I sat and joined them in a far better picnic than our own, but I couldn’t really enjoy the cold pheasant or the Melton Mowbray pies or Stilton, because I couldn’t shake off the thought that the very people I was trying to avoid were now going to be with me in the country.

We set off again. I stared at their Armstrong Siddeley as it drove ahead of us. Could it possibly be my Celtic sixth sense that made me feel uneasy the moment they arrived?

This was all so ridiculous. These were people I had known for most of my life. I told myself that I was overreacting. All those accidents this past week had been accidents, nothing more sinister. I had read more into them because of the body in the bath and because I was alone and out of my element. I was now going to have a few days of ease and fun and try to forget what had happened to poor Binky and me.

The more powerful Armstrong Siddeley left us behind and we puttered along leafy byways. At last Tristram slowed the car and pointed. “There, through the trees. That’s Eynsleigh. Do you remember it?”

I looked down a long graceful driveway lined with plane trees. Beyond was a rambling Tudor mansion in red and white brick. Happy memories stirred. I had ridden up that driveway on a fat little pony called Squibs. And Sir Hubert had made me a tree house.

“I can understand why you love it so much,” I said. “I remember it as a very happy place.”

We drove on and were soon approaching yet another lovely house. This one was Farlows, home of the Mountjoys. It was Georgian, with elegant lines, its balustrade crowned with classical marble statues. There was a colonnade of more statues along the driveway.

“Quite an impressive showing, don’t you think?” Tristram said. “There is obviously money in the arms game. There’s always a war somewhere. Even the statues look violent, don’t they? Even more alarming than that fierce angel at your place.”

We passed an ornamental lake with fountains playing and came to a halt beside a flight of marble steps, leading to the front door. Liveried servants came out immediately, murmuring, “Welcome, m’lady,” as they whisked away my luggage. At the top of the steps I was received by the butler. “Good afternoon, my lady. May I be permitted to say how sorry I was to read of His Grace’s current plight. Lady Mountjoy is awaiting you in the long gallery if you’d care to take tea.”

I was back in a world where I knew the rules. I followed the butler through to the long gallery, where Whiffy and his party were already attacking the crumpets with Imogen Mountjoy. Several older people were seated together. I recognized Whiffy’s parents among them. Lady Mountjoy stood up and came to greet me.