‘This disgusting piece of land is called a set-aside,’ said Granny, his diction as silvery as his hair in the late-afternoon sunlight. ‘Unlovable and neglected, just as I feel having been cast aside by my young man.’
Linking arms with Karen on one side and Gablecross on the other, he led them gently into the shade of an elder tree, overhanging and snowing down pale star-shaped flowers on a fallen log, which he brushed clear so they could all sit down.
He was impeccably dressed, Karen noticed, in primrose-yellow cords, an off-white linen jacket and a grey silk spotted tie.
‘One must always wear a tie,’ said Granny, as if reading her thoughts. ‘It can double up as a noose, if things get too unbearable. I got my Dear John letter from Giuseppe this morning,’ he produced a page of scrawl with a shaking hand, ‘saying he and I are finished. He has dumped me after five years for a record producer called Serena Westwood. Just for a contract with Bravo he left me. It’s entirely Rannaldini’s doing. He knew Giuseppe was greedy, and as my career declined I would be less able to keep him in fast cars and expensive red wine, so he delighted in goading me by introducing my boy to rich, successful young women. It’s strange the departure of such a little hustler should cause so much anguish. I want to howl like a dog.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ Karen took his hand.
Gablecross asked him about Sunday night.
‘The tennis tournament was a lark. Gratifying for two old fossils like Grisel and me to get so far, but hard to concentrate with young Wolfgang gleaming like the young Siegfried on the other side of the net. We cheered ourselves up pretending Rannaldini was the ball.
‘Afterwards, we got even drunker and I searched for balls with Grisel, Bernard and Lucy, I think. It was awfully dark by then.’
The vibrations in his beautiful voice became more pronounced, as he described the cutting up of his patchwork quilt.
‘Ghastly to know someone hates you so much. One thing that has struck me: every time Tristan is nice to anyone — Lucy, Tab, Flora — something horrible happens to them. I was
‘An interesting one,’ said Karen. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘We were in the middle of a party.’
‘Well, next day, then.’
‘I assumed it was Rannaldini, and he was quite above the law.’
Gablecross steeled himself. ‘Was this the reason?’
For a second, Granny stared at the photographs of himself, it seemed at first, in a giant airing-cupboard. Later photographs showed him shoving loot into a shopping-bag. He gripped Karen’s hand even tighter, and started to cry, tears falling quietly in time to the raining elderflowers.
‘I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what came over me, losing the patchwork quilt, which was pretty, or losing Giuseppe, who was even prettier. He only stayed an hour on Friday night, arrived in a chauffeur-driven limo from the airport, came out of the tomb, made Baby faint — he had that effect on men — then buggered back to London and Miss Westwood, without removing his make-up. I knew it was all up.
‘On Saturday morning I went into Peggy Parker’s. Clive must have followed me to Rutminster. I only took a couple of double damask tablecloths and some napkins. Goodness knows who I was planning to have to dinner. I’ve never done anything like this before but it’ll be all over the papers. Menopausal old queen remanded for psychiatric counselling.’
‘I’m sure Peggy Parker won’t press charges.’ Karen hugged him. ‘She’s such a music lover.’
‘She might ask you to sing at one of her soirées,’ said Gablecross drily.
‘Prison would be the favourable option.’ Granny wafted English Fern, as he mopped his eyes with a pale blue silk handkerchief. ‘You children have been so sweet to me.’
‘Why should anyone want to kill Rannaldini?’ asked Karen.
‘For peace,’ sighed Granny.
‘What a darling old boy,’ said Karen, as they trailed back to the car.
‘I’ll have a word with George Hungerford, when he gets back from Germany.’ Gablecross made a note. ‘He and Peggy Parker are on the board of the Rutshire Symphony Orchestra.’
‘George’ll owe you a few favours if he really was in Paradise at ten twenty on Sunday,’ said Karen.
Having conveniently discarded Debbie Miller and arranged to meet Pushy in the Pearly Gates at lunchtime, Fanshawe found her giving her own press conference to a crowd of reporters. Only his knowledge of the back lanes of Rutshire enabled him to shake them off and find privacy in the Green Dragon at Eldercombe.
Pushy looked enticingly pretty. Her simple black dress clung to her tiny figure, her newly washed blonde ringlets were tied back with a velvet ribbon, but she wore too much eye make-up for real mourning.
