He grinned toothily back.

The kennels were at the far end of the common, down a bumpy little track which terminated in a farmyard. Two functional, breeze-block enclosures for the hounds ran in parallel lines down either side of a pristine yard, and a white Victorian cottage crouched at the far end. One or two dogs bayed a welcome as I arrived, but most were sleepy and silent. I drove through the yard and parked right outside the house, where I would be able to see Archie, who was now asleep. But as I got out I realized it looked a bit arrogant, parking so close to the windows. I was about to go and move the car, when I saw Mark himself was sitting on the front doorstep watching me, so it was too late. One of the hounds was upside down between his legs, and he appeared to be doing something to its paw. I approached nervously as he regarded me, tweezers poised. The hound wriggled briefly, but was instantly limp and submissive after a curt word from Mark. I stood before him.

‘I’ve come to apologize. My horse kicked Peddler and I panicked and didn’t tell anyone. I meant to, really I did, but everything happened so quickly and I realized I’d committed the worst sin and I lost my bottle. I’m so ashamed and so sorry I killed your hound.’

He continued his steady gaze, his dark eyes in his smooth brown face like two bright pieces of coal.

‘You’re Peter Mortimer’s daughter, aren’t you?’ he said eventually in his slow, country brogue.

‘That’s right. D’you know Dad?’

‘Everyone knows your dad. Where d’you think we get our horses from? That bay of yours could make a decent enough hunter, but he should have told you it kicks.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t know.’

‘It’s his job to know. I’ll take it off the price of the next one I buy from him. I’ve told him as much. It’s all right, he’s already rung.’

‘Dad has?’

He nodded. Resumed his inspection of the paw which I could see, close up, had a huge thorn in it. He removed it carefully with the tweezers and glanced back at me.

‘I appreciate your coming, love. And your dad ringing. There’s many that wouldn’t.’

‘Oh.’ I felt a wave of a relief. A slight easing from the hook. ‘But you were very fond of him,’ I said anxiously. ‘Peddler. I was told he was your favourite.’

‘Doesn’t do to have favourites. But he’d been with me the longest. Was the oldest and boldest, certainly. The most disobedient too.’ He grinned, briefly revealing very yellow teeth.

‘Oh, really?’

‘Why d’you think he was on his own? Little bugger, sloping off like that, away from the pack. Couple of weeks ago, out cubbing, we was drawing your woods near Massingham, and we lost him. Eventually found him with some scruffy mongrel with a huge plastic collar, giving her a good seeing-to.’

Blimey. Leila.

‘He was an old rogue and make no mistake,’ he told me. ‘And no doubt he’d been somewhere else he shouldn’t when he slunk back and your horse kicked him. Wouldn’t surprise me if he died with a smile on his face. Perhaps that’s why I liked him so much, the scoundrel.’ He got to his feet, releasing the hound who twisted himself the right way up and leaped instantly to put his paws on Mark’s shoulders and lick his face frantically.

‘Things die in the country, love,’ he said, pushing the hound down. ‘Badgers on the road, deer caught in wire. There’s carrion and carnage wherever you look. Don’t fret about it.’

I sighed gratefully. Didn’t speak, but felt lighter, less hunched.

‘And as I say, I’ve told your dad I’ll be having a discount next time.’ He was clearly very pleased with this. ‘And he wasn’t snitching on you, neither. As a matter of fact I already knew it was you, and he knew I knew, which was why he rang.’

I nodded, the Chinese whispers of the horsy world anathema to me; irrelevant too, so long as all was well.

‘Cup of tea?’ he asked as he turned to go inside. I glanced back at the car. ‘He’s asleep,’ he assured me, ‘and you’ll see him from the window.’

‘Thanks.’ I followed him in, surprised and pleased. I only knew Mark Harrison by repute, but knew enough to know he didn’t suffer fools, or even court much human company. And that he commanded huge respect. He was of indeterminate age, anywhere from a raddled thirty to a sprightly fifty, and a countryman like my dad; the type of man who, despite loving animals passionately, was no-nonsense and unsentimental about them – in my father’s case reserving his sentimentality for other things. But if I’d been expecting a carbon copy of my father’s living arrangements inside, I was surprised. Mark’s house was as neat as a pin. No saddles, bridles and whisky bottles littered proceedings here, just an immaculate three-piece suite with plumped-up cushions, a well-vacuumed carpet, and a row of gleaming glasses on the sideboard. The only hint that this was a horsy household were the banks of framed photographs on one wall: hounds, horses, puppy shows – some accompanied by rosettes, and very occasionally, people.

