He finally reached the end of the track and the turn-off to the highway and sat there pondering his options as the exhaust pipe burbled and backfired. He rarely left Morgan’s Reach unless it was with Jake or one of his parishioners and had absolutely no idea which way to go. With the storm closing in, either way was hazardous. If Gwyneth was right, then the boys had taken off in the middle of the night and could be miles away by now. But there was just a chance they might have sat out the storm and were only in the next shire.

He seethed with fury as he tried to make up his mind. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he shouted to the lowering skies, ‘show me a sign and guide me on to the right path.’

The response was a roll of thunder and the stuttering flashes of sheet lightning to the north. Taking this as confirmation that God had heard his plea and was guiding him away from the worst of the storm, Algernon turned the car to the south, coaxing the reluctant and badly maintained engine to greater effort.

He would drive until the fuel in the tank was used up, and then refill it from the spare can in the boot and go back home. The dread of being stranded out here made him go cold and, if he failed to find his sons, then he would have to rely on God’s good grace to protect them. Not that they deserved it, he thought bitterly.

*

The broad white blinds had been pulled down to give added shade and protection from the dust and heat on the verandas, for the original eight patients had become eighteen, and if the situation worsened then more beds would have to be found and the other verandas utilised.

As Django’s female relatives did their best to clean away the dust that lay on everything, Becky and the two spinsters had their hands full. Their male patients threw up repeatedly, groaned like stuck bulls and constantly demanded bedpans and bottles. Bert, who’d been the cause of this influx, was the worst patient, of course, and he’d kicked up a fuss at having to share the veranda with the natives who’d also been struck down by his dubious meat pies.

Hugh had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t like it he could go back to the pub and suffer on his own. The family had always believed medicine was for everyone, regardless of creed or colour, and they stood firm on that.

Becky had been occupied with Bert when Sandra had brought her grandmother in, and it was a while before she could leave the ward. She’d been shocked at how frail and pale Gwyneth had been, but knew better than to let the old lady see even a glimmer of sympathy or pity in her expression.