Score!

One of the sparks, drunk last night, had fallen off a ladder, pulling two huge lights on top of him and holding up production for an hour. Consequently Rupert had banned drink from the set and the canteen. The entente had never been less cordiale.

All this put a terrible strain on Tristan as tempers shortened and the crew grew more bolshie from exhaustion. It was impossible to sleep in the day with the dread of the murderer stealthily letting himself into one’s bedroom. With the short nights, there were only five hours of real darkness to film two complicated scenes; and with Dame Hermione returning to the set, they’d be lucky if the camera turned over before dawn.

Filming had moved to another part of the garden, by a fountain overlooked by huge sycamores. White roses swarming over a pergola, shedding an increasing carpet of petals on to the damp grass, were an increasing continuity problem for Simone.

Rupert had already rolled up in a foul temper. He’d had no wins at Newmarket and Helen was coming to stay. He was hopping with Gablecross for upsetting Tab, but even more unhinged by a telephone call from Beattie Johnson of the Scorpion, his vicious ex-mistress, threatening to reveal yet another scandal from his past.

‘I knew you’d cheat on Taggie in the end, you bastard.’

Rupert was slumped in Rannaldini’s executive chair, a straw hat with a Jockey Club ribbon tipped over his Greek nose, venting his spleen on Sexton for agreeing to pay an extortionate sum to Lord Waterlane for the loan of Rutminster polo ground on Monday and Tuesday. Plebs like Sexton were stupidly overawed by titles. Sexton himself was sweating over Fanshawe’s visit to River House.

‘Police fink we’ve done it, Rupe.’

Flora, meanwhile, had returned for a last night’s shooting, a ghost of herself. Three days in London with Abby and Viking, utterly mad about each other and wildly excited about the fast-approaching birth of their baby, had made her loss of George even more acute. As her eyes were too red and swollen even for Lucy to repair, Tristan had agreed she could be filmed in dark glasses.

Having changed into a rather shiny dinner jacket, her bodyguard’s disguise for the ball, she had nipped into the production office on her way to the set in the forlorn hope George might have left a message in the last hour. There was nothing.

Hollow with desolation, she slouched towards the ruined cloisters that flanked the chapel. Broken columns and arches, smothered in ivy and moonlight, cast jagged shadows on paving stones almost worn away by the pacing of monks over the centuries.

Did any of them ever pray for anything as fervently as she was now begging for George’s return? Poor God must feel like an undertaker. His services only sought at the death of a love affaire.

Then Flora’s despair turned to terror as she breathed in indescribable menace. She couldn’t move. A scream froze in her throat, she was being suffocated by chloroform. Then she realized it was Maestro, Rannaldini’s aftershave, as a figure emerged from the darkest shadows and swept up the cloisters, his black cloak slithering after him like a peacock’s tail. In the moonlight, as he opened the chapel door, she could see a pale, cruel, carved profile and a handsome head of pewter hair.

Screaming, Flora fled back to the production office. Thank God, a group was chatting outside.

‘I’ve just seen Rannaldini,’ she shrieked. ‘I saw him, I swear I saw him.’

Bernard was quite gently telling her she was imagining things, when Valentin, with rare animation, announced that he, too, had seen Rannaldini disappearing into the chapel earlier. By the time he’d woken his father-in-law, Oscar, and they’d screwed up enough courage to follow Rannaldini inside, he had vanished.

‘Probably returned to grab the Murillo Madonna,’ said Rupert contemptuously. ‘There are no such things as ghosts. It is a figment of your feverish Frog imagination. Another reason for not drinking until night-shooting’s over.’

‘I saw heem,’ said Valentin sulkily. ‘He had that queek walk with his head thrown back.’

‘I saw his cloak slithering,’ whispered Flora, who was having difficulty getting her lighter to her cigarette. ‘I think he’s still alive.’

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Rannaldini is dead.’

‘How d’you know for certain?’ asked Baby, who had rolled up eating a Danish blue sandwich studded with whole garlic cloves to ward off Hermione, Pushy and Chloe through the night. ‘Did you actually see the body?’

‘Wolfgang did,’ said Rupert sharply. ‘If you’ve been bullied by some bastard for twenty-four years, you tend to recognize them.’

‘Very true,’ agreed Baby. ‘I couldn’t mistake you, and you’ve only been bullying me since Tuesday.’

Bernard brayed nervously, but before Rupert could retaliate, Baby put an arm round Flora’s quivering shoulders and bore her off to his caravan for a large drink.

‘Rupert said we mustn’t,’ said Flora listlessly.

‘Fuck him.’