IN THE MORNING Algie showed up a little after nine, pleased with himself, but looking awfully bleary-eyed and disheveled. I suspected he’d simply staggered out of bed, into his clothes and out of the door.

“And you do understand, you’re not to mention anything of what goes on here to Tubby,” I said. “My mother would be furious if she knew. I sincerely hope he hasn’t sent you as a spy.”

I looked him straight in the eye. The fact that he didn’t blush and look uncomfortable convinced me that this wasn’t the case.

“Oh gosh no,” he said. “Absolutely not. I just want to find a job that isn’t as beastly as mucking out cows.”

The gatekeeper saluted as we drove under the arch saying GOLDEN PICTURES. Ronnie came out to meet me.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Not well,” he said. “Everyone is still very tense after yesterday.” He noticed Algie. “Who is this? I’m afraid no guests are allowed on the set. Mr. Goldman’s orders.”

Before I could introduce Algie he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Algie Broxley-Foggett. How do you do. I’m a childhood friend of Georgie’s and come from a very old family connected to the Tudors. I’ve come out to California to make my fortune so I’m hoping that Mr. Goldman will find a job for me on his film.”

I looked at Algie with wonder. So the bumbling, clumsy, likable idiot could be quite devious if he wanted. He certainly wasn’t a childhood friend, nor, I suspected, was he connected to the Tudors.

“Well, I guess that will be okay then,” Ronnie said uncertainly. He looked at me. I was tempted to say what I had been thinking but decided to give Algie the benefit of the doubt. He needed all the help he could get in life, I suspected.

We waited until the red light went off then followed Ronnie into the darkness of the studio. At the other end lights blazed over an interior palace set, this time with a four-poster bed front and center.

“And action,” shouted a voice and the clapboard snapped together.

“Get out of my sight, thou daughter of a whore,” Mummy said with venom.

“Cut,” came a voice from the blackness. “Cy, we can’t let her use the word ‘whore’ if we don’t want the picture to end up with an A rating.”

“Okay. Claire, sweetheart, you’d better say ‘prostitute’ then.”

“Cy. Maybe not ‘prostitute.’ A little risqué for the censor,” said the voice.

“What the hell do you want her to say. ‘Daughter of a naughty wench’?”

“Cy,” Mummy interrupted. “Trollop. How about if I say ‘trollop’?”