Melrose feared for the lives of Aggrieved, Aghast and Aggro—especially the dog, for Aggro ran around, whereas the horse and the goat merely hung around rubbing against trees and nibbling grass. Aggro loved to herd Aghast and moved the goat in circles. Aghast had little else to do but join in this game. Melrose considered getting another goat to keep Aghast company and make more of an inroad on “herd.”

He wanted to get rid of Momaday and asked Mr. Blodgett if he would consider taking on the role of groundskeeper. “Not that you have actually to ‘keep’ the grounds. We have gardeners to do that, but to chase off the odd poacher” (whom Melrose had never in his life seen, but who Momaday swore was around in order to justify the rifle). Momaday had seen far too many American Westerns, especially Clint Eastwood’s, as he liked to narrow his eyes and blurt out “punk,” a word that must have been reserved for rabbits and squirrels, since he had never actually leveled it at Melrose.

Melrose had heard him say it as he raised his rifle and aimed into the trees: “Punk!” Bam! Fortunately, no lifeform hit the ground, nothing but a little shower of leaves. Melrose had admonished Momaday time and again for shooting rabbits, to which the groundskeeper had replied, “Well, if you want your lettuces et up, okay.”

Lettuces? They were growing lettuce?

So Melrose had offered Mr. Blodgett twice the salary he was getting as a hermit, and Blodgett had said, “But that’s paying me too much, m’lord.”

“‘Too much’ is as the payer assesses the necessity of the job, Mr. Blodgett.”

That made no sense to Blodgett, but he heartily agreed.

Before he left with Aggrieved, Melrose told Ruthven that Richard Jury would be joining them for dinner and that he, Melrose, would be back around five or six from Bucks.

Melrose, having hauled the trailer to Newport Pagnell, found Horsepitality in a huge barn and followed the sound of metal striking metal to a room at the back.

He had expected someone short and wide, not this slim girl with a clear forehead, mint-green eyes and a perfect nose. And then he recalled that Jury hadn’t given a physical description, but had talked about personality and temperament—a female Momaday of sorts: pugnacious, not very friendly and a good shot. That last attribute was not Momadayish, as he was terrible.

The rest of Jury’s description had failed when she said, “May I help you, sir?” The tone was mild, the expression welcoming, the face beautiful if a little soot-blackened.

“You’re Miss Cooke?”

She nodded.

Melrose looked round the place—the fire, the tools, the blowtorch. “You’re very young to be doing this kind of work.”

She smiled. “One has to start somewhere.”