Karen shivered. The polo had been so glamorous, she had hitherto thoroughly enjoyed herself. Several photographers had taken her picture. The dashing Carlisle twins had asked what she was doing later. Glancing round, she said, ‘We’ve got an almost full cast of suspects.’

‘Except Wolfie and Lucy,’ replied Gablecross, whom Interpol had alerted of their arrival in England.

‘Hello, Tim, hello, Karen.’ It was Rozzy with two cups of coffee, ‘I gather you went home yesterday. How did you like Glyn?’

‘Very much,’ lied Karen.

‘He’s a charmer,’ said Rozzy wistfully. ‘Was Sylvia much in evidence?’

‘No,’ lied Gablecross.

‘I hope you’ll catch the murderer today,’ Rozzy lowered her voice, ‘because we’re all dispersing tomorrow. I’ll miss you both so much.’

‘The feeling’s mutual. Have you seen Lucy?’

‘She was here,’ confided Rozzy. ‘She and Wolfie went all the way to France to clear Tristan’s name and the beast has gone and fired her. The poor darling’s rushed off to Valhalla in floods.’

‘Sorry to hear about your lovely dress,’ said Karen.

‘Horrible, wasn’t it?’ For a second Rozzy’s eyes brimmed. ‘But Tristan, who’s a darling, when he’s not being a beast, gave me some money to buy another so I rushed into Rutminster first thing.’

‘Find anything nice?’ asked Karen.

‘In Peggy Parker’s, of all unlikely places. I thought she was all Lurex and sequins.’

Gablecross looked at his watch. Tristan and Oscar were still fussing over lights. Anxious to get going before their ponies became maddened by flies, Ricky France-Lynch and the Carlisle twins were pointedly hitting balls to one another.

‘Ouch,’ yelled Sexton, as one hit him on the ankle. ‘Ow, Christ, ’ere comes trouble,’ he added as, parting crowds and crew like a flea comb, Rupert stalked up to Tristan.

‘Have you got some sort of death-wish?’ he hissed. ‘How dare you reshoot everything when we’re so pushed for time and money? And if you think I’m going to put a farthing into your crappy production after the way you screwed up my daughter! Why didn’t you level with her that you were regularly ramming ten inches of Parisian sausage into that geriatric Claudine Lauzerte? Amazing you could get in for the cobwebs. Don’t clench those Frog fists at me! You haven’t got a jambe to stand on.’

Rupert seized Tristan’s arm and was clearly about to thump him, when Sexton bravely interceded.

‘Look, Rupe, we all know you’re fired up, but we are against the clock, so why don’t you castrate and incinerate Tristan and tug out his toenails after we’ve wrapped?’

Valentin burst out laughing. Rupert was dickering whether to deck Sexton and Valentin as well, when everyone was distracted by the arrival of Hermione, flanked by outriders, waving graciously from the back of an open limo. Like gulls following a plough, a flock of paparazzi had crashed the party in her wake.

‘I have come to stand by my director, Tristan de Montigny, in his hour of need,’ she was loudly confiding to hundreds of black tape-recorders. ‘My heart also goes out to Claudine Lauzerte, and her husband Jean-Louis, the Minister of Cultural Affairs, at this difficult time.’

‘Were you aware, Dame Hermione, that Tristan was having a far from cultural affaire with Madame Lauzerte?’ shouted James Whitaker.

‘Below the belt, James,’ said Hermione reproachfully.

‘Tristan certainly was,’ said Adam Helliker, to howls of mirth.

‘Are you in this scene, Dame Hermione?’ asked Classic FM Magazine.

‘Indeed,’ Hermione inclined her huge flamingo-pink picture hat, ‘but only as a face in the crowd.’

‘You can’t, Hermsie.’ Seizing her hand, Sexton helped her out of the limo. ‘The point of this scene is that Carlos is ordered by Philip to dump his polo totties and marry an unseen Frog princess, namely you. It blows your cover if you’re seen in the crowd.’

‘But polo is international,’ pouted Hermione. ‘It would be logical for Elisabetta to jet down for a chukka or two.’

‘God in heaven.’ Tristan clutched his head. ‘We’ll have to shoot round her.’

‘Now where is my son, whose photography…’ Hermione turned back proudly.

But Little Cosmo had jumped limo and was ringing Ladbrokes, who were taking bets on who had killed Rannaldini. Cosmo was gratified that his mother was 10–1, but decided to put a couple of hundred each on his stepbrother, Wolfgang, and Meredith, his putative father’s boyfriend, neither of whom appeared to have any alibi.

The burning sun was boring through Tabitha’s hat. At any moment she’d burst into flames. Having screamed at everyone on the set, she was now leaning against her pony, a beautiful grey gelding called The Ghost, unable to mount until her missing saddle turned up. Flora, who’d been gossiping to Baby, came over with a glass of iced orange juice.

