Midsummer’s Eve. 

London, England. 

The glamorous guests were mingling, chatting and drinking either champagne or elderflower cordial diluted with English sparkling water as they stood on the expansive terrace at the rear of Zena Spark’s 19th-century Palladian mansion. The weather was balmy, the sky clear and blue, and the temperature still warm after a glorious English summer’s day. 

‘Ursula, your emerald earrings are fabulous,’ said Riccardo.

‘Thank you. I inherited them from my grandmother.’

‘Well, they suit you and match your emerald-green dress perfectly.’

‘Thanks, and you look very smart in your midnight blue tuxedo. Armani, I presume?’

‘Of course, Ursula. I never wear anything else.’

Ursula leant closer to Riccardo and whispered. 

‘Did you know that Zena doesn’t give her daughter any money, so she has to work in the local NHS hospital as a physiotherapist?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Apparently, when Raindrop’s husband was killed in a skiing accident, and the insurance wouldn’t pay out his life policy because he was at fault, Zena helped her to move back to the UK from Switzerland, bought her a house in Dorking and pays for her granddaughter’s private education, but that’s it, she doesn’t give Raindrop a penny more.’

‘That’s astounding.’

‘It’s common knowledge that Zena is contemplating giving all her millions to some philanthropic cause as she talks about this quite openly when on the chat show circuit in the UK and the USA.’

‘That sounds a bit mean when Zena, who has had a 50-year music career, is known to be so wealthy.’

‘Yes, I know, it is strange, and I’m sure Raindrop is frustrated.’

‘The view across the garden is stunning; I love this house,’ said Riccardo.

‘Yes, it is magnificent with 18 bedrooms and crammed full of Zena’s impressive collection of art and antiques.’

‘And those stone steps leading down to that long dining table on the lower terrace look amazing, especially with those church candles in huge storm lanterns on either side of each step.’

‘Yes, Riccardo. Zena knows how to stage an event, and I’m sure she will make a dramatic entrance for her 70th birthday party.’

A waiter approached Ursula and Riccardo, topped up their champagne glasses, and almost bumped into one of the huge flower displays that adorned the terrace and filled the air with their fragrance.

‘Ursula, how do you think they got those large bouquets of white roses, carnations, jasmine, and lilies to have aquamarine-tinted petals?’

‘They stand them in water for 24 hours, with added turquoise food dye. Zena is obsessed with the colour aquamarine.’

‘That’s cool.’

Ursula Baumann was 62 and had worked for Mount’s for almost 40 years. She lived in Zurich, was the head of the office and knew everybody worth knowing. She was petite, almost bird-like, and sported a formidable head of hair set rock hard with hairspray, her helmet hair. She always wore two-piece suits and modelled her looks on Nancy Reagan for some unknown reason.

‘How is your husband now that he has retired?’ asked Riccardo.

‘He’s good and spends his time at home in Zurich, researching, reading, and commenting on physics papers with the online scientific community. They still want his thoughts and opinions as he is a well-respected physics professor.’

‘Do you think you will retire?’

‘No. I love working for Mount’s auction house and travelling worldwide to see clients and attend events like this.’

This was not what Riccardo wanted to hear, as he was planning to replace her as the head of the Zurich office when she retired. 

Riccardo Hofstadt was 30, 6’ tall, good-looking, tanned with a swimmer’s build, azure blue eyes, and cropped dark blond hair. He also worked for Mount’s Auction House in the Zurich office and was recruited four years ago because of his multilingual skills and good looks, but most importantly, because his father was a Swiss banker. 

Riccardo was ambitious, shrewd, detail-oriented, and highly critical of anybody or anything he thought wasn’t worth his attention. He was passionate about the arts, specialised in complex, meaningful contemporary works, and had exquisite taste in everything. He could look at any work and instantly determine whether it was worthy; his disdain for people who couldn’t do the same was obvious.

‘Ah, here are Kerem and Rosemary,’ Ursula said as she moved to air kiss each of them.

Riccardo shook Kerem’s hand. 

‘Riccardo, how wonderful to see you again. May I introduce my wife?’

Riccardo kissed Rosemary’s white satin gloved hand, which complimented her off-the-shoulder shimmering silver floor-length Armani Privé dress.

‘Enchanté.’

Like everyone who met Riccardo, Rosemary smiled and was charmed by him. 

‘Riccardo works with me in business development and is an expert in contemporary art.’

