Jilly Cooper - Score!

Everywhere outside was evidence that Hortense had lost her grip on the place. A jungle of plants, their huge leaves pressing against the glass, was struggling to get out of the conservatory. Ivy throttled the shutters. An emerald carpet of algae covered the moat. Grass had grown over the stepping-stones of the path leading to the fields of lavender.

But if Étienne had painted with a palette, and Tristan with light, Hortense had created as dazzling effects with plants. As Lucy wheeled her down the garden, she pointed out some pale yellow hollyhocks with pink centres.

‘Those came from Monet’s garden at Giverny.’

Like a brass section about to explode, to the right was a proud clump of Regale lilies.

‘Pick them for my brother,’ ordered Hortense.

Rozzy would do her nut, thought Lucy, as she laid the lilies across Hortense’s knees.

‘What a pity we couldn’t have used this for Charles V’s tomb.’ She sighed as they approached a splendid mausoleum.

‘“Étienne Alexandre Henri Blaize de Montigny, 1905–1995, painter,”’ she read out in a shaky voice.

Although Étienne had died eight months ago, there were as many flowers outside the tomb as at Valhalla. Pilgrims, acolytes, students and admirers came from all over the world and, denied access to the château, paid homage at the grave.

‘Now leave me,’ said Hortense. ‘I’ll call you when I want to go back.’

The noonday sun was punishing. Beads of sweat were breaking through Hortense’s make-up, red lipstick was escaping down the lines round her mouth as Lucy wheeled her back.

‘Those lilies were struck down in their prime, like Laurent,’ reproved Lucy. ‘Why didn’t they fly his body back and bury him here?’

‘Because he was blown up,’ said Aunt Hortense tartly.

‘By his own side, Tristan told me,’ persisted Lucy. ‘Why didn’t Étienne insist on an inquiry? He had the clout.’

‘Would that have brought Laurent back?’

As Lucy eased Hortense back into bed, her flesh felt as soft as marshmallow.

‘Was Étienne buried or cremated?’ she asked.

‘Buried, of course.’

‘Great,’ crowed Lucy. ‘That means his body can be dug up and DNA-tested to see whether he’s Tristan’s father or not.’

‘How dare you suggest that, you conniving hussy?’ gasped Hortense hoarsely. ‘Coming in here, stirring up trouble.’ Then, after an eternal silence, she seemed to cave in. ‘All right, Étienne wasn’t his father. Now are you satisfied?’

‘No,’ stormed Lucy. ‘I’m not leaving till I know who it was.’

But Hortense, whether deliberately or not, had fallen asleep.

After that Lucy lost any sense of time. As night fell and lightning flickered round the hills illuminating the clouds, she made one last attempt.

‘Please, please, Tristan can’t marry and have children if he believes a psychopath rapist was his father. He needs a family of his own so badly to give him the love none of you provided. All he ever did was try to please Étienne.’

The clock ticked, the cicadas chirped, Lucy longed to pick up La Grande Mademoiselle’s velvet-handled musket, which Hortense kept always by her bedside, and empty it into her.

‘I have nothing to say.’

But as the nurse frogmarched Lucy out, Hortense called after her, ‘Goodbye, Miss Latimer. Don’t forget to put your name and address in the visitors’ book.’

‘I bloody well won’t,’ shouted Lucy. ‘What d’you want me to say — that you’re a stubborn old bitch who, through your pigheadedness, sent Tristan to prison for life?’

She wept all the way back to the hotel. ‘I handled her all wrong,’ she told the chauffeur. ‘If, by any chance, she changes her mind, here’s my mobile number.’

She found Wolfie only just recovering from last night’s excesses. Rupert had flown home. All she knew was Tristan would be charged in court tomorrow.

Back in Rutshire, as Gablecross and Karen were tied up full time with Tristan, other detectives took over their leads. Fanshawe had never been happy with Chloe’s alibi about jogging round Paradise in the dusk. She would also have more to lose than most, if Beattie had dumped about her in the Scorpion .

So, late on the afternoon of Saturday the fourteenth, Fanshawe and Debbie went over to Valhalla and found Chloe working out in the gym. She was wearing shorts and a pale blue sleeveless T-shirt. Fanshawe, having gone into a frenzy of hair-smoothing and tooth-licking, couldn’t keep his eyes off her glistening cleavage and her smooth buttocks, continually on display as she stretched and twisted at the bars.

‘Sunday was a sad day for me, Sergeant,’ she told him soulfully. ‘After a long affaire , Mikhail dropped me because his wife found out.’

‘Your mother phoned you from abroad at around nine thirty.’ Fanshawe frowned at his notes. ‘You were going to find out where she was staying.’

‘I completely forgot. I’ll do it tonight.’

‘Then you went for a jog round Paradise.’

‘I was depressed, the tennis had hardly been taxing.’ Shoving her fists into her armpits, Chloe rotated her elbows so her breasts thrust forward. ‘I jogged over the River Fleet up past Magpie Cottage. I wanted to see if Tab was in. She’d been terribly down since Tristan blew her out. How’s he bearing up, by the way?’

Such was Chloe’s egoism, it was the first time she’d thought of Tristan. At least, as he’d been arrested, this must only be a routine call.

‘We haven’t heard,’ said Debbie.

‘Poor Tristan,’ said Chloe lightly. ‘Anyway, Tab was out so I jogged back through Paradise. I like street-lights at that hour.’

She extended a smooth, brown foot under Fanshawe’s nose as though she was expecting him to kiss it.

‘Mr Brimscombe claims he saw you running from the tennis court into Hangman’s Wood,’ said Debbie, not without pleasure, ‘then coming out from a different, northerly direction five minutes later and disappearing into the north wing. He says you came out of the north wing fifteen minutes after that, smelling of perfume and toothpaste. An expert on floral scents, he thinks the perfume was the same he smelt earlier on Tabitha.’

The change in Chloe was phenomenal. Suddenly she was a snarling, cornered vixen. ‘Disgusting old lech! Brimscombe’s always spying on me.’

‘What was the name of your perfume?’

‘People are always giving me perfume,’ said Chloe hysterically. ‘I think it’s called Quercus.’

‘Why did you go into the wood?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Going to kill Rannaldini, were you? Traces of Quercus were found on his dressing-gown.’

‘I d-d-don’t believe it.’ Chloe clung to the bar for support.

‘The fingertip team found your lipstick, Fiery Fuchsia,’ persisted Fanshawe, ‘fifty yards from his watchtower.’

She’s guilty, guilty, guilty, thought Debbie in elation. She could smell Chloe’s sweat turning acid. For a second, Chloe’s eyes darted towards the door, then she slumped to the floor.

‘All right, you win. I went to Magpie Cottage to meet Isa Lovell.’

There, it was out. Fanshawe and Debbie both looked shocked.

‘I don’t feel guilty,’ said Chloe defiantly. ‘That marriage is fucked. Tab’s been lusting after Tristan all summer. It was Isa, not my mother, who rang at nine thirty to say Tab was taking some dog back to Penscombe and the coast was clear. I intended going straight to Magpie Cottage and darted into Hangman’s Wood to put on lipstick and scent, then I thought better of it. I hate being hot and sweaty so I made a detour through the wood where the tennis party couldn’t see me — they’re such horrendous gossips. Back at the house, I showered, brushed my teeth, changed into almost identical clothes, so people wouldn’t suspect anything, and jogged over to Isa’s.’