Score!

38

Despite noisy encouragement from the spectators, Granny and Griselda lost 6–3, 6–4 to Wolfie and Simone. Leaving the others down at the court with plenty of drink, Wolfie loped back to the house to organize supper. In the larder he found a big plate of chicken à l’estragon, a ham, an asparagus and avocado salad, a chocolate roulade, a large blue bowl of raspberries, and was just thanking God for Mrs Brimscombe when she hobbled, white-faced and gibbering, into the kitchen. She refused a stiff drink and it was several minutes before she made any sense. She had seen a pale mauve light, she said. ‘It came bobbing out of Hangman’s Wood, across the big lawn, past the chapel and disappeared into the graveyard.’

‘Must have been someone with a torch.’

‘There was no footsteps, it went straight through the big yew hedge and a wall. Bobbing and pale mauve it was, Wolfie.’ Mrs Brimscombe put gnarled hands, shaking like windswept twigs, to her face. ‘Lights like that have been seen in Paradise before, come to guide the dead soul to his grave,’ she whispered.

Despite the stifling heat, Wolfie felt icy fingers on his heart.

‘It means there’s been a death, Wolfie.’

Refusing a lift home, she stumbled into the dark.

Wolfie was terrified. His father never allowed servants to sleep in the house although, to Helen’s distress, Clive and Bussage drifted in at all hours. For once, he was relieved to hear old bag Bussage tapping away on the keyboard in her office, and singing, probably on the radio, coming from Helen’s little study down the passage.

He must pull himself together and open some bottles. Grabbing a corkscrew from a kitchen drawer, he idly flipped on the answering-machine, and received the full horror of Tab’s message, that she’d been raped and Gertrude murdered.

‘This time I am going to kill my father!’ he yelled.

Oh, God, where was Tab? He must find her before Rannaldini caught up with her. The bastard! Wolfie dialled 1471 to discover where she’d rung from, then found out from directory inquiries that it was the call-box on the edge of Hangman’s Wood. No-one answered when he rang. It was so dark now, between flashes of lightning. He decided it would be quicker to drive, and found himself trying to open the BMW’s door with the corkscrew. But when he screeched to a halt beside the call-box, Tab had gone. There was blood all over the floor and the telephone. A terrible fear gripped him. Had that pale mauve light been guiding Tab?

Thunderclouds had blotted out the russet glare of Rutminster, the tiny sliver of new moon had gone gratefully to bed behind the wood. Down at the court, the conscientious, frugal Bernard suggested everyone look for balls, whereupon most people sloped off claiming the need to make urgent telephone calls. Lucy, who had returned after her storm of tears in time to watch the last game and give back Wolfie’s signet ring, set off with James clinging to her heels for a last run round the south side of Hangman’s Wood.

She soon regretted it. The wood exuded such evil. At any moment she expected dark branches to grab her, or the Hanging Blacksmith to thunder by. She was glad when the path curved and she could see the comfortingly twinkling lights of Paradise village. She was just wondering wistfully how Tristan had coped, knowing he was no longer a Montigny at such a tribal gathering as Aunt Hortense’s party, when James bounded forward, wagging his long tail, giving excited little squeaks.

Peering through the darkness, Lucy could see nothing. Perhaps James had caught a white glimpse of Sharon across the valley, but settling back on his haunches, still wagging, he gazed in the direction of the west gate. Perhaps he had seen a ghost. Turning in terror, Lucy raced back to the tennis court, to find Ogborne guzzling the last of the strawberries.

‘All sorts of exciting crashing,’ bellowed Griselda, emerging from the wood.

‘Probably cows,’ said Bernard, appearing from a more northerly direction.

‘And lots of shooting,’ added Griselda defiantly. ‘OK, Bernard, it probably was Teddy Brimscombe after pigeon. And a helicopter landing and taking off.’

‘I always feel this wood’s watching me,’ shivered Lucy.

‘We’re still about twenty balls short,’ sighed Bernard.

