‘Mr Gunson!’

‘Mr Webster.’

‘And how is life treating you?’ John Webster, to Gunson’s mind, had the unfortunate capacity to make even the most innocuous of questions sound like an interrogation. He always reminded Gunson of the sparrows that fought in the gutter of the roof, forever jabbing and jabbing.

‘Keeping busy. And yourself?’ said Gunson, without enthusiasm.

The man was bound to be on some crusade or other, and Gunson was wary of being enlisted into his latest campaign. Lawyering didn’t seem to be enough for Webster. He was happy to serve as an Alderman on the town council as well as court magistrate and coroner of inquests. They were of a similar age – they even shared a Christian name, albeit the commonest one – but Gunson irritated himself for always feeling the junior in Webster’s company.

‘Only fair to middling,’ Webster said. ‘Fair to middling. Ill tumours breed in weather like this.’

The man was a hypochondriac, but Gunson shivered. He would not be surprised if he was coming down with a head cold himself. What a bother that would be when he had so much work to do. He would ask Charlotte for some honey in his brandy tonight. He looked forward to slipping between clean sheets warmed by the copper hot water bottle he had persuaded Charlotte they should have. She was afraid of it leaking and preferred to add an extra layer of clothing, although at this time of year that might require him to swaddle himself in all the contents of his wardrobe.

‘I think I may have caught a chill myself,’ he said. ‘I’ve been out to inspect the new dam today and the cold has got in my bones.’

‘Ah, yes. Our reservoir to compensate the millowners. Are you content with the progress being made up there?’

Gunson waited for the clatter of another coach to pass. He was impatient to move on, but could not resist any opportunity to talk about his pride and joy.

‘We’ve had heavy rain, as you are aware…’

Webster looked heavenwards and raised an eyebrow.

‘…and as a consequence the reservoir is almost full to the brim.’ He smiled at Webster, warming to his theme. ‘It’s a beauty.’ Gunson cupped his hands and Webster peered into them. ‘The sturdiest cradle we could build. D’you know, the source of it is a little stream, a bare trickle, that rises in the hills twelve miles off yonder,’ he gestured ahead. ‘We dammed it after four and the results are there to see.’

Webster nodded impatiently. ‘So you are satisfied, then, that the Sheffield Waterworks Company is now ready to meet its obligations to the industries in the valley as well as to the inhabitants of the town?’

He talked like the lawyer he was, in precise and seemingly rehearsed sentences, and with a smile playing about his mouth to disguise the sharpness in his eyes. It was no secret that the town council wanted to nationalise the water supply. All Gunson desired was to have this man – to have every man – appreciate the wonders wrought by engineering, a profession that had finally gained the elite status it had long deserved. People were quick to complain when the taps ran dry, but gave no thought as to how their precious supplies were contrived to reach them in the first place.