Score!

‘He’s almost as good-looking as you are.’ Fanshawe, who considered he had a way with the ladies, smiled at the girl groom. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, waving his ID card.

‘Down at the graveyard. I’d wait until they come back.’

But Fanshawe was in a hurry, and paused only to take the serial number of the dark blue helicopter parked in a field behind the stables. Beyond a tennis court surrounded by a shaggy beech hedge, under the shade of a huge cedar, half an acre of grass was fenced off, before the land rolled into fields. For generations, the Campbell-Blacks had buried their best-loved animals here.

Grouped round a single grave were about a hundred people — estate-workers, grooms, gardeners, Rupert’s ancient housekeeper Mrs Bodkin and her husband — most of whom were in tears.

‘That’s Lord O’Hara, and his wife Maud in the big black hat,’ hissed Debbie, who scoured the tabloids every day. ‘They’re Rupert’s in-laws, and there’s Taggie’s elder brother, Patrick — isn’t he to die for? And his partner Cameron Cook, she makes films, and there’s Taggie’s sister Caitlin. She married Lord Baddingham’s son, Archie, and Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who show-jumped for England, and his wife Janey, Beattie Johnson’s great rival. Beattie’s already been digging up the dirt down at Valhalla. Next to her, that gorgeous boy who’s crying is Lysander Hawkley. Now this is interesting, he’s married to Rannaldini’s third wife, Kitty — she’s the round-faced one comforting him. And oh, look, there’s Ricky France-Lynch! Isn’t he gorgeous? And his wife Daisy, the pretty dark one, she paints. They must have driven over from Eldercombe.’

‘You ought to work for Hello!,’ said Fanshawe sourly. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Edging forward, they caught sight of Tabitha, who looked as though she’d been struck by lightning. A big purple bruise on her left temple and cuts down her right cheek added the only colour to her deathly pale face. She seemed about to collapse, and was being supported by Rupert’s head groom, Dizzy. Next to them, with a face of granite, stood Rupert, holding Xavier and Bianca by the hand. In her other hand Bianca clutched a jam-jar full of harebells, scabious and meadowsweet, while Xavier held on to a carrier-bag and a Labrador as sleek and black as his face. A dozen other dogs milled round, snapping at flies and panting but unusually quiet, and on the other side of the fence, in silent sympathy, stood Rupert’s great horse, Penscombe Pride, Tiny the Shetland, and several red and white cows.

Taggie Campbell-Black, paler even than Tabitha, biting her lip to stop herself crying, held Gertrude, wrapped in an old orange and blue blanket, in her arms. Dropping a last kiss on her white forehead, she laid the little dog on her beanbag, already in the grave. On a wonky wooden cross, Taggie had written the words: ‘Gurtrude, are most preshous treshure, is berried hear.’

No-one had corrected her spelling.

Stepping forward, Xav dropped a packet of Kit-Kats and a box of Bonios into the grave beside Gertrude, then took his mother’s hand. Suddenly Bianca ran forward and knelt by the grave.

‘If you’re just pretending, Gertrude,’ she called out, in a shrill voice, ‘now’s the time to wake up.’

For a second, laughter rippled round. Then Declan O’Hara stepped forward. Known to cry on every possible occasion, today he was dry-eyed.

‘We all loved Gertrude.’ His deep, tender Irish brogue echoed round the fields. ‘She lived with us in London and the Priory opposite for eight years, and then with Rupert and Taggie for ten. But even this year she would struggle across the valley every morning for a Bonio and a bowl of milk. What we will remember is Gertrude’s kindness and her merriness, but none of us would have imagined that such a frail body contained a heart as stout as Beth Gelert.’

As Tab gave a sob, covering her face with her hand, Debbie noticed the dark bruises along the side and up the little fingers. She must have fought someone off like a wild cat. For a second, she swayed. As Rupert caught her, she buried her face in his shoulder.

‘Nothing in Gertrude’s life became her like the leaving it,’ intoned Declan. ‘She died as one—’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Declan, get on,’ snapped Rupert.

‘We will never forget you,’ Declan’s voice broke, ‘and on your grave, with shining eyes, may the Cotswold stars look down.’

There were flowers everywhere. Xavier picked up a trowel to help his father as, with gritted jaw, Rupert heaped powdery earth over Gertrude’s body. The moment he’d finished, muttering about organizing drinks, frantic not to break down, he belted back to the house.

‘Pity, with such a turn-out, it wasn’t video’d,’ Declan’s wife Maud was saying fretfully.

Slumped in despair, Taggie stood alone by the grave. But as she turned for home, Debbie and Fanshawe pounced. It was a while before she took in what they were saying.

‘Tab’s had a terrible shock over Gertrude,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t think she can talk to you.’