Godfrey had dropped by at three to check how I was getting on and gave me a potted history of the vineyard. Ted had been in the police force and in his spare time he’d learned how to grow grapes and make wine, taking Betsy on wine holidays across Europe and researching which varieties would grow in Fernfield’s sandy soil. His dream had always been to establish a vineyard as soon as he retired. Planting had taken place over a period of years, with a team of workers from Belgium arriving each spring to do the hard work. Once the vines had matured enough to produce a viable crop, Ted got the chance to use his winery for the first time. Since bottling his first vintage seven years ago, making wine had become Ted’s raison d’être. He’d always been an introvert: not keen on parties or socializing or even holidays if there wasn’t an educational point to them.

From that first vintage, Butterworth Wines had become better and better until, according to Godfrey, the sparkling wine, made in the traditional champagne method, could give any French fizz a run for its money.

Before he left, Godfrey had written down the names of all the volunteers and their phone numbers and by five o’clock I felt like I was beginning to get to grips with the task ahead of me.

I went back to The Stables, poured myself a cold drink and sat down on the doorstep to gather my thoughts.

Butterworth Wines had always been a family business, but apart from Marjorie and Betsy, there didn’t seem to be any family around to carry it on and although I’d never met him, I reckoned that that would have been a disappointment to Ted. Betsy seemed to have her mind fixed solely on the next six months; I wondered what she was planning to do after that, and what, if any, thoughts she’d had on what to do with the full tanks of wine needing attention in the winery right now. I finished my drink and got to my feet; there was only one way to find out.

I rang the doorbell but couldn’t hear it chime so I knocked on Betsy’s front door instead. I tried a couple of times but there was no reply. I knocked one last time for luck and was about to give up and walk away when I heard approaching footsteps.

‘All right, all right, where’s the fire?’ Betsy chuntered crossly before opening the door.

She had a crease on one cheek and her hair, usually so immaculate, was fluffy on one side and had partly escaped from the clip at the back. She stretched her eyes as if adjusting to the daylight.

‘I’m so sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Good heavens, no,’ she said, appalled. ‘Asleep at four o’clock in the afternoon? Not me.’