Score!

Alpheus had never encountered such vaginal muscles: they were like the strong fingers of some pink-cheeked milkmaid. What couldn’t he do with a helpmate of such intellect, who could also cater so deliciously to his physical needs? Under those ethnic clothes and all that hair, Eulalia had a surprisingly lovely body. If she flossed and showered a bit more and wore the right clothes…

‘Oooooh, oooohooo.’ Looking up at the newly emerged stars, Alpheus felt himself ejaculate with all the splendour of the Milky Way. ‘That was tremendous,’ he said graciously.

Then Eulalia spoilt it all by asking if she was a better lay than Chloe, or Dame Hermione, or Pushy, and if he were screwing her to get his own back on Cheryl for going to bed with Rannaldini.

It is difficult to hit the roof when one is lying under a woman journalist. Who had told her such monstrous untruths? spluttered Alpheus.

‘I don’t figure the Sentinel would be interested in such sleaze.’

He had never cheated on Cheryl. Anyone who implied differently was jealous, probably Chloe, who had become overly possessive when he’d formed a working partnership with Dame Hermione.

‘Bollocks, you lying old hypocrite.’ Eulalia jumped to her feet.

In her floating black dress, her spectacles glinting evilly in the starlight, she suddenly looked like the Grand Inquisitor. Snatching up a handful of grass and wildflowers, shoving them between her legs, she ran down the mossy steps to her car.

Going inside, Alpheus discovered his lovely suit was covered in grass stains as well as egg yolk. He was not hunting for comfrey and hemlock at this hour. The grandfather clock in the hall was striking half twelve. Checking the kitchen calendar, which featured a guillemot with a fish hanging from its beak, rather like Bernard’s moustache, Alpheus realized it was now Friday, the thirteenth, and shivered.

The only answer was to burn the suit and blame its disappearance on Mikhail, who had admired it hugely. Then he remembered all the photographs Eulalia had taken. Somehow he’d got to stop her using them.

63

When Hermione and Chloe’s little scene still wasn’t in the can by twelve thirty, a despairing Tristan called a break. He was sure the crew were deliberately going slow. There were dark mutterings as they set off sulkily for the canteen. How could they be expected to flourish on roast pork, minty new potatoes, spring rolls, red cabbage and apple pie and cream without a few glasses of red?

‘Just one glass,’ Tristan pleaded with Rupert. ‘It’s getting cold.’

‘No,’ said Rupert, switching on his mobile.

Immediately it rang.

‘Don’t want to alarm you, Rupe,’ confided an old racing crony from the Sun, ‘but we’re convinced that Eulalia Harrison’s Beattie Johnson in disguise.’ Rupert felt icicles dripping down his spine. ‘Any chance of us getting your side of the Abigail Rosen story?’

‘No,’ snarled Rupert, and hung up.

No wonder Eulalia had seemed familiar. Over the years Beattie had nearly destroyed him and everything he loved. This time she wasn’t going to get away with it. He had never bedded Abby Rosen. He would kill to protect Taggie.

The telephone rang again. Talk of the angel. It was Taggie with brilliant news. Gablecross had found the man who’d driven Tabitha home on Sunday, who could give her an alibi. Rupert had never dreamt he would feel passionately grateful to George Hungerford. ‘Whatever happens,’ he told Taggie, ‘I want you to know I’ve always loved you.’

Looking up he saw what must be Eulalia/Beattie’s window in darkness. It was much colder. Everyone was putting on jerseys. The clapper-loader was changing his board to Friday the thirteenth.

Rupert’s friend on the Sun wasted no time in breaking the news of Beattie’s masquerade to Hermione, who choked on her second helping of roast pork, to Chloe, who went green, and to Flora, who looked about to faint. Soon the rumour was circulating to universal panic: nearly everyone had spoken on and off the record to Eulalia. Suddenly the large police presence, hovering in the surrounding bushes or watching from the top floor of the south wing, seemed totally inadequate.

‘Beattie’s not answering her mobile,’ said a shaken Griselda.

‘She was talking to Clive earlier. Probably buying the memoirs for the Scorpion.’

Tristan had gone very white but, determined to limit any damage, said that Rupert’s friend from the Sun had probably been fishing.

‘We must stay calm,’ he told Oscar.

The crew were sourly drinking Perrier. Mikhail was appropriating more forks. Bernard retreated to a quiet corner of the canteen with a roll, a piece of Brie and his crossword. He was glad there were people around. The park beyond was very shadowy and dark.

Then he gave a gasp as his crossword swam green before his eyes.

‘It’s been completely filled in by Rannaldini.’ His hoarse voice was falsetto with fear. ‘Even his Ms are the same, like football posts.’ He brandished the pages with a frantically shaking hand, as everyone gathered round.