But Benedict had done his valiant best. He was fast asleep again.

The whisky and the travelling and filming all week and the performances of both Hamlet and Othello suddenly all fell heavily on the shoulders of Anthony Bonham. And he was filming again on Monday morning. Hardly able to take off his clothes, he got alone into the double bed and fell instantly asleep.

*

The winding private drive up to the old farmhouse in a small village near Darlington was hidden from the main road. So nobody saw the pink Mercedes parked there next to the red BMW convertible. There was another car there also.

Pauline O’Brien sat at the old wooden kitchen table with Terence Blue, who had one arm in a sling still, and another, taller man she had arranged to meet there.

She told them of her plan.

Terence Blue stopped her. ‘For Christ’s sake. How do you know that? How did you know that I’m –’ he forced himself to say the word ‘– impotent?’

‘Oh,’ said Pauline casually, ‘Molly McKenzie told me.’

She saw hurt fleetingly in Terence’s eyes and pressed her advantage at once. ‘Well you know Molly – she tells everybody everything.’

‘Molly does?’ said Terence, puzzled

‘God darling, yes, it’ll be all round London now for sure.’

Terence didn’t say any more then, looked away, his face bleak and the other two felt a pang of pity for him. But Pauline knew she could not let herself feel sorry for him now.

Terence drained his coffee cup, clumsily poured more from the percolator using his good arm. ‘No, no, I can do it,’ waving Pauline away. There was a long silence in the farmhouse kitchen. Heat from the Aga warmed the room, enclosed the three of them.

Finally he said, ‘You surprise me about Molly. I didn’t think she was – that kind of person.’

‘Oh she is,’ said Pauline and both men heard a kind of venom in her tone. ‘Believe me, she is.’ She took out the red lipstick, applied it to her mouth, looking in a small mirror.

The second man in the kitchen still remained silent, but stared at her, this new Pauline.

Terence drank the coffee. ‘Well anyway there’s no need for any of this rubbish, there is no way a British court will convict me. I won’t be found guilty of rape, I didn’t do it, and I’m certainly not going into the witness stand to talk about my sexual problems for the gratification of the world’s press. I didn’t do it. That isn’t the trial I’m worried about.’