‘Already? All down already are they? People seem to change their clothes quicker every day – do you suppose they’ve given up washing, Violet? What d’you think about that?’

‘I believe Nanny would like Miss Violet in the nursery.’

‘Off you go then. Let’s see the picture first. Not got very far, has it? Only one line.’

‘It’s a very long line.’

‘You need more than one line to make a hare.’

‘My hairs are only one line.’ She chose one carefully and pulled it out. ‘Look.’

The park itself was very large in those days, nearly a thousand acres (about an eighth of the whole estate), surrounded by a wood and protected on the outerside by a wall, except where the river formed the boundary. The depth of the belt of trees varied; there were also small woods and clumps of trees within the park, some predominately of oak and ilex, others with Scots firs growing among the deciduous trees. Most of this planting had been done about a century before by Sir Randolph’s grandfather, an early enthusiast for the then much less sophisticated sport of shooting game.

Also within the confines of the park was the Home Farm, which included some arable fields, and immediately outside the walls on two sides were fields of corn, turnips and clover. In the autumn the pheasants reared in the spring and early summer by Glass the gamekeeper fed on the stubble, a few partridges alongside them.

Darkness was falling by the time Glass reached his cottage, having seen to the temporary storage of the game which would later be distributed among the tenantry or Sir Randolph’s local friends. Glass’s wife had died five years ago and he lived alone with his only son, Dan.

He unhooked a piece of sacking from outside the back door and dried the legs and underparts of his two retrievers. The bitch pushed herself forward to be dried first, groaning gently to show her appreciation as he rubbed her chest and stomach, and waving her feathery tail as she tried to lick his face. The less demonstrative Sam was easier to deal with. Glass led the way to their kennel, a brick building on the other side of the yard with iron railings in front of it and room for many more dogs than just Sam and Bess. He checked that Dan had put out their food bowls and given them a fresh supply of water, then locked their gate and went back to the cottage, pausing to run his muddy boots under the outside tap before going in.

Dan was standing in front of the kitchen stove in his stockinged feet, eating a bun. With him was John Page’s daughter Flo, wearing a woollen cloak and holding a basket.

‘Mum said to tell you Dad’s back is bad again. He’ll not be able to beat for you tomorrow.’

‘Darn it. That back of his. Can’t Doctor West do anything for it? Is he off work too, then? Not much use in a sawmill with a bad back, I suppose. What’s this then?’