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parkland and, scattered throughout the island, the remaining traces of anti-tank walls, gun emplacements, artillery direction-finding towers, restored for the amusement and amazement of tourists.
    And perhaps it was even earlier presences. For Sydney, the island was indeed full of strange noises: the ancient witches’ colony at L’Erée, the fairies emerging from caverns like Creux ès Faies to dance at Le Mont Saint or le Catioroc on the western coastline. At first she had been intrigued by the stories told by the tour guide who had taken members of the film company round the island, but all they did after a few days was feed her depression — which, she knew, had nothing to do with Guernsey, past or present. She felt a shiver of apprehension.
    â€œI shall turn around this corner,” she thought, “and everything will change. The world I knew will be gone forever.”
    She came around the corner into a blaze of light, so strong after the half-light of dawn that she was dazzled for a moment. As her vision cleared, she saw that the broad terrace that ran the length of the manor was floodlit by one of the arc lamps used on the movie, perched high on one of the huge Sky King cranes brought in from Rome. In the half-shadows around the periphery were gathered all the people she had expected to see in the courtyard: electricians, extras, grips. But there was hardly a sound.
    â€œThey must be shooting,” she thought.
    Sydney looked around for the director, Mario Bianchi, and caught a glimpse of his dark ponytail and tall, slender figure under the lights, huddled with another tall man she didn’t immediately recognize. The man turned, and she saw it was the detective inspector with the interesting face who had come to the hotel the night before.
    Of course, the business with the costumes. Betty Chesler, the costume designer, must have insisted. As Sydney approached the outskirts of the crowd, one of the men turned and saw her.
    â€œSydney! Where’s Gil?”
    It was Betty’s assistant, Eddie Christy, minus his usual cheeky chappy expression. He looked haggard and nervous.
    â€œUsing the facilities. What scene are they shooting?”
    â€œOh my God, love — you don’t know?”
    â€œKnow what? Gil’s here for the meeting about the rewrite, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œSome rewrite, darling.”
    Over his shoulder, Sydney caught sight of a figure on the ground, slumped in an unnatural position against the parapet of the terrace. A man wearing what looked like a white lab coat was taking photographs of him — stills presumably, for he certainly wasn’t carrying a movie camera.
    â€œWho —?”
    As she started her question, the crowd suddenly parted, and Sydney saw the impressive figure of the Marchesa Donatella Vannoni, clutching the arm of Monty Lord’s assistant producer, Piero Bonini. As she came closer, Sydney saw that the figure on the ground had the dark, curly hair and smooth bronze skin of the marchesa’s son-in-law, the location manager, Toni Albarosa. She also saw the handle of the dagger through his chest glistening under the arc light.
    Vertigo hit her. She swayed, and Eddie Christy grabbed her and called out, “Someone, anyone, get a chair!”
    A chair was provided and the crowd parted again.
    â€œMs. Tremaine — where’s your husband? Is he with you?”
    Above her she saw the detective inspector’s face, his grey eyes urgent.
    â€œHe should be — oh God, you don’t think —?”
    Was the policeman suggesting whoever this maniac was might still be around, and that Gil might be in danger? As Sydney turned around in her chair to see Piero Bonini and the marchesa walking toward the manor together, from the darkness beyond the floodlit terrace came the unmistakable roar of her husband throwing a tantrum.
    Anxiety changed to relief. Gil had come around the corner and seen Monty