They went around to the stables and soon a procession came out. Lady Hawse-Gorzley led the way on a magnificent bay hunter, then Monty and Bunty. Behind them rode the colonel on a large, almost black hunter I presumed must be Sultan, and then Badger on a round animal not much bigger than a pony. Darcy came out and gave me a look as he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle of the warhorse. It snorted and pawed a couple of times but it was quite clear that it recognized Darcy as the master. He tried to ride over to join me but Snowflake backed away.

“Them two don’t like each other much,” the groom called. “Leastways, she don’t like no other horses at all. Like I said, a right cow.”

“I’d come and say good morning, but I think I’d better not,” Darcy called as Snowflake skittered again. “Will you be all right?”

“As long as no horses come near me and nothing else spooks her, I suppose so,” I called back, trying to sound more breezy than I felt.

“Off we go, then,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley called and we set off down the drive and through the village, our hoofbeats echoing dramatically through the misty stillness. Nothing else stirred as we passed the green. The villagers were enjoying sleeping late for once. The road took us over the hill and through deserted moorland until we heard the baying of hounds and the clatter of harnesses ahead of us and came to a lonely pub where the hunt was assembling, a splendid-looking mass of red and black coats and well-groomed horses. There were already a good number of riders and spectators assembled and the publican was going among them passing out stirrup cups of hot grog. My cheeks and fingers were already stinging with cold and I needed no second urging to drink one myself.

“Ah, Lady H-G, you’ve brought your guests, I see.” A dapper little man with a Ronald Coleman mustache rode up to us. He was mounted on a good-looking gray and both rider and horse were immaculate.

“Good of you to let them join us, Master,” she said.

“Well, let’s hope they all know how to ride, what? And the rules of the hunt. I’m a stickler for rules, as you should know.”

“I do, Master. Believe me, I do,” she said and turned back to the rest of us. “This is our master of hounds, Major Wesley-Parker. Major, this is Colonel Rathbone. Do you military men know each other, by any chance?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” the major said, extending a hand to the colonel. “Which regiment, sir?”

“Bengal Lancers. Finest fighting force in India,” the colonel said.

“Bengal Lancers, what? Then you must know old Jumbo!”

“Jumbo?”

Everybody knows old Jumbo.” He paused. “Jumbo Bretherton, the brigadier.”

“Oh, Brigadier Bretherton,” the colonel said. “I never knew him as Jumbo.”