Score!

‘“Tomorrow the earth will open up to swallow you,”’ sang Chloe, scowling at Baby.

‘“May the earth open up to swallow you,”’ sang Mikhail, scowling at Chloe.

‘“If only the earth would open up to swallow me,”’ sang Baby.

‘Cut,’ shouted Rupert.

The music ground discordantly to a halt.

‘Tristan is directing this film, Monsieur Campbell-Black,’ bellowed an apoplectic Bernard.

‘Why do these singers keep repeating themselves?’ demanded Rupert sarcastically. ‘I thought we were trying to make this film shorter, this film shorter, this film shorter.’

The crew corpsed again.

‘The Chief Constable of Rutminster’s called Swallow,’ said Meredith chattily.

‘Shut up, Meredith,’ howled Tristan and Bernard.

‘And why isn’t that camera motorized?’ Rupert pointed at a buckling Ogborne, pushing Valentin along the tracks. ‘We gave up ploughing with horses forty years ago at Penscombe.’

‘Why’s that man with a beard sticking a knife into that pretty girl?’ demanded Rupert ten minutes later.

‘He’s a freedom fighter,’ hissed Griselda.

‘Typical leftie behaviour,’ said Rupert scornfully. ‘Why haven’t you given him sandals and an Adam’s apple?’

After Mikhail had offered Rupert a slug of vodka, he decided he was quite nice for a leftie.

There was a sticky moment during the break when a hopelessly goaded Tristan made the mistake of assuming Rupert spoke as little French as his daughter.

‘How can that imbecile Sexton have brought in such an ignorant, pig-headed, obstructionist ape?’ he stormed to Valentin.

‘Because you’d have folded, if he hadn’t,’ said Rupert coldly.

Like children who behave worse when their mother wants them on their best behaviour, Tristan’s cast started acting up.

‘“I have stained the name of my mother,”’ sang Baby piously, in the middle of a perfect take.

‘Vot colour ’ave you stained her?’ sang back Mikhail.

‘I have stained her Prussian blue-hoo-hoo.’

‘Cut!’ howled Tristan. ‘Cut, cut, cut, you fuckers!’ then stopped in mid-blast as a mobile rang.

‘Telephones are not allowed on the set,’ roared Bernard.

‘It’s mine,’ mumbled Tristan, disappearing into the dark labyrinths of the maze.

The trees on the horizon were still black silhouettes, but colour was creeping into the foreground. Pigeons were cooing sleepily, thrushes repeating phrases like singers, when at four thirty Tristan called a wrap. Despite Rupert’s constant interference, a miraculous minute or two was in the can. Mikhail’s flick-knife had gone safely back to the props van. Everyone was glad to gather round Maria’s barbecue on which tandoori chicken, sausages, and tomatoes stuffed with herbs sizzled enticingly. As an extra treat after a long night, Maria had made a huge bread and butter pudding. Bottles of red and white were on the tables.

Rupert was very hungry, and could have done with a drink, but he was loath to fraternize. Back at Penscombe, his stable lads would be out on the gallops in an hour, he hated to miss anything.

Gablecross, who’d been waiting patiently all night, edged towards him. ‘Can I have a word, Mr Campbell- Black?’

‘No, you can’t,’ said Rupert curtly. ‘I’m off.’

Despite Rupert’s antagonism, Tristan, having heard hideous rumours about Rannaldini and Tab, had returned to his caravan and was taking a huge bunch of freesias from a bucket. Wrapping them in the only pages of yesterday’s Le Figaro not devoted to the murder, he caught up with his new executive producer as Rupert was leaving the canteen.

‘Would you please take these to Tabitha and give her, er, my love?’

Suddenly, in front of the entire unit, Rupert’s rage boiled over. ‘Not after the way you fucked her up, dumping her the moment you pulled her.’

Tristan was greyer than the pre-dawn sky but he held his ground. ‘It is not as you think.’

‘Don’t tell me what I think, you fucking Frog. I may have made it possible for you to finish your poxy film, because Tab put so much work into the horses, but, believe me, sunshine, it has nothing to do with you. Back off and leave her alone.’

Lucy couldn’t bear to look at Tristan, she had never hated anyone as much as Rupert, particularly when he snatched Tristan’s flowers to chuck them on the barbecue. But suddenly Rozzy erupted from nowhere.

‘Shut up, you fucking bully!’ she screamed, grabbing the flowers from him.

Oscar choked on his half pint of red, Bernard on his bread and butter pudding. Everyone who had turned away in embarrassment turned back in amazement. Rozzy swearing?

‘You shouldn’t judge without knowing the facts,’ she shouted. ‘If Tristan hadn’t risked his life dragging Tab from the fire she wouldn’t be alive today. Naturally Tab was terrified, and Tristan comforted her. You ought to go down on your knees with gratitude you’ve still got a daughter, you loathsome brute.’

Rupert looked at Rozzy incredulously. ‘My God, the mouse has roared.’

‘And how d’you know he seduced Tab?’ said Rozzy furiously. ‘You’ve only got her word for it, just as you’ve only got her word that Rannaldini—’

‘Shut up, you bitch.’ Wolfie was shaking Rozzy like a rat. ‘Take that back.’

Instantly Bernard moved in to separate them, and Rozzy collapsed sobbing in his arms.

‘Much more exciting than Verdi,’ said Meredith, selecting another spicy sausage. ‘Why don’t you film this instead, Tristan?’

A piercing shriek from the direction of Wardrobe stopped everyone in their tracks. Wearily putting clothes back on their hangers, Griselda discovered Hermione’s new willow-green rose-lined cloak had been delivered from Paris during the night. Assuming someone had signed for it, Griselda had picked up the receipt. On the dotted line in unmistakable emerald-green ink was scrawled the word ‘Rannaldini’.

‘I know he’s alive,’ gibbered Griselda as, with purple turban askew, she lumbered elephantine and quaking into the canteen.

‘Pissed again,’ muttered Ogborne.

But as everyone crowded round, the signature on the receipt, which Gablecross promptly pocketed, was agreed to be perfect.

‘Perhaps Bussage is getting her revenge for being fired,’ said Wolfie, who’d gone as green as his father’s signature. ‘She faked Papa’s name on enough fan photos and documents.’

But when Bernard rang the messenger, who was speeding towards Dover, he insisted that a gentleman, smelling very strongly of scent and wearing a long black cloak with a turned-up collar, had signed for the parcel. It had been very dark. He had assumed it was one of the cast.

‘It must have been the cloak Rannaldini wore to sweep on to the rostrum on Friday night,’ whispered a terrified Griselda.

‘There’s obviously a perfectly simple explanation,’ said Rupert, escaping to his helicopter and the safety of Penscombe.

All the birds were singing, the grumbling of the crows in the beeches providing the fauxbourdon, as Simone, Baby and Lucy trailed wearily back to their beds.

‘I don’t know which is worse,’ shivered Lucy, ‘a murderer mad enough to dress up as Rannaldini, or the return of Rannaldini himself.’

‘I’m sure I saw him yesterday at that blocked-up window.’ Simone’s pointing finger trembled.

‘Well, he made a copy of everything else,’ drawled Baby. ‘Why not of himself?’

Thank God the sun was rising, shining cheerfully into their faces. Lucy fell into bed but not to sleep. How wonderful Rozzy had been. Oh, why hadn’t she been brave enough to stick up for Tristan?