Score!

‘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.

40

Detective Sergeant Gablecross found Helen in a terrible state, mindlessly tidying her little study, straightening straight objects, looking around with huge, darting eyes, her grey face such a contrast to the lilacs and honeysuckles blooming so luxuriantly on her beautiful silk dress.

Gablecross felt desperately sorry for her, but with murder it was his duty to zap her and start scribbling straight away. ‘I’m afraid we’ve found your husband’s body in the wood, Lady Rannaldini.’

‘What?’ Helen went utterly still, except for her darting eyes. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t mean he was caught in the fire? How terrible! They say you suffocate first,’ she pleaded.

‘No, no, Sir Roberto died from strangulation and gunshot wounds.’

‘It wasn’t an accident?’

Gablecross could have sworn it was relief that flickered over her face. There was a long pause which he let her fill.

‘Is everything in his watchtower destroyed?’

‘I guess so.’

‘All his precious compositions,’ whispered Helen, a muscle jumping in her freckled cheek. ‘His life’s work gone! I can’t bear it.’

‘What were your husband’s movements today?’

‘He went to his watchtower mid-afternoon.’ She was twisting her very loose wedding ring round and round. ‘Earlier I saw him walking round the garden with Flora Seymour, who looked very upset. He also rowed with Rozzy Pringle and Alpheus Shaw — I heard them both shouting, I don’t know what about. Artistic people shout all the time.’

A red glass paperweight trembled like a raspberry jelly as she straightened it.

‘Then some very important rushes arrived of my husband conducting the first and last scenes in the film, and Mr Brimscombe, our gardener, and Clive, my husband’s bodyguard, carried this machine out to his tower so he could watch them. My husband was very particular about how he looked on the rostrum.’

‘Did he have anything to eat?’

‘He had a late lunch of caviare with blinis and sour cream, and some peaches from our conservatory, taken out to the watchtower around four.’

‘Who would have prepared that?’

‘Mrs Brimscombe. Clive would have taken it out. Rannaldini didn’t like people…’ she paused ‘… people he didn’t want, to visit his tower. Are you sure he suffocated first, Officer?’

‘What did you do this evening?’

‘I got my clothes ready for London. I’ve got several committee meetings and a dinner in aid of the Red Cross tomorrow. Rannaldini’s letting me have the helicopter,’ she added proudly. ‘Then, at nine thirty, I listened to a play on Radio Three about Puccini, by Declan O’Hara’s son, Patrick. D’you know his work? It’s excellent. Did you know Puccini didn’t finish Turandot?’