‘We were having a terrific run,’ he went on. ‘Lester was at the back. All I heard was the cry go up to call an ambulance.’

Pax clambered inside, the high-pitched growl of her mother’s sports car still just audible as Ronnie raced away through the village, heading north towards Coventry where Lester had been taken by air ambulance.

‘From what I can gather,’ Bay’s voice continued out of sight as she let down the breech bars, ‘a hunt monitor jumped out of a hedge with a camera as the field cantered past; Lester’s chap swerved to avoid trampling her and bashed against a tree. The old boy sat it out, but the bump must have cracked a hip. First anyone knew about it was after the hounds checked and we realised Lester had turned grey and was having an asthma attack. Stayed in the saddle throughout. Your grandfather would have been proud. You here alone?’ He watched her reverse the cob out.

Guessing Luca must still be asleep in the tack room, Pax was reluctant to involve the puritanical Horsemaker in a crisis so soon after his arrival, still less to introduce him to inveterate gossip, Bay, toxically privileged and pro-bloodsports, who would doubtless spread news far and wide that Ronnie’s stud man looked like a long-lost Bee Gee.

‘I’ll stay until there’s news, if you like?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She led the cob past him. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back?’

‘I’m not field master today, so I’m all yours.’

Pax felt her indignation smoulder. ‘You push off. I’m fine.’

She could hear the ramp going quickly back up behind them, grateful that the supporters would be too keen to get back to their sport to linger for tea and talk.

But Bay was in no hurry, holding open the stable door and watching as she started untacking. ‘How’s the cold?’

‘Much better.’

‘You look deathly.’

‘Thanks.’ All the toxins in Pax’s body from months of deep-vein tears, booze and cortisol seemed to be pumping through her heart.

‘That husband of yours isn’t looking after you properly. You should be tucked up in bed with a hot toddy.’

‘Mack’s in Scotland.’ She heaved at the girth straps, keeping her face turned away, feelings veering wildly between murderous and martyred.

‘Apart for New Year?’

‘Couldn’t be helped.’

‘When’s he back?’

She paused too long, wondering. Would she have to drive up there to confront him, to fetch Kes home? ‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘You think?’ He toyed with the word, loading it with playful insinuation.

She nodded, throwing the girth over the saddle, increasingly uncomfortable with the cross-examination, which Bay was predictably turning into adulterous speed dating.

‘So you’re on your own tonight?’

She blanked this.

‘Why don’t we catch up later over a drink?’

‘Time to go, Bay.’ She gave him a weary smile, unbuckling the cob’s breastplate.

The hunt supporters were back in their pickup, engine running, checking their phones while they waited for the Wolds’ master.

He was scrutinising her face closely now. ‘You’re not sleeping well.’