“Didn’t you? Thought everybody called him Jumbo.”

“Not his junior officers,” the colonel said.

I had been riding at the back of the group, since Snowflake reputedly loathed other horses, and I had had a chance to observe the others. I watched the colonel now. Shouldn’t someone with the Bengal Lancers have a better seat? I wondered. Wouldn’t half his days be spent in the saddle? And why didn’t he know the nickname of his brigadier? And why did nobody know him if he’d previously had a house in the area? Something I had heard came back to me—that one of the escaped convicts had had a music hall act in which he had played, among other things, an elderly colonel. Could he possibly be hiding out under our noses playing the part of the colonel again? In which case, who was the woman with him, posing as his wife, since we’d been told the convict’s wife had committed suicide when he was sent to prison? At least it would be worth mentioning my suspicions to Inspector Newcombe. Then I had to turn my attention to the matters at hand as another horse approached Snowflake and she danced away, eyes rolling. Final stragglers arrived, including Johnnie Protheroe on a fine-looking hunter and the Sechrests, also well turned out and riding with flair.

“Here we are, Master, all present and correct,” Johnnie said, touching his crop to his cap.

“No high jinks this time, young Protheroe,” the master said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Master.” Johnnie grinned as he swung his horse into the group. The horn was sounded. The last stirrup cups were drained. The hounds, who had been sniffing around, tails wagging, suddenly were all business, moving off excitedly.

“Off we go, then,” the master shouted, turning back to us. “And remember, it’s dashed misty out there. I don’t want anyone winding up in a bog. And if we go anywhere near Lovey Tor, stay well to the right of Barston Mere. Nasty bog on the far side. Got it? Jolly good.”