‘I thought that I could bring something new to the oeuvre of murder mystery films.’ Anton slumped against the bannister. ‘That I could do something innovative, something truly ground-breaking. But this ridiculous family weren’t having any of that, were they? I was told I’d have full creative control – but in truth, they had the final veto on everything!’

‘So you leaked the script, and the backlash was so awful the lead writer left town and became a virtual hermit.’ Posy stared Anton dead in the eye. ‘And instead of feeling guilt about that, you found a way to use it to your advantage. By spreading more talk of a curse.’

‘Hey, you can’t put all that on me,’ Anton said, taking a hasty pace back up a step. ‘Layla’s accident, that was just bad luck. And the fire at the filming location, too.’

‘But the fraud investigation on the investor?’ Posy asked, and Anton shrugged.

He’d gone out of his way to make the curse a real thing. And Posy had a horrible feeling that she might have been a part of that.

‘You promised the fans you’d cast a Dahlia who knew and loved the books,’ Posy said, remembering what Ashok had said. ‘Why did you pick me?’

‘Because I wanted out. If I wasn’t going to get to do this my way, why do it at all? Why not burn the whole thing down for another generation?’

‘I was part of your curse.’ Posy looked at her hands, trying to breathe through the nausea rising in her at the idea. ‘Of course I was.’

If he’d quit, the production company would have replaced him. That wasn’t enough for him, Posy realised. He wanted the family to pull the plug completely.

‘You were perfect for ending this film once and for all. Everyone knows your story. How long could it be before you screwed up? I figured your first drugs or drink binge in the papers would be all it took for the family to decide you were sullying Lettice’s reputation.’ Now his secret was out, Anton seemed happy to revel in the drama, telling the tale of how his talent had been betrayed, and how he’d fought back. ‘I even got photos, before we offered you the part. In case no one else bothered enough to follow you around with a camera these days. You, falling out of your ex-boyfriend’s flat, high as a kite. Didn’t take much to convince him to lead you astray one last time, I might mention. I was going to let you screw up here, alienate the fans, then release them next week to put that final nail in the coffin. But here you are! Wearing the god-awful tea dresses I was sure you’d baulk at, and reading Lettice’s bloody autobiography!’