‘Here are two more.’ Coming out of the wood, Granny dropped a shocking pink and a lime green one on the pile.

As the chapel clock struck a quarter to eleven, Ogborne filled up everyone’s glass.

‘What are we going to do about Rannaldini’s balls?’ he intoned.

‘Chop ’em off,’ said Granny.

It wasn’t very funny but even Bernard was braying with laughter, when Lucy’s mobile rang. It was Rozzy. Terrified, as the howls of mirth escalated, that Rozzy might think people were laughing at her, Lucy spanked the air with her hand to shut them up.

‘How did the party go, Rozzy? Really well, judging by the din in the background.’

Rozzy, however, sounded suicidal. After all her hard work to make Glyn’s birthday special, Sylvia the housekeeper had given him a single of ‘S’Wonderful’, and he’d been playing it and dancing with her all evening.

‘Oh, poor you, how was the food?’

‘They seemed to like it, although Glyn fed his smoked-salmon parcel to the cat, and everyone’s plastered.’

Over drunken shouts of ‘Happy birthday, dear Glyn’, Lucy could hear the strains of ‘S’wonderful, s’marvellous’.

‘He’s a pig, Rozzy. How was your dress?’

Glancing round, Lucy saw Granny and Griselda playing imaginary violins and Ogborne holding his fat sides, and wandered away from them.

Rozzy admitted the dress had been a success.

‘You’ll see it at the wrap party. Are you having fun?’

‘Yes,’ lied Lucy.

‘I miss you all so much.’

‘And we you, Rozzy. Where are you ringing from?’

‘Upstairs. I’ve got a migraine.’

‘Not surprising, if they’re making such a noise.’

Lucy could now hear roars of ‘Why Was He Born So Beautiful?’ ‘When are you coming back?’

‘First thing tomorrow. ’Bye, Lucy darling.’

‘She’s always been a masochist,’ sighed Griselda, when Lucy had recounted Rozzy’s tale of woe.

‘In the old days, they were known as Glyn and Bear It,’ said Granny. ‘Mind you, I’m one to talk.’

Lucy’s mobile rang and she blushed, feeling disloyal when it turned out to be Rozzy again.

‘I forgot to say why I rang in the first place. Can you remind Griselda to get Hermione’s cloak out of Wardrobe, or leave me a key so I can mend that tear? I doubt…’ Rozzy paused to listen to the laughter at Lucy’s end ‘… you lot’ll surface before the afternoon.’

‘Griselda and Granny reached the finals,’ began Lucy, but Rozzy had rung off. ‘She wants you to get out Hermione’s cloak.’

‘What a little treasure she is— Whoops, sorry, dearie,’ added Griselda, as she cannoned off one of Rannaldini’s bronze nudes. ‘I’d better fetch it before I get really whistled.’

‘Rozzy doesn’t sound in carnival mood,’ said Granny.

‘She’d never have gone home this weekend if Tristan hadn’t shoved off to Paris,’ observed Griselda. ‘Oh, sorry, Bernie, I forgot you had the chauds for her.’

Up at the house, unable to find Wolfie, the others were having a rip-roaring party on the terrace.

‘Where’s Mikhail?’ giggled Simone. ‘Still snoring under weeping ash?’

‘Shouldn’t we wake him?’ said Lucy.

‘Oh, leave the bloody killjoy. With any luck he’ll get struck by lightning,’ said a newly arrived Chloe, who was looking lit from inside and wonderfully beautiful.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her without bright crimson lips, thought the eagle-eyed Simone. She looks so much softer.

Five minutes later, Griselda tottered in.

‘Can’t find that cloak anywhere. Madam must have taken it to Milan. Hope she hasn’t got it dirty. Here’s the key.’ Griselda dropped it into Lucy’s shirt pocket. ‘Rozzy can find it. Why should I bother if I’ve been fired?’

