Bartholomew had reclaimed the gun and was scrambling to get up off the waterlogged ground. Philip acted quickly, using a wrestler’s lunge to launch his brawny body through the air. Bartholomew fired, blasting a hole in Philip’s chest. Philip’s full weight hit Bartholomew in the head and shoulders, sending them both careering backwards. He landed heavily on top of Bartholomew. Philip stayed motionless.

Bartholomew felt wetness underneath his top half and knew he had hit the edge of the bog. He pushed Philip off him, and in control now, leapt agilely upright.

Clem was halfway up, shouting to his son.

‘Looks like I’ll have to dispatch two Trenchards in one day,’ Bartholomew gloated. He looked about for his knife and saw it glinting where it had landed, on the edge of a low mass of granite. Clem saw it too but wasn’t close enough to reach it first.

Bartholomew swept his foot forward to move off, but something was gripping his other leg, making him unsteady. Philip had grabbed him and was unbalancing him. Bartholomew swung his free foot round to kick at Philip’s hand and free himself.

It was Bartholomew’s undoing. He swayed precariously for an instant, then plunged backwards into the swamp. He felt with his feet to find the bottom, but there wasn’t one. The thick cloying mud would not allow him any movement. He was shoulder deep and sinking.

Clem staggered over to Philip, who was lying with a hand on his bleeding, heaving chest. Falling to his knees, he lifted Philip’s head up and cradled him. ‘It’s all right, son. I’ll get help. Why did you come here?’

‘The post came with a letter for ’ee, Tas. I brought it out to ’ee.’

‘Trenchard, help me,’ Bartholomew cried out. ‘I’m sinking.’

Clem looked at the man who had tried to kill him with no pity. He had shot his son close to the heart, and there was no point in him leaving Philip to go for help. Philip was dying. Because of this murderous brute, he was going to lose his son. Clem fought back the tears, he didn’t want Philip to die afraid.

‘I feel strange, Tas. All sort of sleepy.’

‘You just settle yourself, Phil. Think about your next wrestling match.’

‘Long time since you held me like this.’

‘Yes, a long time.’ And the last time.

‘That someone shouting?’

‘It’s just the wind, son. You close your eyes now.’

Clem watched with tears coursing down his face as Philip’s eyelids shut. ‘I can see Mother.’

The oozing black mud was covering Bartholomew’s shoulders. He was revoltingly, fearfully aware he couldn’t get out of the stinking slime. ‘For pity’s sake, Trenchard. I have a daughter! Please, please!’

‘Go to your mother, Philip,’ Clem said softly, stroking his son’s fair hair, made wet and dirty from the muddy water. ‘She’s waiting for you.’