‘Precisely. Two of the fishermen involved in the tragedy, Matthew King and Bartholomew Drannock – who incidentally are now left in the position of being the heads of their families – find themselves without the means to pursue their livelihood. One of the boats in the accident, the Lowenek, was smashed to pieces, but with so many drowned, one boat would now be sufficient to meet their needs. When the Young Maid is repaired it would be an act of Christian charity to give King and Drannock the offer to fish from it rather than let it go to others.’ Oliver deliberately smiled. ‘I’m certain you will agree.’

‘I do agree, Sir Oliver,’ Rosina said, ‘most certainly I do, and I’m sure Peter had it in mind when he met the two men after Mark King’s funeral yesterday. If you enquire from them you will find, no doubt, it has already been settled.’

‘If that is so, ma’am, it will take a great weight off my mind and theirs.’ Oliver had enquired of the outcome of yesterday’s meeting a few hours ago and the angry young fishermen had told him Peter Blake had refused to change his mind about allowing them to fish from the lugger and had restated his intention to seek compensation from them. Oliver intended to help Blake change his decision in favour of Drannock and King. Talking like this to Blake’s lovely young wife, who apparently was under some wrong impressions as to her husband’s true character, would help it along in a most pleasing manner.

Oliver rose abruptly. The firelight threw his shadow lengthways across the room and he seemed to fill the confined space. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Blake. I will be on my way and leave you to the peace of your home.’

‘Remember me to Lady Pengarron.’ Rosina rang a small silver bell for the maidservant, Kate, to collect Oliver’s hat and coat. ‘I hope she and your children are in good health.’

‘They are. Good day to you, ma’am.’

Oliver rode at once to the site on the east side of the market town where the Blakes’ new dwelling was under construction. Leaning forward over Conomor, his proud black stallion, Oliver admired the almost completed three-storey building. He had no wish to live in such a house himself, but had he been on convivial terms with Peter Blake he would have watched each stage of its development with interest.

Narrow in structure, the building boasted a small courtyard in front, a large garden and stable behind, all running in parallel lines. It was half the size of his sister’s nearby mansion but Peter Blake was sparing no expense to have a home built according to the latest London designs. The grey bricks making up the main walls were transported from London, the hall was paved in Purbeck stone, the sash windows glazed in crown glass.