‘Lucy Latimer,’ yelled a voice.
‘James, where is he?’ croaked Lucy as, still clutching Tristan’s parcel, she bounded down the steps.
DC Miller had never confronted a murderer before. This one certainly looked crazy: muddy and bloodstained, with scratches on her arms and legs, a torn dress, hair like an electrocuted bird’s nest and frantically heaving breasts.
‘Oh, please, give me back my dog,’ gasped Lucy.
Then police were fanning round her, and Lucy caught a glimpse of handcuffs, or was it a gun in Fanshawe’s hand?
‘Lucy Latimer,’ he said triumphantly, ‘we are arresting you for the murders of Roberto Rannaldini and Beatrice Johnson, and the attempted murder of Tabitha Lovell.’
‘Wha-a-a-t?’ whispered Lucy. ‘You tricked me. You haven’t got James at all. Bastards!’ Her voice rose to a scream.
Seeing a gap to the left, she shot through it. Terror gave her feet wings — she had not run for Cumbrian Schoolgirls for nothing. She also knew Valhalla better than any of the police. Racing across the facilities unit, jumping box hedges, running towards the car park, for a second she left whistles and baying Alsatians behind, then went slap into Rozzy.
‘Darling, whatever’s the matter? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘The police! They think I’m the murderer,’ sobbed Lucy. ‘Oh, Rozzy, help me, I didn’t do it.’
‘Of course you didn’t. How ridiculous!’
‘I can’t let them arrest me until I’ve found James.’ Lucy took off across the grass again.
‘You certainly can’t. Funnily enough, I keep hearing squeaking. I just wonder if the old boy’s got himself shut in somewhere. Clive’s back. He might have been poking around, and left a door open.’
‘Oh my God, Clive stole Gertrude! He might steal James!’
‘I can’t keep up with you,’ gasped Rozzy. ‘I’ve got a stitch. I know where you can hide.’ She tugged Lucy behind a yew peacock as a cursing, sweating Fanshawe pounded past.
Grabbing Lucy’s hand, Rozzy led her through iron gates across the east courtyard in through the back door along endless dark passages, then up shiny polished dark stairs into Rannaldini’s study, which had a musty, neglected smell. There were no fan photographs stacked on the big oak desk now, no-one to encourage Don Juan, astride the lady of the manor, in the Étienne de Montigny on the right of the fireplace.
Rozzy went straight to the left of the painting and started to tap the panelling.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Lucy, through desperately chattering teeth. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn but outside she could hear shouting.
‘Looking for the priest-hole. I’ll find it in a second.’
‘Please hurry,’ begged Lucy.
‘Rannaldini showed me,’ Rozzy gave an almost coy giggle, ‘when we once had a little fling, and Cecilia, his then wife, came home unexpectedly, but he swore me to secrecy. Now how does it work?’
‘Pur-lease,’ beseeched Lucy. The raised voices and excited barking were getting nearer.
‘Got it.’ Suddenly, with an arthritic creak, the panel swung back to reveal a big dark cupboard.
‘I don’t want you to be done for aiding and abetting,’ gibbered Lucy. ‘Oh, Rozzy, you do believe I’m innocent? I adore Tab.’
‘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.
80
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.