Alpheus arrived next. He had changed into terracotta trousers and a blue checked shirt, and kept glancing sourly at his watch. Everyone was deliberately staying up late in the hope of waking late to get into the rhythm of night-shooting. But eleven thirty was a ridiculous hour to dine.

‘I’m starved. Where in hell’s Wolfgang?’ he said tetchily.

‘Don’t tell me the Nazi machine’s broken down at last,’ mocked Chloe, ignoring a scowl from Simone.

‘I’m off to raid the larder.’ Going in through the french windows, Ogborne went sharply into reverse as he met Helen, in her honeysuckle and lilac silk dress, coming the other way.

Pretty woman, mused Alpheus. That would really annoy Rannaldini. He was about to offer Helen one of her own drinks when, most uncharacteristically, she poured herself a massive vodka and tonic with a frantically shaking hand.

‘Such a fascinating play on Puccini on Radio Three,’ she told Bernard. ‘I had no idea that he never finished Turandot and that Toscanini conducted the première.’

‘We won’t get any dinner out of her,’ murmured Ogborne to Lucy.

‘My God!’ shouted Griselda. ‘Our very own auto da fe.’

Swinging round, they saw Hangman’s Wood going up in flames and a shower of sparks, like an orange inferno. The crackling could be heard four hundred yards away as parched trees and dry undergrowth submitted helplessly to the fiery furnace. They could feel the heat from where they were standing, as the blaze lit up the entire valley.

‘Rannaldini’s watch-tower’s on fire,’ screamed Helen. ‘All his papers and compositions will be burnt.’

‘Hurrah,’ said Granny, pouring himself a drink.

‘Probably knew they were junk and set fire to them himself,’ crowed Griselda, holding out her glass.

All Rannaldini’s evidence against Tristan would be torched! Lucy felt giddy with relief.

‘What about the rushes?’ asked Alpheus, horrified because he was in them.

‘There’s a duplicate set at the lab,’ said Ogborne. ‘Hadn’t someone better call the fire brigade?’

Someone already had. With a manic jangling, a fleet of fire engines came pounding up the drive and were soon sending fountains of water into the wood.

Five minutes later, the firemen were joined by an hysterical Flora. Having run through brambles, thistles and nettles all the way from Angels’ Reach, she was panting so hard she could only croak.

‘What about Tabloid?’

‘Keep back, Miss,’ shouted a fireman in a yellow tin hat, aiming a huge hose at a blazing oak tree.

‘Rannaldini’s Rottweiler.’ Flora tugged frantically at his sleeve. ‘His kennel’s under the watch-tower — we’ve got to get him out.’

‘Too late, Miss, place’s been torched.’

‘He might be alive,’ panted Flora in desperation. ‘Please! Please!’

Shielding her eyes with her arm, she inched forward, but jumped back as the oak tree crashed to the ground, narrowly missing her and spraying sparks everywhere. Someone grabbed her arm, brushing her down and yanking her to safety. It was several dazed seconds before she recognized Clive behind the blackened face and hair.

‘Tabloid!’ she sobbed.

‘It’s OK. I took him back to the yard earlier.’

‘Are you sure?’ Flora yelled over the crashing and crackling.

She didn’t trust Clive.

‘Get back, for God’s sake!’ bellowed another fireman.

For a few seconds, the blaze had been pegged by the jets of water. But as the flames merrily leapt back to life again, Flora, hastily retreating, out of the corner of her eye, suddenly saw a body on the ground.

For a crazed second, she thought it was some leering Silenus, caught catnapping in the wood after a surfeit of dryads. Then, slowly, horrifically, she realized that the lolling tongue, the hideously engorged lascivious features belonged to Rannaldini. Alpheus’s pink and purple dressing-gown had fallen open to reveal a mini watch-tower of an erection. Flora began to scream.

‘That’s Rannaldini! He’s been murdered.’

‘We have found a body,’ admitted the chief fire officer cautiously, ‘and the police are on their way. If I were you,’ he added to Clive, ‘I’d take this young lady back to the house.’