Score!

45

Night brought terror. The famous Valhalla Maze, planted in the eighteenth century, towered twenty feet high and extended more than a hundred yards in diameter. Even in daylight, people got lost for hours but now round every twist and turn of the ebony ramparts the murderer might be lurking.

While Carlos sang of his ecstasy that at last his beloved Elisabetta had summoned him by a letter signed ‘E’ to a midnight tryst, Chloe as Eboli, the real writer of the letter, was being tracked through the maze by Tristan and Valentin on the crane. Racing to meet the man she believed loved her, Chloe paused to spray on scent and rearrange her breasts in the low-cut taffeta.

Like all newcomers, Gablecross and Karen Needham were drawn to the fascination of film-making. From the terrace, they could see not only the singers, almost sanctified by their wonderful costumes — Chloe in her crimson ball dress, Mikhail and Baby in dinner jackets — but also the great paraphernalia of crew, cables and lights, with Bernard barking out instructions and Tristan completely absorbed, despite the tragedy that had broken over his head, encouraging, bullying, shouting ‘Cut!’ over and over again.

Now he was patiently explaining the plot to Mikhail.

‘This is turning point of play. Once Eboli realize Carlos loves the Queen, she will shop them to the King. Posa realize that not only will his beloved friend Carlos be burnt at the stake for cuckolding the King, but all his plans for liberating Flanders will go up in smoke so he moves in to silence Eboli.’

‘I won’t need to act at all.’ Fingering his flick-knife Mikhail glowered at Chloe.

The crew glanced round nervously. Their instinct was to huddle together, but in doing so, could they be standing next to the killer?

As Tristan filmed an apprehensive, excited Baby in the centre of the maze, Gablecross and Karen buttonholed Chloe in her caravan. Her beauty was heightened by Lucy’s make-up and the crimson dress, which matched her sly, smiling mouth and showed off her smooth golden shoulders. One eye was hidden by a black patch. The other glittered like a yellow tourmaline.

‘Traditionally Princess Eboli was blind in one eye,’ explained Chloe. ‘Baby strokes my face in wonder then realizes, as he reaches the eye patch, he’s declared passionate love to the wrong woman.’

As Chloe snuggled into a blue-checked armchair, sipping bottled water, and rotating a slender ankle to prove her long skirt wasn’t concealing tree-trunks, she seemed to glow with inner happiness, not entirely induced by a long lunch with Eulalia Harrison.

She was devastated by Rannaldini’s death, she told Gablecross. He had been wonderful to her. She had spent Sunday afternoon at Harvey Nichols’ sale trying on hundreds of things but not buying anything. She had been furious to be knocked out of the tournament. Mikhail simply hadn’t tried.

‘Afterwards I dragged him into the maze, hoping to sober him up enough to rehearse tonight’s big scene, but we rowed because I wouldn’t go back to Valhalla and sleep with him. Like all men, he was incensed that Lara, his wife, had rumbled us, but still wanted to carry on the affaire. He passed out at about nine o’clock under a weeping ash.’

‘How did Lara rumble you?’ asked Karen.

‘Rannaldini was Lord of Misrule on Friday night. He dragged Lara all the way from Moscow, then deliberately arranged for her to catch her husband kissing off my lipstick. Even worse, he relayed over the speakers a tape of Tristan and Meredith bitching about everyone, particularly Hermione. Tristan went berserk and tried to strangle Rannaldini.’

As she talked, Chloe kept stretching like a cat, hollowing her belly in ecstasy. As she looked up under her eyelashes at Gablecross, he found himself squaring his shoulders.

‘A crow with a sore throat has better intonation than Dame Hermione,’ went on Chloe, ‘but she didn’t deserve that humiliation. And by playing the tape Rannaldini completely destroyed Tristan’s street cred as a nice guy.’

‘D’you think he killed him?’

‘Possibly. Rannaldini was a deal-maker, Tristan a dream-maker. It was inevitable they’d fall out if they worked together. According to Simone, Tristan cut his aunt’s eighty-sixth birthday party in Paris so he could have got back. I always suspected he was one of Rannaldini’s illegits. Rannaldini was far nicer to him than to Wolfie. On the other hand, Tristan could be gay, and in love with Rannaldini. Only that could explain how their relationship survived such fearful rows.’

‘You reckon?’ Gablecross tried to hide his interest.

Karen’s eyes were on stalks as she scribbled frantically to keep up.

‘Well, Tristan’s incredibly buddy-buddy with his foppish French crew. And he’s taken all the attractive women in the cast out to dinner but never lifted a finger. Serena Westwood, who’s beautiful, had a next-door room to him in Prague. Not a pass was made.’

‘Didn’t he like Tabitha Campbell-Black?’ piped up Karen.

‘So did Rannaldini, bats about her.’ Taking another slug of bottled water, Chloe told them about the newspapers flaring up under Tab. ‘That was probably the first murder. If Tristan hadn’t dragged her free, she’d have burnt to death — and good riddance to most people, she’s such a brat. Anyway, they fell into a showy clinch, and he whisked her home, leaving Ranners foaming at the mouth and Tristan’s admirers ready to slit their throats. But during the night something happened. Perhaps he couldn’t get it up, perhaps Rannaldini put the boot in, but the next morning he blew her out. The atmosphere was terrible. Wolfie’s had to carry Tristan ever since.’