‘Gee, thanks,’ said Tab listlessly. ‘You are lucky keeping Baby as a friend. Tristan won’t even speak to me. Even George seems to like Baby now.’

‘George now knows that Baby’s only a friend, and that his heart lies entirely elsewhere,’ said Flora, then realizing what she’d said, added hastily, ‘Oh, look, Granny’s back in the press box in his black robes. Such a surreal, sinister touch.’

‘Last time I acted with Granny I was nearly burnt to death,’ shuddered Tab. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.

For there, away from the crowd, his glossy black hair gleaming, his shadow as misshapen and knowing as a Velazquez dwarf, the personification of darkness in that burning afternoon sun, stood Isa.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ croaked Tab.

‘Come to wish my wife and my old friend good luck,’ mocked Isa, never taking his eyes off Baby.

Oh, help, thought Flora in terror. Isa’s the one. He’s just the right height to pass himself off as the ghost of Rannaldini and he exudes such evil.

Up galumphed Griselda, oblivious of any tension.

‘I’ve found Tab’s saddle, at last. It was under a table,’ she shouted, as she handed it to Rupert’s groom, Dizzy, who slapped it onto The Ghost, tightened his girths and pulled down the stirrups.

‘He’s ready, Tab,’ she cried.

But Tab was gazing up at Baby, who’d gone even whiter than she had. ‘So you’re the one Isa loves,’ she whispered. ‘No-one fucking told me. You bastard, Baby!’

‘Dépêchez-vous, Tab,’ shouted Bernard.

‘How long’s it been going on?’ hissed Tab. ‘Before our marriage, I suppose. You’d like me out of the way, wouldn’t you?’ She was taunting Baby now.

‘In your present mood, anyone would,’ snapped Baby, gathering up his reins.

‘Isa probably wants your horses back,’ hissed Tab. ‘My father won’t want to train them when he hears what you’ve been up to.’

Picking up the vibes, Baby’s mare nearly took off.

‘Come on, Tab, everyone’s waiting,’ chided Dizzy, giving her a leg up.

Rozzy rushed forward to give her boots a last polish, Griselda tucked in her shirt and smoothed down her breeches. René took the shine off her nose with a powder brush.

‘Your collar’s sticking up, Tab,’ cried out Simone.

‘A little piece of hair’s come loose from your toggle,’ cried Rozzy.

‘Oh, fuck off, the lot of you,’ screamed Tab.

‘Cool it, Tab,’ yelled Ricky France-Lynch.

‘Please don’t shout,’ grumbled Dommie Carlisle, ‘I’ve got a bloody awful headache. Shouldn’t have spent last night shagging someone called Pissy or Cushy.’

Ogborne revved up the car. Valentin in the passenger seat could see through his long lens the players shouting at each other, the ponies’ legs a jumble against the pink faces and pretty clothes of the excited crowd. Rannaldini’s overture was echoing round the field.

‘Quiet, please, everyone,’ yelled Bernard. ‘We’re turning over.’

Clocking the loathing on Baby’s face, Tab panicked.

He’s going to kill me, she thought, but it was too late.

As Ogborne trod on the accelerator Tristan, in the back of the car, had shouted, ‘Action’.

Ricky France-Lynch stroked the ball to Baby, who hit it perfectly, galloping after it towards goal. Too fast, thought Rupert, in sudden terror, as Tab came thundering in at an angle to push him off the ball. But Baby’s pony held firm, and dapple-grey and chestnut shoulders met in a shunt so forceful it took both horses off the ground in a cloud of dust, but gave Tab the slight advantage to stroke the ball back up-field to safety.

‘Wonderful,’ breathed Tristan. ‘Keep rolling.’

But as Tab leant over, putting her whole weight on her right stirrup to take the backhand, the leather gave way like a broken arm. There was no way she could save herself. She was toppling over. Next moment the ground came hurtling up to meet her.

The crowd gave a collective scream of horror.

Fuck, I wonder if we’ve shot enough, Tristan was horrified to find himself thinking, particularly when Tab remained in a huddled heap.

The Ghost was running around trailing his reins. Ambulances and police cars were careering across the field. Baby was instantly off his pony, pleading as he knelt down beside Tab.

‘Oh, angel, I’m sorry, please be OK.’

But Tab didn’t move, whiter than the burning sun above. From the horrible angle of her head to her body, Baby knew she had broken her neck.

Rupert, who’d vaulted on to someone’s pony, beat the police cars and ambulances. ‘Turn that fucking music off! Why’d you have to hit her so hard?’ he yelled at Baby. Then, catching sight of his motionless daughter, he dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Oh, my Christ.’

Her stirrup, with its broken leather, was still attached to her foot.