I Richard - By Elizabeth George Page 0,8

Ralph Tucker.

Voices came from every direction.

"Is he... ?"

"Jesus. He can't be..."

"Ralph! Ralphie!"

"Sie ist gerade ohnmdchtig geworden, nicht wahr..."

"Someone call an ambulance, for God's sake." This last was said by Cleve Houghton, who'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and who had dropped to his knees, had taken one look at Ralph Tucker's face, and had begun administering CPR. "Now!" he shouted at the guide who finally roused herself, flew through the Gibb door, and pounded up the stairs.

"Ralphie! Ralphie!" Noreen Tucker wailed as Cleve paused, took Ralph's pulse, and went back to CPR.

"Kami er nicht etwas unternehmen?" one of the Germans cried as another said, "Schauen Sie sich die Gesichtsfarbe an."

It was then that Thomas Lynley joined Cleve, removing his jacket and handing it over to Helen Clyde. He eased through the crowd, straddled the elephantine figure of Ralph Tucker, and took over the heart massage as Cleve Houghton moved to Ralph's mouth and continued blowing into the man's lungs.

"Save him, save him!" Noreen cried. "Help him. Please!"

Victoria Wilder-Scott reached her side. She said, "They're helping him, dear. If you'll come this way..."

"I won't leave my Ralph! He just needed to eat."

"Is he choking?" someone asked.

"Have you tried the Heimlich?"

And the tour guide crashed back into the room. She called out, "I've just phoned..." But her words faltered, then stopped. She could see as well as everyone else that the two men working on the body on the floor were attempting to revive what was already a corpse.

Thomas Lynley took charge at this point. He brought forth his warrant card and showed it to the guide, saying quietly, "Thomas Lynley. New Scotland Yard. Have someone tell my aunt - Lady Fabringham - there's been a mishap in the gallery, but for God's sake keep her out of here, all right?" He knew Augusta's propensity for involving herself in matters not her concern, and the last thing they needed was to have her tramping round giving orders which would only complicate matters. An ambulance was on its way, after all, and there was nothing more to be done other than to get this unfortunate individual to hospital where he'd be pronounced dead by an official employed for just that purpose. Lynley suggested that the others continue on their tour if for no other reason than to clear the room for the arrival of the rescue crew.

No one much felt like going forward to see the further glories of Abinger Manor at this juncture, but leaving the weeping Noreen Tucker behind, the rest of the company filed obediently out of the room. This was not before Lynley bent to the body on the floor, however, and opened the fist that was clenched in death.

Cleve Houghton said to him, "Heart failure. I've seen them go like this before," but while Lynley nodded, he made no reply. Instead he examined the remains of the trail mix that dribbled from Ralph's fingers onto the floor. When he looked up, it was not at Cleve but rather at the departing group. And he looked at them with serious speculation because it was more than clear to the country-born Thomas Lynley if to no one else at the moment that Ralph Tucker had been murdered.

While Noreen Tucker sank weeping into a priceless Chippendale chair and Helen Clyde went to her and put a comforting hand upon her shoulder, the door closed behind the tour group and within moments they were being asked to admire the drawing room, especially the pendant plasterwork of its remarkable ceiling. It was called the King Edward Drawing Room, their much-subdued guide told them, its name taken from the statue of Edward IV that stood over the mantelpiece. It was a three-quarter-size statue, she explained, not life-size, for unlike most men of his time, Edward IV was well over six feet tall. In fact, when he rode into London on the twenty-sixth of February in 1460...

Frankly, no one could believe that the young woman was going on. There was something indecent about being asked to admire chandeliers, flocked wallpaper, eighteenth-century furniture, Chinese vases, and a French chimneypiece in the face of Ralph Tucker's death. No matter that the man was essentially no one to any of them. He was still dead and out of respect for his passing, they might have abandoned the rest of the tour.

So everyone was restless and uneasy. The air was close. Composure seemed brittle. When Cleve Houghton finally rejoined them in the winter dining room with