‘Riccardo, do you live in Zurich?’ asked Rosemary.

‘Yes, in the centre near Ursula. My parents bought me a penthouse.’

‘Sounds fabulous Kerem, doesn’t it?’ said Rosemary.

‘Yes, it does,’ replied Kerem. ‘Do you live there all alone?’

‘No, I share it with my flatmate, Stephan, who is also gay and works in the rapidly expanding cryptocurrency industry doing something that I’m not interested in or even pretend to understand.’

‘I have no idea what cryptocurrency is; it is beyond my understanding. Riccardo, what do your parents do?’ asked Rosemary.

‘My father is the Head of the Bank of Zurich, and my mother creates modern sculptures.’

‘How marvellous,’ commented Rosemary as she took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘Here you are, darling,’ Rosemary said as she handed one to her husband. 

‘Kerem, what do you think of this party?’ asked Ursula.

‘I think it is rather special. I love that orchestra on the first-floor balcony playing light classical music, and there are so many leading people here from the worlds of music and the arts,’ answered Kerem. 

‘Yes, Zena is one of a kind. She has broken every mould and convention related to music, fashion, and her personal life. Her music is complex and intriguing, and the words to her songs deal with issues and topics that are always relevant to her fans,’ added Ursula. 

‘I recognise the Spitz couple over there. I want to talk to them as I hear they are considering selling some paintings. Would you introduce us, please, Ursula?’ asked Kerem. 

‘Of course, follow me.’

‘Do excuse us, Riccardo,’ Kerem said as he guided his wife to talk to the potential clients. 

‘Mr and Mrs Spitz, may I introduce Kerem Akbarov, the owner of Mount’s auction house and his wife, Rosemary.’

Ursula returned to Riccardo momentarily.

‘Kerem’s wife is gorgeous and wearing a magnificent diamond parure,’ Riccardo commented to Ursula.

‘Yes, it is of European royal heritage. Kerem bought it for her birthday.’

‘Lucky woman.’

At 9:30 p.m. precisely, the orchestra conductor spoke above the noise of the conversations underway. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please form a semicircle facing the steps but leaving a gap underneath the balcony in front of the library French doors.’ 

The 60+ guests did as they were requested with an air of anticipation. 

‘Silence, please,’ the conductor asked.

The orchestra started to play the first introductory bars of The Age of Aquarius, Zena’s signature song, recently re-released as an up-tempo dance hit.

A couple of staff opened the French doors, and Zena emerged in all her splendour.

‘She looks like Marie Antoinette and remember what happened to her.’

‘Ursula, you are terrible,’ Riccardo whispered to her behind his hand. 

‘I do like that floor-length dress in aquamarine silk. It must be encrusted with thousands of aquamarine crystals,’ commented Ursula. 

‘Yes, it matches her impossibly high stiletto shoes, and she is dripping in aquamarine jewellery.’

‘I think she is auditioning for a part in Bridgerton with that huge wig; it must be four feet tall.’

‘Maybe, but she is too old now.’

‘Riccardo, you can be such a bitch.’

‘Well, I learnt from the best,’ as they clinked their glasses and took another drink of champagne. 

Zena raised her arms, revealing an attached cape of the finest gossamer silk encrusted with even more aquamarine crystals as she moved centre stage, turned towards her audience, and sang her heart out. She moved to her left to get closer to her guests and moved around the semi-circle of friends as she continued singing. Several of them stretched out their hands to touch her as if she were a goddess. 

When she reached the other end of the semicircle, she moved closer to shake their hands. The audience applauded and cheered her as the song reached its climax. She turned around to see all her guests for her final notes when suddenly she fell backwards and tumbled down the 40-stone steps. Her body gained speed as it fell towards the bottom terrace, landing beside the exquisitely laid dining table.

The music stopped, and guests screamed in horror as most descended the staircase to help her. Two held her twisted body as her enormous wig fell off onto the ground. Others tried to revive her, but it was pointless as her body was utterly lifeless; her neck had broken instantly when she fell.

‘Get an ambulance,’ screamed Zena’s daughter. 

‘Get an ambulance,’ she repeated. 

Guests stood around in disbelief. 

‘How did this happen?’

‘How did she fall?’

‘Did she slip?’

‘Were her shoes too tall?’

‘Was her wig too heavy?’

‘Did she lose her balance?’

‘God, this is a terrible tragedy.’