Score!

Two things relieved the impasse. The rain stopped, and Bernard frogmarched Tristan into his now empty caravan and bawled him out.

‘You’re behaving like a spoilt child. Everyone’s jumpy. You’re meant to reassure them — and as for bullying poor Rozzy,’ Bernard went an even deeper shade of burgundy red, ‘when she spent so long mucking out your caravan and praying for your release in the chapel.’

After that Tristan settled down, forgot his problems, and filmed mêlées, skirmishes, and Baby exchanging sizzling eye-meets with groupies and chucking down his stick in fury when Philip ordered him off the field.

It was still gloomy and overcast, however, and the only patches of sky blue were the opposition’s shirts, which must have been specially chosen by Griselda to bring out the colour of Tab’s furiously flashing eyes. Riding wonderfully wildly and as fiercely as the men, a blue toggle holding back her hair and showing off her glorious jawline and cheekbones, she seemed to be goading Tristan to watch only her.

But Tristan found his eyes drawn to the ponies, glossy black, dark brown, silver-grey, gleaming bay and chestnut, so polished and rippling with fitness. They were so helpful, so responsive, so neat and athletic, so gallant and outwardly unfazed, despite being sworn at and clouted round their delicate heads and legs by sticks and balls. They reminded him of Lucy.

When rain stopped play again, he locked himself in Bernard’s caravan and watched a rough cut. Gradually his confidence came back. Tomorrow they had only to film Baby careering down the field, shoving his pony against Tab’s, pushing her off the line of the ball to score the winning goal. This would be followed by Alpheus in his splendid white suit summoning Carlos inside for an already-filmed pep talk: a light day’s shooting, which should be over by two, giving them time to tie up any loose ends before the wrap party in the evening.

Tristan felt an almost Christ-like elation that here were the makings of a great film, which even Rannaldini would have been proud of. The old monster looked divine on the rostrum, thanks to Lucy’s make-up. She really did deserve an Oscar. And darling Rozzy had been wonderful in her crying scene with Hermione. Christ, he’d been a shit to her after all she’d been through. He’d better go and apologize.

The film had been so dark, particularly in the last terrible scene, that he was amazed to come out to a watery orange sunset, dancing midges and house-martins swooping on insects. People were gossiping outside their tents and caravans. But as he paddled across the drenched field towards Wardrobe, he heard a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a dreadful howling.

Racing through the puddles, his heart thumping, he leapt the four steps up to the Wardrobe caravan. Steeling himself for more unimaginable horrors, he found James shuddering in the far corner, and Rozzy crouched on the floor keening. In the first crazed second, he thought that she had knocked over Lucy’s blue bowl of pot-pourri. Then, drawing nearer, he saw the petals were tiny pieces of silk, as though someone had shredded the rainbow.

‘Oh, my God,’ groaned Griselda, behind him. ‘It’s her wrap-party dress. She’s spent months making it from fragments of silk.’

It had literally been cut to ribbons.

‘Why should anyone hate me so much?’ wept Rozzy.

‘They don’t. They love you.’ Pulling her to her feet Tristan took her in his arms, stroking her hair, feeling her tears drenching the jersey she had given him.

A hovering, desperately concerned Bernard produced a brandy, which triggered off a terrible fit of coughing, reminding Tristan once again how ill she was.

‘Don’t cry, chérie, I’ll buy you another dress.’

Within seconds, relieved that something at last had happened, twenty police, led by Fanshawe and Debbie, had surrounded the caravan. They were disappointed the crime was going to be hard to date.

‘I hung the dress in the back of the cupboard, when I came back after Glyn’s birthday party exactly a week ago,’ gasped Rozzy, between sobs.

Debbie took her hand. ‘Who knew it was there?’

‘Lucy, Grisel, Simone, I don’t know.’

As the shredded fragments were shoved into a plastic bag for Forensic, Debbie gathered up a handful. ‘Silk isn’t torn or severed, looks as if it’s been chopped up by big pinking shears.’

And Tristan shivered, as he remembered the speed with which Lucy often cut up James’s liver with a big pair of scissors, claiming he hated it in lumps. Oh, God, it couldn’t have been Lucy.

Two policemen were left to guard Wardrobe. Everyone else drifted away, leaving Rozzy with Tristan whose hand she still clutched. To make a break, he crossed the caravan to comfort James, who only betrayed his upset by a frantically shuddering body.

‘You still haven’t eaten,’ gulped Rozzy. ‘Let me make you supper.’

Feeling an absolute rat, but unable to cope with her dark anguish, Tristan pleaded exhaustion.