worked at Valhalla, Pat and Cath, two village beauties with crushes on Tristan, and that Paradise worthy, Lady Chisledon.

Having clocked Dame Hermione’s return from Milan and been disappointed by no sightings of Tristan on the tennis court, the spectators had assumed the flaming watch-tower was part of filming. But when five fire engines had been followed by Detective Sergeant Gablecross, the area CID man, in his battered Rover, and the we-ay, we-ay, we-ay of a police car with a flashing blue light, they realized something was up.

They were then delighted by the arrival of Detective Chief Inspector Gerald Portland, a local pin-up, who was equally delighted to have just returned from sailing in Turkey with a mahogany tan to flaunt at forthcoming press conferences.

Having seen that Rannaldini had not only been strangled but also shot through the heart, he ascertained murder had taken place and set in motion the wheels of inquiry. No doubt Chief Constable Swallow, a dinner guest at Valhalla, would soon ring Lady Rannaldini to express his sympathy.

In no time, two uniformed police had cordoned off not only Hangman’s Wood with blue and white ribbon but also the Paradise — Cheltenham road, which passed the main gates at Valhalla, for two hundred yards in either direction. A uniform car halted and took the names and addresses of everyone entering and leaving.

Watchers all down the valley were even more excited to see men in white hoods, overalls and boots, like astronauts landed on the moon, moving around the smouldering remains under brilliant floodlights. These were the scene-of-crime officers, videoing, fingerprinting, taking soil samples, waiting for the fire and ashes to cool, cursing under their breath that the fire brigade, who were more concerned with saving lives than trapping murderers, had drenched the place, hurrying as the storm drew nearer. The pathologist, due from Cardiff in an hour or two, would get soaked.

Up at Valhalla, two uniformed policemen were collecting names and addresses. Within half an hour twenty more were swarming in through the east gate, followed by three times as many press.

Rutminster Police were still recovering from the infamous Valhalla orgy in 1991 when PC, now DC, Lightfoot had rolled up to investigate complaints about noise and only been returned to the station with staring eyes thirty-six hours later.

Rannaldini had been cordially detested in the area. He had bribed too many local councillors in return for planning permission. There were endless rumours of rapes and unnatural practices. Two of the comelier village girls had vanished without trace in the past three years. Dark tales had always come out of Valhalla. To the legends of the Hanging Blacksmith and the Paradise Lad was now added that of the Strangled Maestro.

But despite their expressionless faces as, armed with torches, they searched the sinister house and gardens, nothing could suppress the excitement of the police that this was bonanza time. The eyes of Scotland Yard, Interpol and the world would now be on little Rutminster. Every stop would be pulled out as they worked from dawn to long after midnight to find the killer. This would mean massive overtime to pay off mortgage and overdraft. Neither was the hunt tainted with sick revulsion over some fearful child abuse or loss of innocent life, only incredulity that no-one had murdered Rannaldini before.

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.’

‘My clothes are back at Jasmine Cottage,’ said Alpheus quickly. ‘I’ll go and get them.’

‘A police officer will drive you, Mr Shaw,’ said Gablecross firmly.

Ogborne was gazing out on the ever-increasing crowd of media.

‘I’m going to film them. Always wanted to be an operator,’ he muttered, sliding out of a side door.

‘Why are all those men wandering around Hangman’s Wood in space suits?’ asked Jessica, coming back without any salt.

‘To avoid contamination of the body,’ explained DC Lightfoot admiringly.

‘Would have thought it was the other way round,’ said Granny sourly.

‘I’ll get my job back now.’ Griselda collapsed on a sofa, drumming her feet excitedly on the floor like a little girl.

‘So will I,’ said Meredith. ‘I did redecorate this room nicely, didn’t I? Those onyx pillars are to die for. Wonder if anyone’s told Hermione.’

‘Wonder how upset she’ll be?’ mused Griselda. ‘They go back a long way. She probably did it.’

‘That singing in the wood sounded almost too good for her,’ observed Sylvestre, the constant listener. ‘Perhaps Rannaldini had replaced her with some young chick.’

‘Then she certainly did it,’ said Meredith.

‘The murderer is most likely to be a member of the family,’ volunteered Jessica, who never missed an instalment of The Bill.

‘With four wives, eight kiddiwinks, and a million steps and illegits to take into consideration,’ giggled Meredith, as he handed Sylvestre a bottle of red to open, ‘the police will be spoilt for choice.’

‘“He went to t’other place and frizzled and fried,”’ sang Granny happily.

Christ, what a bunch, thought Gablecross, and leaving DC Lightfoot and DS Fanshawe to get their clothes off them, went off to break the news to Lady Rannaldini.