Gunson drove first to the residence of David Craven. This meant a slight detour from the route to Bradfield and a necessary delay so that he could explain his late-night intrusion. But he wanted the company of the main contractor, the man who oversaw the creation of the embankment from the specifications provided by Gunson. Young Stephenson Fountain’s anxious face had set a worm of doubt creeping in his gut. Dams were susceptible to failure. It was in their nature. It was his job to build insurance against nature’s vagaries, following sound mathematical principles. He had done that. Yes, he was certain this would be a wasted journey.

The cacophony from hooves striking cobbles, the howling wind and driving rain that made a mockery of the half-canopy above their heads meant that conversing with each other was almost impossible and the two men soon lapsed into silence and their own thoughts. Gunson pulled on the reins at the road bridge at Hillsborough and both men climbed down to peer at the Loxley rushing past. The river was swollen, no doubt about it, and grey crests glimmered in the lamplight as the water rushed beneath them. Craven shrugged. Gunson nodded his acknowledgement. It had been raining for weeks. It would be unusual were the river not in full spate.

They drove onwards.

Light from the Stag Inn at Malin Bridge spilled onto the road. Gunson envied the men, warm and dry, bellies full of ale, whose shadowed profiles were framed in the windows. It would be heartening to stop here, to sit by the fire that would dry his bedraggled whiskers. His wife would fuss over his sodden beard if she was not deep in slumber by the time he returned home. His warm bed was some hours away yet.

Gunson glanced down into the ravine as they ascended the high road, the Loxley now an invisible thread below, its location signposted only by the scattered dots of lights from the tanneries and mills where work went on around the clock. Then the road began to slope down, and grew steeper, as they approached Lower Bradfield. They had passed through the hamlet of Damflask when Craven suddenly lurched forward, staring into the night.

‘Halt!’ Craven called. ‘Stop, please!’

Gunson jerked on the reins. ‘What the devil?’

A man was emerging onto the road from a farm track, pushing a barrow in which sat a shawled figure, a grey boulder with an elderly and scowling face painted upon it. She was berating the man who was wearily pushing her along. A younger woman whose long unkempt hair was blowing about her head in the howling wind and three children of varying sizes followed the barrow.

‘Ahoy!’ said Gunson. ‘It’s hardly a night to be out!’

‘I telled him there were no need for this!’ The old woman pulled her blanket tighter across her neck. She looked at the younger woman. ‘I telt him!’ Everybody ignored her. ‘It’ll be the death o’me, this will,’ she muttered.