Her cheek and the back of her hand were streaming with blood; the clean handkerchief – the taking of which and the placing in her pocket or sleeve was so much a part of morning ritual that even on this morning, when she had come out uncorseted and stockingless, it had been performed – was tucked into her sleeve. She took it out, unfolded it and dabbed at her wounds. As she did so she looked towards the dogs again and felt sick and realized that one of the sheep had put its full weight on her stomach. She bent over and retched with the painful, empty-bellied sickness of the last stages of mal de mer. But her mind was active. One part of it noted that the sheep, lately so terrified, had sensed that the victim had been selected; the rest, the lucky ones, had circled the pond and reached the herbage on the far side. They were placidly feeding. The other part of her mind registered a recognition of one of the dogs. It was called Lassie and belonged to Mr Frisby. Miss Benson had once invited Miss Mayfield home to tea with her, and the dog had been there. ‘Marvellous with cattle,’ Mr Frisby had said, ‘though it’s a sheep dog, really.’ Miss Benson had called it a sentimental booby with a complex about being a lap dog, and Mrs Frisby had said it shed hairs over everything.

The other dog was a great gaunt mongrel, like a greyhound with a rough coat. A complete stranger.

Something – she never knew what – made Miss Mayfield strike a blow for civilization, for the domination of the human animal. Standing there, streaked with blood, shaken and sickened by her battering, she put every ounce of authority she had ever possessed into her voice and called sternly:

‘Lassie!’

The dog raised its head, looked at her and gave one half-apologetic wag of its plumed tail, and then resumed its revolting gorging. It would probably, at this moment, have done no more had its own master called. At least she had made certain of its identity. She turned and staggered away round the pond, threading a path through the placid sheep, noting that now all the weeds and wild flowers were trodden down, and no prints left in the mud anywhere, save those of small scampering hooves.

At the Rectory, Reeve opened the door in answer to her urgent ringing and stood for a moment gaping at her in dismay.

‘Miss Mayfield! What happened to you?’

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I must see the Canon at once!’

‘He is engaged just at present.’

‘Tell him I’m here, will you?’