Then the door pushes open again, and a murmur ripples through the chairs and the crowd of people who can’t find chairs who stand down the sides and at the back. A uniformed officer stands uncertainly in the doorway.

‘Aha,’ says Harvey. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he pauses for effect, ‘Superintendent.’ Then he addresses the sea of sage in field clothing again, now whispering on their rickety seats. The tension has gone up by several notches. ‘We have a representative from the West Dorset Constabulary.’ He nods to the policeman. ‘Thanks for coming, Jim. We don’t want to, ah, hold you lornger than is strictly necessary.’ The room erupts into claps and stomps, and Harvey raises a warning hand. ‘We’ve gort to at least try to keep it calm, please,’ he says, in clipped tones.

‘Before we do move orn, though, I have some information. Henry Pike, the Master, and Martin Thomas were arrested in their homes in the early morning last week, as you know. The constabulary had been supplied with apparent evidence of breaches of the Hunting Act. This evidence came in the shape of a video.’

A low susurrus starts as this news breaks over the room.

‘Quiet, please. I’m almost finished, and then Superintendent Jim Moore will be happy to address your concerns for twenty minutes about rural security, poaching, car thefts and so on, which I know many of you here are very anxious to air.’ He holds aloft a long arm, like Caesar quelling the crowd in the Circus Maximus, and the room falls silent again.

‘The video had been filmed in the meadow above Spodden’s Hatch at Larcombe Foot. It was possible to see the blue flash of a pheasant feeder in one frame. And that is all I am allowed to say at present.’ Then Harvey moves on to the subject of the windmill and outlines procedures for the remainder of the meeting, and tells us by what date we have to get our letters in to the district council, and to whom they should be addressed, and the reference number. He then introduces Ned, who needs no introduction. At which Ned rises to his feet.

‘I’d like to thank you all for coming,’ he says, which I think strikes an odd note. After all, we aren’t there to please him. We are there because we want to manifest our concern about his plans to put up a huge windmill on the hill. As you are all aware, Godminster Hall, in consort with our charity, the GodLitFest, or the Godminster Literary Festival, has submitted a planning application to erect one – I repeat just one – wind turbine on Hamble Hill.’

Around me, I can sense the adamantine opposition of the audience to every syllable, and I almost feel for Ned. I’ve come to the meeting with an open mind; but I sense I am in a minority of two.