The moonlight was very bright, the shadows of the house and the trees were black and sharply defined. She took a spade from an old pig sty which she used as a shed and began to dig a grave in the garden, underneath the daffodils. The earth was hard and stony, and it took her longer than she had expected. She laid the cats inside and was stamping the earth down on top of the grave when a car went past her, along the road by the reservoir.

Marcus Grenville, on his way home from London to spend a weekend in his constituency, saw Ursula Ottway, caught in the outside light of her cottage, a spade in one hand, bending over the black earth. To someone less preoccupied with his own concerns, less self satisfied, she would have been an object of some curiosity, and anxiety. She had always been eccentric. Perhaps this showed she was a danger to herself. Marcus Grenville, however, took some pleasure in the old lady’s bizarre behaviour. He had wanted to get Ursula out of Back Rigg for years. He pulled into the side of the road and watched her. She stood, quite still, looking over the lake, her head bowed.

‘What’s the old witch up to now?’ he said to himself, not really caring, only glad of this indication that she was mad as a coot, and needed locking up.

Ursula was thinking that she could not possibly wait for George and Molly before taking action.

Chapter Two

Marie Liddle hardly moved from the kitchen at Keeper’s Cottage all day. Vic came in for his dinner at twelve and she had soup and bread ready for him. He ate in silence but she could tell he was worried.

‘Have you had a good morning?’ she asked carefully.

He shrugged. ‘Bloody busy,’ he said. Then, ‘It’s not Jeremy’s fault. He’s only doing what his old man tells him. But this should be a quiet time.’

They had hoped for some improvement when Jeremy Grenville had taken over the management of the estate from his father. They both liked Jeremy, had done since he was a lad. But if anything the situation was more awkward now. Marcus Grenville interfered and Vic was caught in the middle, given conflicting instructions by both men. He had never got on with Marcus Grenville but with him as boss at least there had been a certain security. You knew where you were. Now it seemed he could do nothing right.

‘Mr Grenville phoned from London this morning,’ he said bitterly, ‘with a list of instructions as long as your arm. There’ll be some important visitors up at the weekend, he said. He’ll be hosting a Conservation Conference at the house. He doesn’t want any mistakes. It’s a bloody liberty. And I could tell Jeremy didn’t like it.’