Chloe smiled wickedly.

‘What other soap updates would you like? Flora had a schoolgirl crush on Rannaldini until he dropped her from a great height. This summer he dropped Gloria, Hermione and Serena and didn’t provide parachutes for them either, and he was atrocious to Helen, always flaunting other women. Any of that lot could have done it.

‘A lot of people’, Chloe pondered, ‘might have bumped off Rannaldini for being horrible to Tristan, who does inspire devotion. I’m sure Bernard’s a closet gay and in love with him. Rozzy Pringle’s got a real old lady’s crush, posies in his caravan, darning-needles at the ready. And Lucy Latimer, our make-up artist, as they like to be called, shakes so much if Tristan drops into her caravan you risk getting your eyes gouged out with a mascara wand. Lucy’s one of those plain women men leave children and dogs with rather than wives for. Anyone else?’ Chloe glanced up at the telephone list beside the mirror. ‘Most of the Frog crew were in Paris on Sunday night, but are quite capable of putting a cross-Channel hex on Rannaldini. Mikhail’s a kleptomaniac — removes your earrings when he makes a pass and never gives them back.

‘Wolfie’s cute. He arrived carrying a torch for Flora, but transferred his affections to the brat. Pushy Galore — that’s what we call Gloria Prescott — heard Wolfie threatening to kill Rannaldini around ten forty-five on Sunday night. I should wear a chastity belt when you interview Pushy, Detective Sergeant. She’s into hunks.’

Looking up from her shorthand notebook, Karen said tartly, ‘Alpheus Shaw told us Gloria was a delightful young woman and a lovely singer.’

In a second, Chloe’s look of amused composure was wiped off her face. ‘Alpheus Shaw — “Offshore”, to his accountant — is a serial adulterer,’ she hissed. ‘He’ll have to quarter his consumption, if he’s going to play Don Giovanni with any conviction. I don’t know who had the bigger ego, him or Rannaldini. But Rannaldini was so incensed that Alpheus beat him at swimming he seduced Alpheus’s ghastly wife Cheryl and, playing Leporello, listed every woman Alpheus had been up and down to this summer, which included Hermione and Pushy. Alpheus has also been up to one Stradivarius of a tax fiddle, putting, among other things, Mr Bones, his German shepherd, on the payroll as his financial manager. Rannaldini threatened to expose him, refused to replace the Jaguar Wolfie totalled, and teased him about his big nose. Oh, Mr Shaw had plenty of motive to murder Rannaldini.’

Slowly the quiver of rage subsided.

‘On a happier note I guess we have to congratulate you,’ said Karen innocently. ‘I’d love to play Delilah.’

Again, Chloe’s face convulsed with fury. ‘I’d got that part. That bastard Rannaldini, who saw himself as a global puppeteer, pulled strings and got it given to Cecilia, his geriatric ex-wife, no doubt in lieu of alimony.’ Again the rage cooled. ‘This is all off-the-record, of course.’ Chloe smiled sweetly. ‘Eboli is such a mischief-maker — I was psyching myself into the part.’

‘Would you like to make a statement?’

‘Perhaps,’ teased Chloe. ‘Mikhail tries to stab me in the next scene. Please stick around and guard me, Detective Sergeant.’

As she turned to the mirror, dabbing away a few beads of sweat with a powder brush, Wolfie popped his head round the door.

‘Five minutes, Chloe.’

Gablecross consulted his notes.

‘At nine thirty you were heard down by the tennis court making a call on your mobile, asking how things were going.’

‘To my mother, I always ring her on Sunday night.’

‘And you were phoned back at nine thirty-five, and said,’ again Gablecross referred to his notebook, ‘“OK, terrific. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”’

There was a pause.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant. It was Mummy ringing back. We were arranging lunch. I’d be free, because of night-shooting. She was letting me know Wednesday was fine.’

‘Could we have your mother’s phone number?’

‘I think I chucked it. She’s touring abroad, and gave me lots of numbers, probably some hotel.’

Karen made a note to follow this up.

‘You left the tennis after that?’ she asked.

Playing for time, Chloe rummaged in her handbag for a silver scent spray, squirted it behind her ears and into her cleavage.

‘Lovely perfume,’ sighed Karen.

‘I can never remember what it’s called.’ Chloe turned back to Gablecross. ‘I went for a jog round Paradise. The tennis had hardly been arduous.’

‘You’ve been most helpful,’ said Gablecross, leaping to open the door.

‘“Just a jog at twilight,”’ sang Chloe, disappearing into the night.

‘That woman is the biggest bitch,’ stormed Karen. ‘There isn’t a member of the cast she hasn’t slagged off.’

‘But very useful.’ Gablecross squinted at his reflection in Chloe’s mirror: perhaps he was hunky rather than fat. ‘Wonder why she never married?’

‘Prefers to be the leisure activity of some guy cared for by a wife,’ said Karen dismissively. ‘And her alibi is extraordinarily thin.’