‘Dame Hermione?’ pondered Gablecross. ‘He’d had a helluva row with her. Perhaps he was delighted she’d rolled up to make it up. Or perhaps he thought Tabitha had forgiven him.’

‘Or someone disguised as them,’ murmured Gerry Portland.

It would be hard to discern features at that hour of night, thought Gablecross, like Carlos mistaking Eboli for Elisabetta.

‘Finally,’ Dr Meadows turned over a page, ‘Rannaldini’s body was near enough to the watch-tower for the murderer realistically to hope he’d be torched in the fire and all the evidence of rape and DNA destroyed with him. There was ash on his body, but no smoke breathed into his lungs, so he died well before the watch-tower caught fire.’

‘Which the fire brigade think was started by paraffin around eleven twenty,’ said Portland, ‘presumably from the blue can found in the wood.’

‘From which all the fingerprints had been carefully wiped,’ added Gablecross.

‘So.’ Again the two men gazed at each other.

‘If one person had done all these things,’ said Portland quickly, ‘they would have been raped in Rannaldini’s watch-tower, strangled him outside, blasted him with a.38, had a butcher’s at the memoirs and decided to torch them as well.’

‘They would have to have humped a can of paraffin and a gun into the wood,’ continued Gablecross. ‘And Mr Brimscombe said Tab was empty-handed when he saw her running towards the watch-tower.’

‘Still could have used those hands to strangle him. Or after being raped she could have escaped, run to the phone, alerted Wolfgang or her dad, both of whom could have rolled up separately and taken out Rannaldini.’

‘They both wear signet rings on their little fingers.’

‘Perhaps Tabitha or someone strangled Rannaldini, found they weren’t strong enough and finished him off with the gun.’

Dr Meadows shrugged. ‘Possible but unlikely, bearing in mind the time lapses occurring between the two events.’

‘Unless someone quite separate from the rape’, said Gablecross, ‘turned up with a gun, shot him to steal the Montigny, the Picasso and the memoirs.’

‘And flogged them both for a fucking fortune. Good thinking. Could be the work of four isolated people, or a gang of people working together. Let’s DNA everyone who doesn’t check out.’

Portland turned to Meadows. ‘You have been a miracle as usual.’ He was about to kiss her hand but then, dubious at where it might have been, kissed her freckled, blushing cheek instead.

‘You and Karen buzz off,’ he added to Gablecross, ‘and see what you can find out from Lucy and Baby. Try to nail Isa Lovell and Granville Hastings as soon as possible. I’m off to the one and nines.’

Back at Valhalla, James, no respecter of the rigours of night-shooting, decided that ten thirty was time for a walk and squeaked and pawed the cupboards of the caravan until his weary mistress dressed and took him outside.

Walks, once her favourite pastime, gave Lucy no pleasure now. Every time James froze or dived into the undergrowth she expected the murderer to jump out. Resolutely avoiding Hangman’s Wood she headed north-east towards Cathedral Copse.

James, however, decided this was boring and swinging round, totally ignoring Lucy’s shrieks, hurtled towards Hangman’s Wood, bent on games with German shepherds.

Lucy had no option but to tear after him. Nothing much grew under the towering beeches of Cathedral Copse but in Hangman’s Wood, beneath ancient limes, chestnuts, oaks and sycamores broad enough in girth to conceal any lurking killer, thrived a treacherous tangle of traveller’s joy, nettles, brambles and goosegrass.

Everything reminded Lucy of death and decay. Ivy hung brown and sere from tree-trunks; moss on the banks was dusty, parched and yellow. Only an occasional torchbeam of sunlight penetrated the tree ceiling pushed down by Monday’s downpour. The German shepherds had left, but there were rustlings and bangings everywhere.

‘Oh, come back, please, James,’ shrieked Lucy.

Then she heard footsteps thundering after her, and broke into a run, tripping over the roots that groped the path like arthritic fingers. They were getting nearer. She let out a scream of terror, then felt a complete idiot as, with lurcher acceleration, which on the hard ground sounded like a herd of buffalo, James shot past her, shimmied round and landed at her feet with nonchalantly wagging tail.

‘Bloody dog.’ Grabbing his green collar, Lucy shook it furiously, ‘Don’t you dare run off like that again!’

Next moment, Karen and Gablecross pounded round the corner. ‘You all right, Miss?’

‘Fine,’ muttered Lucy, in embarrassment. ‘James hurtled up and frightened the life out of me. We’re all a bit uptight — every shadow seems a ghost.’

Gablecross introduced Karen and said he hadn’t bothered Lucy before because she’d seemed so busy, but could he ask her a few questions after they’d checked out the wood?

