‘You will keep your opinions to yourself, young man,’ snapped Gwyneth. ‘Calling a dog by a bad name is one thing – accusing him of a crime without proof is quite another. Go and eat your breakfast and leave this to me.’

‘I should come with you,’ said Terence. ‘After all, it’s my car.’

‘You’ll stay here and help your father,’ she replied firmly. ‘There has been an outbreak of food poisoning, and half the male population of Morgan’s Reach is making its way to the hospital.’

She pushed through the screen door and went out on to the dusty veranda. She turned just before she had to negotiate the steps. ‘By the way, Terry, did you leave the spare petrol cans in the boot?’

He groaned and nodded. ‘Two – and one was full.’

‘Then I doubt you’ll see your car again for a good long while,’ she declared. ‘With that much fuel they could bloody well drive to Darwin.’

*

The settlement had been covered in red dust. It lay thickly on the roofs, gardens and verandas, and weighed down the slender branches of the gum trees. Gwyneth eyed the scene with displeasure and stomped up the road, her walking stick tapping in time with her steps. Her shoes and trousers were already stained by the dust that swirled up with every step, and she could taste it on her tongue and feel its grittiness on her skin. At least the wind had stopped, but the heat was already intensifying and it was only just dawn.

She reached the large house the townsfolk had built thirty years before for the lovely old vicar and his family. They had long since gone, and the Reverend Baker had proved to be far less likeable than the previous incumbent – but they were stuck with him until he retired or was moved on by his bishop.

Gwyneth had no compunction about knocking on someone’s door at this time of the morning. The sun was breaching the horizon and only sinners and drunks lazed in bed at this hour.

Frances Baker opened the door a crack and peered through nervously, her grey eyes and wan little face bearing the shadows of a sleepless night and perhaps a deep worry. ‘Mrs Morgan,’ she breathed, clutching her dressing gown to her meagre bosom. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Gwyneth, ‘and I’m not prepared to discuss it with you on the doorstep. Is the reverend in?’

Frances’s expression sharpened and her eyes became fearful. ‘He’s dressing,’ she said nervously, ‘and it is far too early to disturb him.’

Gwyneth was not to be deflected from her mission, and although she felt sorry for this dowdy little woman, she was also impatient with her lack of backbone. She placed her hand on the door, pushed it open and, before the other woman could stop her, she was standing in the wide square hall.