Score!

the dark, his blood ran cold and his heart stopped. For there, on the set, sitting in his executive producer’s chair, was Rannaldini. The collar of his highwayman’s cloak was turned up, caressing the planed cheeks of his cold, haughty face; his pewter hair gleamed in the moonlight. In a garden heady with the scent of lilies, honeysuckle and night-scented stock, Rupert was suddenly asphyxiated by a waft of Maestro.

‘Who are you?’ he managed to croak.

But as Rannaldini slowly turned towards him, Rupert bolted. Crashing through the dark garden, hurtling into the canteen, sending cast and crew flying, he rushed up to the bar.

‘Gimme a quadruple whisky.’

‘Mr Sexton insist no drink.’

‘Don’t be so fucking silly, I’ve just seen Rannaldini.’

‘Mr Sexton say no drink,’ persisted Maria.

‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,’ said a grinning Baby.

Having gone behind the bar and poured Rupert a large Bell’s, Wolfie went in search of the briefcase, but when he returned with it five minutes later, he said the set had been deserted.

‘Well, there’s no way I’m putting up with this sort of thing,’ said Rupert shirtily. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he told Tristan, who tried not to look relieved. At least, they’d get on quicker.

‘I want everyone back on the set by one thirty,’ he shouted, as he picked up his mobile and vanished into the darkness.

Beattie returned to Valhalla, kicking herself for wasting time on such a jerk. As she let herself into her suite, however, she found a note, typed on dove-grey production-office paper, shoved under her door. ‘Meet me in the Unicorn Glade at one fifteen and I will tell you who killed Rannaldini.’

Beattie wanted to bay like a bloodhound. Hell! It was ten past already. She hoped she wasn’t too late. This was going to be the greatest exclusive ever. The scoop de grace.

Quickly checking that no-one had tampered with her machine, she pressed the save button and set out for the Unicorn Glade. Thank God, when she was having an affaire with Rannaldini, she had memorized the shortcut through the maze. It was so dark and claustrophobic you could easily lose your bearings. She ran so fast she kept cannoning off the sides, the rough, clipped yew twigs scraping her face and arms.

‘Right, left, right,’ she panted, ‘and right towards the Pole Star,’ she could hear the crew chatting as they returned to work, ‘and left, right, left towards the great constellation of Pegasus,’ and she was out on the other side, leaping in terror as an icy hand clawed her face. Then she laughed, realizing it was only a weeping willow, wet from an earlier shower. Jumping the Devil’s Stream, Rannaldini’s only spring still flowing, running under a rose arch, she was into the Unicorn Glade.

Based on a fifteenth-century tapestry, hanging in the Musee de Cluny in Paris, this small, exquisite private garden had only been open to outsiders since Rannaldini’s death. Filled with scented flowers and herbs, it was populated with little stone foxes, weasels, cats and greyhounds lying down with crossed paws beside rabbits to symbolize that even natural enemies can live in harmony.

Legend had it that the unicorn could only be tamed by a virgin, and in the original tapestry a chaste lady sat in the centre of the garden with the unicorn crouched beside her, his front hoofs on her knee as she stroked his neck.

But, as the joke went, there had never been any virgins in Valhalla, so this touching tableau had been replaced by a lone unicorn, gleaming silver in the starlight as he tossed his head and pawed the grass.

Beattie could almost hear the proud little fellow snorting, as she leant against him to regain her breath. Caressing his smooth back, she ran her fingers up his mane, and his grooved horn, which was raised like a sword on guard. As a child, she had always longed for a pony. Rupert’s horses and Olympic gold for show-jumping had been one of the reasons she’d fallen so much in love with him. If he hadn’t dumped her, she would never have been bringing the gorgeous bastard down.

Glancing round at opulent shrub roses, towering delphiniums and massed white foxgloves, any of which could conceal the writer of the letter, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of doom and froze with terror as one of the shadows separated and came towards her.

Then, as the moon emerged from a scurrying black cloud, she saw Rannaldini’s face, colder and whiter than any moon, but with eyes crueller and hotter than hell. The dark cloak slid over the dewy grass, as he swept towards her on his way to conduct a requiem.

The words ‘I never meant to slag you off’ withered on Beattie’s lips. She couldn’t scream, only retreat, as he came nearer and nearer. Then she tripped backwards over a little stone fox, and felt herself falling. The pain was unimaginable.

64

By three o’clock in the morning the wind had risen, all the crew had put on jackets, and Hermione had grumbled bitterly enough about the treacherous night air to have appropriated Rozzy’s dark red mohair cardigan and Bernard’s duffel coat.

Noticing Rozzy shivering uncontrollably and fighting a racking cough, Tristan took off his bomber jacket and put it round her shoulders. ‘You must take care of that throat.’

In fascinated horror, Lucy watched Rozzy turn her head and drop a kiss on his hand as it rested for a second on her shoulder. Her ecstasy was unmistakable. Earlier in the day, Rozzy had been into Rutminster for treatment for her cancer, but recently Lucy had noticed her poring over the score of Der Rosenkavalier, marking in the part of Marschallin with yellow Pentel. Had Rozzy convinced herself she could sing in the opera after all?

Wolfie, constantly taunted by nightmarish visions of Tab being photographed in the nude by his father, glanced up at Valhalla, where chandeliers blazed in nearly every window to create an illusion of a ball in progress. A light was still on in Helen’s bedroom. ‘She shouldn’t be going to Penscombe,’ he muttered furiously to Lucy. ‘She’ll only upset Tab. Christ, I miss her.’

‘Poor Wolfie.’ Lucy hugged him. ‘She’ll be back for the polo shoot.’

‘When you’ve finished snogging, Lucy and Wolfgang…’ called out Tristan, but so acidly no-one laughed.

‘Quiet, please,’ brayed Bernard.

At three forty-five, Pushy, deciding no-one on the set was paying her enough attention, suggested that as she was so much younger than Chloe and Hermione, she and Flora should have a carefree little bop together for the sake of continuity, while the older women discussed the ball. ‘We did have a love scene earlier,’ she pouted.

‘No,’ cried Flora in revulsion. It was the scene with Pushy that had wrecked her and George.

Seeing Flora about to bolt, and knowing he wouldn’t get another night’s filming out of her, Tristan told Pushy to pack it in. ‘We’ve got to get this ball scene in the can before sunrise and before Rupert come back and knock our heads together!’

‘No way he’ll return till Rannaldini’s safely back in his coffin,’ said Ogborne, in a sepulchral voice.

Three-quarters of an hour later Oscar, pretending to look into his view-finder, had fallen asleep. Flicking his fingers for Ogborne’s help, Valentin laid his father-in-law across two chairs. A faint pink flush in a very pale sky heralded the approach of sunrise, pigeons were cooing, blackbirds pecking the lawn for worms.

‘Cut and print. Well done, everyone, particularly Chloe,’ shouted Tristan. Thank God there were pros like her, who could dispatch a scene in one take. Thank God the deepest anxiety could be dispelled temporarily by a good night’s work.

Beyond the set, emerging from the uniform greyness of night, he could see urns overflowing with pink geraniums, white and yellow roses swarming up dark yews and cypresses. Beyond, the tall chimneys of River House soared like pale lupins.

Why aren’t I filming dawn? Tristan sighed.

As the crew dismantled the camera tracks, took down lights and prepared the film cans for the courier to