Jilly Cooper - Score!

‘I know you do.’ Dropping to her knees, Rozzy reached inside the cupboard and removed the floorboard. ‘Get inside, quickly . What’s that you’re clutching?’

‘Oh, golly.’ Half inside the cupboard, Lucy realized she was still clinging on to Tristan’s parcel, and gave a sob.

‘“The heart that loves you will never be closed to you,”’ she stammered. ‘“Here are my important papers.” Oh, please, guard them with your life and see that Tristan, and no-one else, gets them. And if I’m arrested and he comes back,’ Lucy’s voice cracked again, ‘please take care of James. Production’s got my wages, that should keep him going for a bit.’

‘Don’t worry about anything.’ Taking the parcel, Rozzy leaned inside to kiss Lucy’s muddy, tearstained, quivering cheek. ‘Good luck, pet.’

Wriggling down through the hole, Lucy groaned as she landed on some rubble, wrenching her ankle.

‘Hush, someone’s coming.’ Rozzy picked up the floorboard. ‘See that sticking-out brick — no, to the right of it. If you press that, a door swings open to a secret passage down to the lake, but don’t use it unless you have to. I’ll put the police off the scent, then find Sergeant Gablecross, who’ll spring you the minute the coast’s clear. Never fear, Aunt Rozzy’s here!’

In slotted the floorboard above Lucy’s head, leaving her in total darkness. Then she heard the panel in Rannaldini’s study creaking shut and was overwhelmed with terror.

How could they think she was the murderer? Had she been wise to trust Rozzy, who must have had one hell of an affaire with Rannaldini to know all those things? Would Rozzy leave her boarded up for ever like the Canterville ghost? Would Aunt Hortense ever forgive her if Tristan’s papers fell into police hands? At least Tristan should soon pick up the note in his pigeon-hole. Oh, God, she mustn’t go to pieces.

Leaning against the wall, she regained her breath and steadied herself, then pressed the brick and sure enough a door creaked open. Feeling her way round the walls she found an opening, but it was only four feet high and very narrow. The air smelt damp and musty. She screamed as something wet, furry and cold scuttled over her foot. She would have stayed put rather than embark on the dark journey if she hadn’t heard the faintest whining.

‘James,’ she called out, not daring to shout, in case she could be heard in the study or out in the garden. There it was again, the faintest whimper.

‘Oh, my poor old boy.’

She crawled along, jagging her scratched, bleeding hands and knees even more on the rocks, giving little screams as icy water dripped on her head and slimy walls grazed her sides. She only kept going because of the whining and because, as the passage jinked and twisted, she would have got stuck if she’d tried to turn round.

Just as her eyes were getting accustomed to the dark, it lightened ahead. A clap of thunder rocked the tunnel like an earthquake, followed by another even more deafening. The whining grew more frantic.

‘Oh, please,’ she prayed out loud, ‘please don’t let James have broken anything. I’ll never be able to carry him back to safety. I’m coming, my angel!’ she cried.

She could hear rushing, pounding water. She must be near the lake. The roof was getting higher: soon she’d be able to walk. Then, as she took another turn, her blood froze to a thousand degrees below zero. Her hair shot on end. Her heart stopped as, like dreadful chloroform, she was asphyxiated by the stench of Maestro. Glancing ahead she saw the back of a black figure, terrifying in its utter stillness. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t cry out. Then she heard the snake-crawling swish of a cloak on the rocky floor, and in the dim light could make out the silvery hair, the cruel, arrogant profile, the burning eyes, the evil smile as he turned slowly towards her.

Oh God, was Rozzy in league with Rannaldini?

James gave another agonizing howl as though someone was torturing him.

‘No, Rannaldini,’ croaked Lucy. ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t hurt James. Oh, please, no,’ and hit the rocks with a dull thud as she fainted.

It was the last set-up of Don Carlos . Flocks of birds and a pink and yellow hot-air balloon were drifting up from the Bristol Channel. On the horizon an orange sun, striped with black stratus clouds, waited like a curled-up tiger to erupt over the horizon.

‘Tristan’s a cool customer,’ Grisel muttered to Simone. ‘If he’d had a suitable stand-in, he’d have reshot that ride-off straight away.’

Tristan was now calmly briefing Alpheus. ‘You don’t have to look heavily disapproving, just a flash of outrage because your son is suddenly attracting the best girls.’

‘Quiet, please,’ shouted Bernard, for the hundredth time, as an incredible tension spread through the crowd round camera and actor.

‘Mark it,’ shouted Bernard.

‘Scene two hundred and fifteen, take six,’ shouted the clapper-loader.

‘And action,’ shouted Tristan.

Happily, at that moment Alpheus caught sight of Little Cosmo, showing some photographs to a giggling Jessica, and had no difficulty looking outraged.

‘Cut,’ shouted Tristan in delight. ‘ Formidable , Alpheus. Just check the gate.’

Simone pressed her stop-watch. Total silence fell. Two hundred yards away uniformed police could be seen examining the cordoned-off area in front of the far goal posts where Tab had had her fall.

The gate was clear.

‘Shall we say it now?’ went up the chorus.

‘ Oui ,’ said Tristan.

‘It’s a wrap,’ yelled everyone, whooping and cheering.

‘I wanted to say it.’ Simone’s dark Montigny eyes filled with tears.

‘ La fin, la fin ,’ said Griselda, blowing her nose noisily.

Solemnly Tristan shook hands with Bernard, Oscar, Valentin, Sylvestre, Ogborne, followed by the crew. Then they all posed for a last photograph, taken by Hype-along, already resplendent in a pink seersucker suit for the wrap party.

‘Have you heard from Lucy?’ Tristan asked Bernard yet again.

‘No, but I’m sure she’ll turn up later.’

Over at Rutminster police station, Gerald Portland was going ballistic. ‘How could twenty-four of you lose Lucy Latimer? What the fuck am I to tell the press? They’re all outside.’

After consultation, however, he decided to put a massive guard on George’s house and go ahead with the wrap party.

‘Try to contain people in the walled garden,’ he told his men. ‘If Latimer’s that obsessed with Montigny, she’ll roll up to kill again. We’ve got her handbag, her passport, her car keys, she can’t get far.’

Down the road at Rutminster General, Gablecross was striding up and down the foyer, muttering, ‘I’m not a fucking guard-dog.’ Charlie, his old running mate, would be turning in his grave. The hospital was swarming with press.

‘Come on, Tim, who’s done it?’ asked the Mail on Sunday .

‘Not at liberty to say.’

‘Rutminster Constabulary, and Sergeant Gablecross in particular, can’t even catch the clap,’ yelled Rupert, dummying past the waiting journalists and racing for the front door.

Seeing Karen joining in the laughter, Gablecross turned on her in fury. ‘And you can bugger off down to the station and flash your tits at Andy,’ he roared, ‘in case anything interesting’s come in with Lucy’s stuff.’

‘Stop putting me down. It’s not my fault I’m not Charlie,’ sobbed Karen, and sending a nurse and a trayful of medicines flying, she ran out into the street.

‘Anything interesting on Lucy Latimer?’ she asked five minutes later, allowing herself a languorous flutter of the eyelashes.