Clem wasn’t afraid to die. Without first place in Kerensa’s heart it was back to the old soul-leaching loneliness, but suddenly the most important thing to him was to see his twins and Harry grow up – and he had Catherine and his grown-up children to live for too. ‘Please, wait, listen to me.’

Bartholomew was concerned that the sound of the shot would have carried to the farm and someone would come hurrying to investigate its source. ‘Throw down the scythe and order your dogs to run off, but not home. We’ll talk.’

Clem did this, keeping his eyes on Bartholomew’s hard face.

Bartholomew came to within arm’s length of him and pointed the gun at his forehead.

‘You lied!’

‘You’re such a fool, Trenchard, I was merely making things easy for myself.’

Clem ducked and threw himself at the other man’s body. Bartholomew lost his grip on the gun but smashed both hands across the back of Clem’s neck. Clem dropped to the spongy-wet ground. He felt an agonizing pain in his side as Bartholomew thrust his boot there, rolling him over to face the sky. Clem groaned, reaching round to his neck. His vision cleared and he saw Bartholomew now had a long-bladed knife in his hand.

‘See this, Trenchard? The natives in the islands of the South Seas use knives just like this one in ceremonial slayings. It’s capable of gutting a man in ten seconds. A quick slash across the throat will do for you.’ Bartholomew put the blade to Clem’s throat. ‘Say goodbye to whatever god you believe in.’

In desperation Clem used all his strength to yell out and rear up. The knife thrust missed his throat and seared a deep path across his collar bone. Bartholomew grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head against the ground. Clem tried to fight him off, knowing it was useless. Drannock would pin him down and use his knife on him. He’d never see those he loved again. His last thought was that he was glad that Kerensa was happy.

Of a sudden, his attacker was sent flying away from him, and Bartholomew sprawled among the bulrushes. He looked up and saw Philip Trenchard looming over him. Spying his gun, he reached out for it.

‘You all right, Tas?’ Philip glanced at Clem before looking down at Drannock, now splattered in black mud, his billycock hat knocked off. ‘Bartholomew Drannock? What in God’s name are you doing here? And why attack my father?’

‘Be careful, Philip,’ Clem managed to gasp. ‘He’s got a pistol.’