It was an error of judgement which resulted in a death. It took place in the autumn before the outbreak of what used to be known as the Great War.

The countryside of Oxfordshire includes some areas of flat meadowland, watered by slow winding rivers and abundantly wooded. A broad band of clay soil stretches from the Gloucestershire border near Lechlade across Oxfordshire as far as the Buckinghamshire border beyond Bicester. The River Thames flows eastward through this clay country and a few miles before it reaches Oxford, where it turns south, it runs for some distance beside a belt of mixed woodland where it forms the boundary of Nettleby Park, an estate which belonged in 1913 to Sir Randolph Nettleby, Baronet, a country gentleman.

‘Rooks and Wood Pigeons. I forget unless I’ve been away what a constant background murmur they keep up – that and the sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel or in the stableyard, the smell of damp leaves and woodsmoke, the sound of bees. The house is full of insects coming in to lay their eggs or die or both; you see them on sunny days in front of all the windows on the south side of the house, bees and a few wasps and hundreds of tiny fruit flies. The servants are always opening and shutting windows and flapping at them with dusters. There are butterflies too, Red Admirals and Peacocks, perched on the window frames; and for that matter harvest mice coming in for the winter. “With a house full of people,” Minnie says, “it is too much.” I sometimes wish the mice and the flies would keep the people away. Minnie likes a house full, especially after a fortnight in Marienbad, which may or may not improve her liver but invariably increases her appetite for society. If they must come at least they can say they get some decent shooting. If I can do nothing else I can play the part of head gamekeeper.’

‘You are always writing in that big black notebook, Grandpapa.’

‘It’s my Game Book. Well, part of it is my Game Book. Part of it is my thoughts. It’s not a bad idea to get in the habit of writing down one’s thoughts. It saves one having to bother anyone else with them.’

‘I hate writing.’

‘That is because you are not very good at it. Very few people like doing what they are not very good at.’

‘I am very good at drawing.’

‘Here is a piece of paper and a pencil. You can draw me a nice picture of a hare while I finish making up the records for the day.’

The child bent her head obediently over the paper and Sir Randolph turned to the other end of the notebook. ‘Pheasants 612,’ he wrote, ‘Hares 12, Rabbits 22, Woodcock 2 … Lord Hartlip, Mr Ormston, Mr Harry Stamp (“Stupid ass,” he muttered) Count Rakassyi’ …

Rogers was there, the butler.

‘Tea is in the drawing room, Sir Randolph.’