‘But this is why we’re here, isn’t it?’ Viola had argued, as steadily as she could, not wanting to give away how desperate she was to escape the confines of the farmstead and her mother’s company. ‘It’s safe here, we know that. I can wander where I want.’

Deborah Kendrick had given a reluctant nod – heading out herself to turn the lumpy soil and mark out vegetable beds, cursing at the midges and the slugs as she went.

At the end of the farmstead’s dirt track, Viola turned right and headed towards the East Bay. She had entertained thoughts of paddling along the shore, combing the line of seaweed for interesting shells. That was before she’d discovered the true close-up violence of the waves; the bay could only be enjoyed as a view, from the raised lawn above.

Sometimes she trekked across the green estate land that spilled down from the Big House upon its rocky promontory, the acreage sectioned by woodland, given over in part to allotments. There she came upon a small cluster of stables and two enclosures for dogs, Dot greeting her fellow animals with sharp, delighted barks. There were half a dozen muscular beagles in one pen, and in the other, two grey-faced whippets with hostage eyes. Viola had reached over to caress the long, smooth nose of one of the whippets, while its companion leant against the fencing, trying to access the warmth of her thigh.

‘What are you doing?’ a man had bellowed at her, striding across the stable yard, making Viola’s hand fly guiltily away. He was a thin, stooped shape beneath his waxed jacket and khaki trousers. Old – though not quite granddad age, with a wiry beard, almost white.

‘I’m just stroking them,’ she’d said, and though he had made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t welcome, Viola tried to keep the conversation going, realising only then how hungry she was for talk. She asked if the dogs were working animals? (Yes, the beagles for the hunt, the whippets for catching rats) and if they had to stay in their pens at all other times (they did).

‘Isn’t that a bit cruel?’ she went on, gently, politely. ‘I mean, doesn’t it make them sad?’

The man snorted. ‘You talk like they have souls.’ He leant over the pen, as if checking what damage she might have caused.

‘Souls?’ Viola was taken aback at the swift philosophical turn of their conversation but pressed on. ‘And don’t they?’ she asked. ‘Have souls?’

He laughed at the question. He hadn’t been speaking philosophically at all, it seemed, only stating the facts as he saw them, but Viola’s sincere response had a sobering effect. He went from delivering a firm stare to looking anywhere but at her face.

‘I should get going, if I were you. You don’t want any trouble.’

‘Trouble from who?’ she wondered aloud.

‘The gamekeeper.’