‘A sight for sore eyes.’ David Craven had followed him down the steeply sloping field behind the High Bradfield farmhouse owned by Joseph Mason in which the two townsmen had spent a sleepless night. ‘And yet I still cannot believe it.’

Gunson nodded. He could not trust himself to speak.

A shallow pool of water lay in the bowl of the lake. Beneath it, at the foot of a jumble of rocks and mud, the river flowed innocently along its newly carved out route. Gunson looked back at the gouge in the earth, thinking about a seaside holiday his family had taken, long ago, when his oldest was a stout-legged little boy. The two of them had built a watercourse in the damp sand and a dam to divert the buckets of water they fetched from the sea. They erected a castle and a moat. The boy had wanted to stand on the dam to survey the kingdom he had created, but the soft sand crumbled quickly under the weight of his bare feet.

Here too, it seemed a careless foot had stamped on the embankment and destroyed his life’s work.

He clasped his hands together to hide the tremor in them.

‘Subsidence,’ said Craven, decisively. ‘An underground spring, perhaps. That eventuality cannot be foreseen. We were unfortunate. There were no faults in construction. We had some flooding in the puddle wall but not overmuch and certainly nothing out of the ordinary. I think…’

‘David.’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you wait at the site? I’m sure a delegation will soon be on its way. You can take my gig back to town.’

‘Where are you going?’

Gunson had already begun to stamp back up the field. He called back over his shoulder. ‘To borrow a horse from Mason. I need to see the extent of the damage.’

As he rode down, the contours of the valley solidified in the strengthening light and ghost-like figures emerged from the evaporating mist, men, women and children descending from the hillsides to pick their way through the tangle of uprooted trunks and branches and gather in knots along the riverbank. The ripped-off limbs of trees were everywhere he looked, glutinous mud thick under the horse’s hooves. The animal snickered and Gunson brought it to a halt and patted its muscular neck, as much to reassure himself. He had fully expected the riverbanks to be devastated here, so close to the dam, but witnessing it was a different matter, and his hand shook as he soothed the horse.

There was sudden movement at the side of the road and a figure leapt into his path. A boy of ten or twelve, who threw him a startled look then made to run off down the road ahead.

‘Here! Wait!’

The boy stopped and looked back.

‘Will you wait for one moment?’

Gunson dismounted and fumbled in his pockets. He had raised three sons and knew how difficult it was to keep boys in one spot, even for a moment, especially if they thought they were about to be berated for some mischief.