They’d left the picnic basket on the shingles near the terrace steps. Aunt Vivian perched on one side and Iris on the other. More shouting. A spotlight flashed on, illuminating the terrace. Someone cried out—stumbled—a couple of thumps—a howl of pain.

Iris leapt from the basket and ran to the steps. Guy Burgess staggered up, clutching his head. Blood streamed out between his fingers.

“My God, he’s hurt!” she screamed. “Somebody get help! Aunt Vivian, the napkins!”

Aunt Vivian opened the picnic basket—rummaged around until she found the napkins—bounded triumphantly to Iris and Burgess, who lurched away.

“S’fine—s’fine—”

“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding to death—my God—hold still—”

Iris stuck a napkin to the side of his head. The blood soaked right through and she told him to sit down, for God’s sake. He sat. Above her head, there was more shouting, a new voice. Abingdon, in his dressing gown, roaring like an elephant.

“What the devil’s going on here? Burgess?”

“He’s fallen off your step,” said Davenport. “Haven’t got a doctor about, have you?”

Abingdon swore. “Lay him out on the chaise—that’s it—Christ, what the devil d’you think you’re doing, turning up at this hour? Everyone’s long gone, you bloody fools!”

Iris grabbed another napkin and Davenport supported Burgess to some kind of chaise, like a deck chair. Burgess shouted out obscenities.

“We’ve got to use your telephone,” Sasha said to Abingdon.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Chap from the American embassy,” said Davenport. “I say, that’s an awful lot of blood.”

Iris was starting to get woozy from the coppery smell of Burgess’s blood. She handed the napkin to Aunt Vivian and stepped to the edge of the terrace, where she vomited onto the shingles. When she looked up, she saw another man bounding up the steps, followed by a man in a constable’s uniform.

“What the devil’s going on here?” said the constable.

“It’s a private matter, damn it!” said Abingdon.

“Caught these drunkards coming up the beach! Trespassing on the terrace!” yelled the other man.

“For God’s sake, Houlihan!” Abingdon shouted. “If I wanted you to call the constabulary, I’d have done it myself!”

“It’s my duty to protect this property, sir, and by God—”

“Oh, shut up, you idiot!” Sasha yelled.

“Shut up? I’ll not be told to shut up by some bloody American!”

Sasha lurched forward, grabbed the baton from the constable, and started to beat Houlihan about the shoulders.

Burgess shouted to Davenport, “For God’s sake, take him down!”