Chapter One

Harry Settle, head keeper of the Blackamoor shoot in North Yorkshire, could not dispel a nagging sense of unease as he looked out over the sea of purple heather. He was always a bit edgy on the Glorious Twelfth, the first day of the shooting season, being naturally concerned, as any field commander would be, that operations should run smoothly. And a grouse shoot is, for all intents and purposes, a highly organized military campaign. The small army of beaters were his infantry, the line of guns concealed in their stone shooting butts his artillery. This year, however, he had something else to worry about.

There had been rumors of a protest by a group of anti-blood sport fanatics, supposedly concerned about cruelty to animals or some such rubbish but dedicated in reality to destroying a way of life they knew nothing about. At least that's the way the old gamekeeper saw it. Last year a gang of them had terrorized a party of Americans on Ilkley Moor and had threatened to strike again this season. He had taken precautions, of course, but young Mr. Dinsdale had made it clear that he would hold him personally responsible should there be any trouble. So far, however, the shoot had gone off without a hitch, with a tally of twenty-six brace of grouse for the three morning drives. A respectable bag for a small shoot like Blackamoor, Settle reckoned with a feeling of pride. And at seventy-five quid a brace from his paying guests, Mr. Dinsdale should be pleased.

His employer had been in typical form at lunch, drinking more wine than he could hold and regaling his guests with off-color stories. It always made Settle cringe with embarrassment. However-in keeping with the occasion-it wa