As he disappeared to boil the kettle, I crossed the room to study them. Beautiful hunters with hounds at their feet, puppies with raised tails and keen eyes; Mark as a young man, looking almost exactly the same as he did now, those sharp bright eyes in the smooth face, the clothes and the quality of the print the only hint the snap was taken some time ago. Some of the smaller ones were black and white, presumably from his father’s era: men in Harris tweeds and voluminous breeches. One photo, small and in colour, albeit faded by the sun, caught my eye. It was of a group of young people in their late teens or early twenties: a very pretty girl in dark glasses, two young men, one on either side of her, one of whom was Mark, and one …

‘Is that Sam Hetherington?’ I pointed in surprise at the boy with long hair, in jeans and a T-shirt, as Mark came back with a couple of mugs. He handed one to me and followed my gaze.

‘Day after his twenty-first birthday, aye. We’d tied one on the night before, make no mistake. Look at our eyes – like piss holes in the snow.’ He gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘We had a lot of fun together, Sam and me.’ He sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘His father was the master, just as Sam is now, and my dad the huntsman.’ He pointed to a black and white photo of two men in hunting coats, taken outside a manor house years ago. ‘This cottage was part of the Mulverton estate then. Not now, though.’ He smiled. ‘I bought it off him, didn’t I? Sam was grateful too, he’s that strapped for cash. Death duties hit that family hard,’ he said grimly.

‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

‘That’s why he went back to America, to make some dosh.’

I held my breath. Somehow I felt if I was quiet, I might hear more. I was aware there was a lot I didn’t know and wanted to. But Mark was a taciturn man, and eventually I had to prod.

‘You knew him when you were little?’

‘Oh yeah, Sam and I grew up together. Played every single day as kids, and then he went away to school. Boarding, you know. But we rode and drank in the pubs all holidays long when he was back, until he went to New York, that is. It was one of them relationships the liberal luvvies wouldn’t understand; too feudal for them. They wouldn’t get their anxious little brains round me being in hunt service and him being lord of the manor. But it worked. Still does. He’s a good man, Sam. One of the best. Too bad his wife pissed off with that Chad Armitage.’

I turned. Stared at him. ‘What?’

‘I said too bad his wife did a runner with his best friend. There, that’s her, see?’ He jabbed a finger at a photo, and I turned back as if in a trance. He pointed out the pretty girl in the dark glasses. Very short hair, an elfin cut. Of course, it was Hope. Smiling coolly, confidently at the camera, two hungover lads beside her grinning sheepishly. Her chin was raised, her weight on the back foot. I turned back to Mark.

‘Hope was Sam’s wife?’

‘Briefly, yes. They were all at Harvard together. Sam and Hope got married very young, not long after that photo was taken, in fact, then she fell for his best friend, Chad. He took that picture. Anyway, she divorced Sam and married him instead.’

‘But …’ I was flabbergasted. Tried to marshal my thoughts. ‘But they’re all such friends. They all live near each other, ride out together, hunt –’

‘Oh, it all happened years ago. Chad and Hope have been together for ages now, got two kids, and Sam didn’t want to lose Chad’s friendship. When he was in the States, Chad’s family was like his own. He stayed with them in the holidays – the Hamptons and all that. And he’s a nice guy, Chad. But that Hope. She reels him in occasionally, you know?’

‘Who – Sam?’

‘That’s it.’

My mind raced. ‘But – why come back here, then? Why be near her?’

‘Perhaps he needs to be.’ He gave me that steady look again. ‘The Armitages came over here first because of Chad’s work. Bought a house in London, then a weekend cottage out here, because of course Hope knew the area from her days with Sam; it was only natural. Then Sam announces he’s leaving London too, dismisses the tenants, and takes over the reins at the Hall again, something he said he’d never do. Funny that.’

‘Because he can’t bear to be away from her?’ I breathed.

Mark shrugged. ‘Who knows? Not my business.’ He winked. ‘You learn a lot on the hunting field, though. Surprised your mate Angie hasn’t told you all this, but then again, she probably doesn’t know. She wasn’t about in the old days, although she acts like she was born and bred in the saddle.’