Score!

‘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.