said. ‘The balloon may have been intended for one of the men from the Villa Borghese. It is, at least, a possible link with them. And anything which might lead to any explanation of what has happened so far in the Dome can’t be altogether a bad thing, I imagine. That is, unless you want to call in the police. Pacifists, vegetarians and anti-blood-sport enthusiasts, make your opinions known. I don’t like murders and I like nice girls like Ruth Russell, but we can all go home and finish our knitting if the majority verdict prefers it. Charles?’
‘To hell with knitting,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll come with you. But not Ruth. She’s had enough trouble.’
‘You can’t come,’ I said. ‘Charles, you have to retake all those pictures this morning.’
Charles stared at me. ‘I’m coming,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Johnson said mildly. ‘I’m not asking for volunteers, merely a vote of confidence. Jacko? Timothy? Maurice? Paladrini or policemen?’
‘You don’t mean—’ said Timothy. ‘Not Mr Paladrini who was so nice to the weenies?’
‘The same,’ answered Johnson.
‘Oh but do go,’ said Timothy. ‘You have his address?’
‘Sit down, Timothy,’ said Maurice. ‘You aren’t going. I don’t see why anyone need go. Wheel the body out of your meat safe, and I shall tell the gardener to bury it. There are plenty of places in the garden.’
‘And the police?’ Jacko said.
‘This,’ said Maurice, ‘is nothing to do with the police. It is on my property and in my observatory.’
‘But leased to the Trust,’ I said quickly. ‘And if it all came out anyhow, think of the row. Why not take a half measure? Leave the man in the safe, and give us two more days to make some inquiries. If we can’t do it by then, Jacko will make his dramatic discovery of the body. How’s that?’
‘All right,’ said Jacko. Everyone nodded. Jacko added, ‘So who goes with Johnson this morning? All of us?’
‘It’s an interesting thought,’ Maurice said. ‘I take it you are trying to avoid the attention of the police?’
‘Actually,’ said Johnson, ‘I’m going alone. Don’t worry. I have on my tear-proof mascara.’
There was the grinding noise of a number of people changing their minds. Then Jacko said, ‘Well, if you want to. I’ve got film to develop anyway. But Charles could go. You’ve forgotten, Ruth. He doesn’t need to retake all his photographs.’
‘Why?’ said Charles. He looked, poor darling, as if he could have done with some of our coffee.
‘Because we found the film on the body,’ Jacko said. ‘The film he took out of your camera, Charles, before he smashed it and ran out and got shot. He’d shoved it into his sock but it was rolled up and properly sealed. Ruth has it.’
An elegant howl left Charles’s lips. ‘Madder music,’ he said, ‘and stronger wine: this is my birthday, love, today.’ I delved in my handbag, found the roll of film and tossed it to him.
Johnson, rising between us, thoughtfully fielded it. ‘I’m terribly happy for you,’ he said, ‘but let’s keep our heads. If we have to call in the police, this is evidence. You know what’s in it, Charles. You don’t have to take these pictures again. I vote we leave the roll here with Maurice. I’ll sign it’ (he did so), ‘and put it out of sight . . . there.’
There was a clink as he dropped the film inside an Attic vase rampant with satyrs and maenads intent on creative play projects which ought to have cost Maurice half the proceeds from his last West End run but probably didn’t. It seemed the right spot for Diana, if only in the negative, and Charles was perfectly complaisant. He turned in the doorway as we were leaving and, sinking his chin on his chest, delivered himself, I remember, of one of the gems of his collection:
Sweet Mem’ry’s Chord
Was Touched Today
They Came and Took
Your Teeth Away
Your Wig has Gone
Your Gas Limb Too
The Plastic Joints
That Rivet
‘To hell with knitting,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll come with you. But not Ruth. She’s had enough trouble.’
‘You can’t come,’ I said. ‘Charles, you have to retake all those pictures this morning.’
Charles stared at me. ‘I’m coming,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Johnson said mildly. ‘I’m not asking for volunteers, merely a vote of confidence. Jacko? Timothy? Maurice? Paladrini or policemen?’
‘You don’t mean—’ said Timothy. ‘Not Mr Paladrini who was so nice to the weenies?’
‘The same,’ answered Johnson.
‘Oh but do go,’ said Timothy. ‘You have his address?’
‘Sit down, Timothy,’ said Maurice. ‘You aren’t going. I don’t see why anyone need go. Wheel the body out of your meat safe, and I shall tell the gardener to bury it. There are plenty of places in the garden.’
‘And the police?’ Jacko said.
‘This,’ said Maurice, ‘is nothing to do with the police. It is on my property and in my observatory.’
‘But leased to the Trust,’ I said quickly. ‘And if it all came out anyhow, think of the row. Why not take a half measure? Leave the man in the safe, and give us two more days to make some inquiries. If we can’t do it by then, Jacko will make his dramatic discovery of the body. How’s that?’
‘All right,’ said Jacko. Everyone nodded. Jacko added, ‘So who goes with Johnson this morning? All of us?’
‘It’s an interesting thought,’ Maurice said. ‘I take it you are trying to avoid the attention of the police?’
‘Actually,’ said Johnson, ‘I’m going alone. Don’t worry. I have on my tear-proof mascara.’
There was the grinding noise of a number of people changing their minds. Then Jacko said, ‘Well, if you want to. I’ve got film to develop anyway. But Charles could go. You’ve forgotten, Ruth. He doesn’t need to retake all his photographs.’
‘Why?’ said Charles. He looked, poor darling, as if he could have done with some of our coffee.
‘Because we found the film on the body,’ Jacko said. ‘The film he took out of your camera, Charles, before he smashed it and ran out and got shot. He’d shoved it into his sock but it was rolled up and properly sealed. Ruth has it.’
An elegant howl left Charles’s lips. ‘Madder music,’ he said, ‘and stronger wine: this is my birthday, love, today.’ I delved in my handbag, found the roll of film and tossed it to him.
Johnson, rising between us, thoughtfully fielded it. ‘I’m terribly happy for you,’ he said, ‘but let’s keep our heads. If we have to call in the police, this is evidence. You know what’s in it, Charles. You don’t have to take these pictures again. I vote we leave the roll here with Maurice. I’ll sign it’ (he did so), ‘and put it out of sight . . . there.’
There was a clink as he dropped the film inside an Attic vase rampant with satyrs and maenads intent on creative play projects which ought to have cost Maurice half the proceeds from his last West End run but probably didn’t. It seemed the right spot for Diana, if only in the negative, and Charles was perfectly complaisant. He turned in the doorway as we were leaving and, sinking his chin on his chest, delivered himself, I remember, of one of the gems of his collection:
Sweet Mem’ry’s Chord
Was Touched Today
They Came and Took
Your Teeth Away
Your Wig has Gone
Your Gas Limb Too
The Plastic Joints
That Rivet
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