‘That was Agatha Christie.’ It was the first time Libby had spoken in hours. ‘Lettice Davenport was the Princess of Poison.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Anton waved away her correction, talking with his hands as usual, now the path was smoother.

‘This was where she really lived.’ Kit sounded faintly awed at the prospect of visiting Aldermere. ‘You know, I read every single one of her mysteries when I was younger, and I think I must have read them all again since my agent told me about my audition.’

Anton twisted back from the front seat to point at him. ‘And that’s the kind of dedication that’s going to make our film better than any of those that came before it.’

The new Dahlia Lively reboot hadn’t been on Posy’s radar before her agent had called, sounding as bemused as Posy felt at the news, to say that she’d been asked to audition for the role. She fingered the outline of the books she carried in her bag. The Lady Detective, the first Dahlia Lively novel Lettice had ever written, and Princess of Poison, a posthumous biography of the author herself.

The books would tell her the heart of the character, but it was this convention that would show her what the fans expected her to be. And that was what mattered. If the uber-fans hated it, they’d be so vocal on the subject that no one else would bother to watch it.

The potential reviews scrolled through her mind unbidden, as they pulled up the driveway. ‘Posy Starling as Dahlia Lively is the most unlikely casting choice – and, to nobody’s surprise, an abject failure.’

In her head, her film critic was always Sol Hutchins, the acerbic writer who’d written the book – literally – on her rise to stardom and subsequent fall. He’d had a ringside seat of course, as her dad’s best friend. These days, she thought she remembered Uncle Sol’s voice more clearly than her father’s, even though she hadn’t seen either of them since the day she left LA.

The car jolted to a stop a distance from the house. Peering around Anton, Posy saw it was because the wide, gravelled driveway itself was packed. She waited for the driver to open the door, then swung her legs out, knees together to allow for the hideous tea dress, and stepped down from the running board.

The gravel crunched under her feet as they moved towards the house, taking in the circus before them. Aldermere House, it seemed, was merely a backdrop to the real event – a cacophony of activity and noise that spanned the large expanse of grass to the right of the house, beyond the ornate fountain in the centre of the driveway.