James had had his breakfast and, stretched out on the bench seat pensively licking liver gravy off his whiskers, had no intention of relinquishing his position, so when Karen and Gablecross appeared Lucy cleared a couple of chairs and switched on the kettle. As she put her brushes and combs to soak in a bowl of Fairy Liquid, she described the tennis tournament. ‘I gave Wolfie back his signet ring after the last match,’ she said finally, ‘then I came back to Valhalla and rang my mother.’

‘Everyone seems to have rung their mother,’ observed Gablecross.

‘It was Sunday night — you feel a bit low.’

‘She was pleased to hear from you?’

‘Not awfully,’ confessed Lucy. ‘She was asleep. I hadn’t realized it was gone eleven o’clock. Then I went along to the party.’

‘Any idea who might have done it?’

‘Any of us, I suppose, except Oscar, and Valentin, and darling Rozzy, who was at her vile husband’s birthday party,’ Lucy got a packet of shortbread out of the cupboard, ‘and Mikhail, who was far too hammered to do anything.’

James, who’d been corrugating his long nose in search of fleas, opened a long yellow eye as Lucy took off the wrapping.

‘Lovely dog,’ said Karen from a safe distance.

‘They’re known as gazehounds because they hunt by sight rather than scent, and funnily enough when I was taking him for a quick run round Hangman’s Wood after the tennis he suddenly bounded forward, wagging his tail as though he recognized someone.’

‘Who does he like?’

‘Well, Tabitha, Wolfie, Baby, Granny, Flora, Rozzy, of course. He adores Alpheus too. Alpheus loves dogs, and misses his German shepherd, Mr Bones.’

‘Tristan?’ asked Gablecross innocently.

‘Oh yes,’ Lucy’s voice softened, ‘James adores Tristan, but it couldn’t have been Tristan, he was in France.’

‘Mikhail says he saw him.’

‘He’d have seen him in quadruple, he was so drunk.’

Gablecross liked Lucy. She looked so reassuringly normal. Her voice after the initial screaming was so soft, he liked her large sludgy green eyes, and her turned-up nose and big generous mouth, plenty of openings in an open face.

‘Rozzy Pringle adores Tristan, doesn’t she?’

‘Not difficult,’ said Lucy quickly. ‘He’s been so kind to her, and I don’t know what we’d have done without her. She sewed up Flora’s puppet fox when some fiend cut it to pieces.

‘A lot of unpleasant things have been happening,’ she went on.

As the kettle boiled and switched itself off, she told them about the slug pellets, and the champagne that burnt a hole in the tablecloth.

‘What happened to the glass?’

‘It shattered as Rannaldini took a sip out of it. Dame Hermione sang a top note. Rannaldini doesn’t normally drink before conducting, maybe Hermione meant it for me and launched into song when she realized he’d picked up the glass. Oh, God.’

‘Who brought the glass in?’ asked Karen.

‘I don’t remember,’ lied Lucy. ‘We were so busy that night. I’d always assumed it was Rannaldini, or Clive on his instructions doing these horrible things, but now…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘People talk to you,’ said Karen admiringly.

‘Like they talk to minicab drivers and hairdressers,’ said Lucy, with a shrug. ‘There’s no eye-contact. They tend to babble things out because they’re nervous of going on the set, and you’re not likely to meet them socially after the movie,’ she added, with a trace of bitterness, ‘so they feel they can let their hair down.’

‘Does Rozzy Pringle’s husband know she’s got cancer?’

‘Oh, no,’ whispered Lucy in horror. ‘Who told you that?’

‘We’re not free to reveal our sources,’ said Gablecross sententiously.

‘Oh, goodness.’ Lucy collapsed on the bench seat, too close to James, triggering off a low growl and a flash of long fangs. ‘Oh, poor Rozzy, she’s frantic for people not to know. It could finish her career. I have to cover for her each time she goes for treatment. Oh, please don’t tell anyone.’ With frantically trembling hands she gathered up the empty blue mugs she’d put in front of Gablecross and Karen and shoved them back in the cupboard.

‘Who else knows?’

‘Only Tristan. I shouldn’t have told him, Rozzy would kill me, but I was so upset. Tristan was wonderful, he offered her a part in Der Rosenkavalier, way in the future, which she’ll never be able to take up, but just to keep up her spirits.’

‘Tristan de Montigny has admitted he was in England on Sunday night,’ said Karen, noticing Lucy’s eyes darting in terror. ‘Said he was looking for locations in the Forest of Dean.’

‘That’s utterly logical,’ gabbled Lucy. ‘He hadn’t slept for weeks, keeping the whole show on the road.’