Score!

Behind them, they could faintly hear Gablecross on his mobile. ‘Uniform boys have located the entrance to the torture chamber from the lakeside,’ he was telling Karen. ‘They can’t see any sign yet of water being sucked inside.’

‘Perhaps Rozzy hasn’t left?’ whispered Karen hopefully.

‘Open the door into the passage now,’ Gablecross hissed down the stairs to Clive. ‘We may be able to pre-empt her.’

The door was warped by damp and opened inwards, after a lot of tugging and kicking.

‘Turn right,’ muttered Clive to Tristan. ‘The passage kinks sharply to the left. Lurk behind there until she comes out.’

Tristan had never known such darkness: the total blindness of the Grand Inquisitor. No-one dared shine a torch in case Rozzy saw a light ahead as she came out, but she must hear the thunderous crashing of his heart as he edged along the wall.

Once she emerged, he mustn’t betray his fear. His mouth tasted as acid as a rotten lemon, he was trembling violently, he reeked of sweat, his knees were jumping frantically as he positioned himself round the rocky bend. However could he act well enough to convince Lucy’s murderer that he loved her? Then he was aware of dim light. Whipping round he heard a clang of steel, a heavy door creaking shut, a switch being flicked on, followed by arpeggios of crazy laughter. He nearly turned and fled.

‘Now!’ hissed Clive.

‘Rozzy?’

‘Who’s there?’ called out a high, terrified voice.

Tristan could see the outline of a cloaked figure.

‘Rozzy, it’s me.’ His voice, sounding surprisingly deep and strong, seemed to echo round the dripping walls.

But before he could add ‘Tristan’, he heard a bang and felt an agonizing pain in his right shoulder. She had shot him. Reeling back from the shock, he crashed against the side of the tunnel cracking his head.

‘Me, Tristan,’ he gasped. Then, righting himself, he stumbled forward. ‘Rozzy, are you OK? I’ve been so worried.’

‘Tristan?’ whispered Rozzy in horror. ‘I thought you were the police.’

As he came towards her, she saw blood seeping into his pale grey shirt. ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ she cried. ‘I’m so sorry, I must bandage that wound.’

She looked so normal, and unusually beautiful, her big eyes so full of concern and tenderness that, for a fleeting moment, Tristan thought they’d all been imagining things. Then, through the dimness, he saw the switch to the right of the door.

‘How could I have hurt you?’ moaned Rozzy.

‘It’s nothing.’ Tristan moved towards her, then, taking a deep breath, ‘The murderer’s on the loose. I was so scared for you.’

If he rammed her against the torture chamber door and kissed her, he could surreptitiously reach up and turn off the switch. Unfortunately, she was bearing down on him. ‘Let me wrap this round your shoulder,’ she tugged off her red feather boa, ‘till we reach the outside world.’

As she coiled it round his neck, hanging on to the two ends to contain him, he nearly bolted.

‘I’ve come to take you to the wrap party.’ He forced himself to sound light-hearted. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Rozzy coyly. ‘Orphée.’

‘There is, because you’re in danger.’ He seized her left hand and found it empty. The gun must be in her bag, or concealed in the folds of Rannaldini’s cloak. ‘I love you.’ Tristan crossed his fingers as he led her up the tunnel.

‘I always knew you did, darling,’ said Rozzy adoringly.

As they passed the entrance where Clive and the others were lurking, Rozzy stopped and so did Tristan’s heart. ‘Look at me,’ she insisted.

‘Orpheus wasn’t allowed to look at Eurydice.’ Tristan tried to sound playful.

‘Take me away,’ begged Rozzy, ‘to Paris and then your house in the Tarn. I want to meet Aunt Hortense and see where you grew up.’

If he got his arms round her, he could clamp hers down, but he didn’t know whether his right arm was strong enough — it didn’t seem to belong to him any more. He felt increasingly dizzy and the feather boa was tightening terrifyingly round his neck. But as he lured her round to the right, he could see Clive stealing, like a ghost, out of the side entrance.

‘What’s that noise?’ she asked sharply.

‘Probably a rat — oh, Rozzy.’

She jumped as she heard another footstep, but as she spun round, Tristan grabbed her. ‘You look so young.’ He took her face between his hands.

‘You don’t still love Claudine?’

‘Of course not,’ breathed Tristan. ‘I just never in a million years presumed someone as beautiful as you could love me back.’

Utterly repelled, he felt her scrawny fingers, entrapping his neck like a sea anemone, the bumpy ribs, the razor-sharp collarbones, the slack breasts beneath the grey chiffon. By contrast her tongue was bone hard as she rammed it between his lips almost down his throat, and rubbed her body feverishly against his. The sour milk stench of her breath was enough to make him gag.

‘Make love to me, Tristan.’

With Lucy drowning? he thought in fury.

Then he felt her clawing fingers tightening round his neck and her big black bag, which was still hanging from her arm, pressing against his chest.