‘No,’ I reply slowly, lost in thought. As soon as Colin Watts opened his mouth, after being shot, he sounded – well, middle class. He didn’t say ‘foine’ or ‘loike’. He was like one of those women who wake up after a general anaesthetic… speaking German. ‘I think he’ll probably give it to Serena,’ I say.

Granville is now sitting like a bump on a log, staring into the moving currents of the peaty river, as they stream away from the bubbling headwaters of the hills, and widen their way south to the level sea.

‘Why do you say that?’ asks Rose. ‘I don’t think Serena does cake. Have you ever seen her eat carbs?’

‘No, but she definitely wants something of his inside her, don’t you think?’ I answer, and Rose and I have to hide our cackles.

When we get back into the Land Rovers to return to Court Place, it is in time for, no less, the fourth meal in six hours. No one exactly starves, I can say that much, during a day’s shooting.

After tea, I field a call from Home Farm on my mobile, which was trilling inside my pocket for ages before I noticed. I’ve almost given up on mobiles as there’s never any signal. (‘No, Mirabel,’ I say, answering the call. ‘I am sorry to report that your father and I have not, strangely enough, been at a shoot as in fashion shoot.’)

Ralph is very glum. When I prod him to tell me why he looks so gloomy, he just says, ‘One doesn’t talk about these things, Mimi. No point. Especially when it’s a beater. It’s – just – so much worse to shoot a beater than another gun.’

The head keeper comes up as we are massing to depart in front of the house, braced to issue effusive thanks to the Cobbs. He looks grave. We all gather round, in case it’s news of Colin, whose welfare is suddenly very dear to our hearts. He takes out a scrap from a pocket, and he looks to Granville with a bright look on his face, a look that speaks of earlier worries banished as the day unfolded: would the guns pop vainly at the cracking high birds his beaters were driving over them? Would the birds all disappear without warning or explanation? Would there be enough lead in the air when the birds were coming thick and fast? ‘That makes two hundred and forty pheasant, sir, sixteen duck, and eight partridge. And one beater,’ he then adds, hanging his head.

‘It’s not your fault, Mike.’ Granville claps the head keeper on the shoulder.

‘Pardon me, sir, it was, sir. It was on my watch, on my shoot,’ the head keeper says. ‘I thought if Jeff stood with Mr Max, then…’