‘I’m sorry,’ said Silas. ‘I’m reight sorry about your little lass.’

Walter looked at Mr Boothby then back at Silas. ‘I want to help you. Silas, was it? Shall we return to the hostelry and find pen and paper and you may write Harriet a note of thanks? Will that do?’

Silas frowned. ‘Write her a note?’

‘Yes, yes, a short letter conveying your gratitude and your good will, et cetera. I will be sure to pass it on to Harriet.’

‘Ah, no. No need. I shouldn’t’ve bothered you.’

‘We’ll be on our way, then. I shall be sure to tell Harriet I bumped into you and she will be pleased you have made a strong recovery.’

Silas watched the pair of them stride away. Walter laughed at some comment from the other man as they rounded the corner and Silas had no doubt he had been the object of a snide remark. He wondered whether they had a carriage waiting. It was a tolerably warm evening for early spring. Perhaps they were on foot.

There was only one way to find out.

Chapter 21

Sheffield Harry was holding court at the Barrel Inn on the banks of the Loxley. A gale raged beyond windows that were black as death.

‘I’ve no dependents and I’m glad o’ it. No missus to hand the pennies o’er to. Accountable to nob’dy, that’s me.’

Gunson watched the odious man swallow the dregs of his pint and smack his lips. A growing sense of dread was blooming in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at this braggard beside him or the leering regulars that crowded his back. He knew he would see two hundred and forty souls behind him, should he care to turn and look. He had not realised the Barrel had the capacity for so many bodies. Instead, he bowed his head and continued trying as unobtrusively as possible to keep his feet clear of the tide of swampy filth that was creeping across the flagstones. Charlotte would be furious if his new shoes were ruined.

‘I told ’em all. Frost crack. I know dams.’ Sheffield Harry’s voice rose along with the wind that rattled the walls. ‘I know dams right well and there’s nowt wrong wi’ this one. Bunch o’ old women, the lot o’ ’em.’

Gunson swallowed. There was a hard lump in his throat. He tasted earth and gagged, spitting clods of soil and gravel onto the bar. A pale worm wriggled in the muck. He recoiled and looked, finally, into Sheffield Harry’s pitiless face. ‘Help me, Harry.’

‘It’s Mr Burkinshaw to thee,’ the man said, and as he spoke a stream of fat bubbles rose from his mouth towards the ceiling. Sheffield Harry’s hair stood on end, swaying like fronds of seaweed, and his eyes were merciless silver marbles.

Gunson woke, gasping like a beached fish. His wife slept on, a hunched shape under the covers in the early morning light, snoring lightly. He told himself it had been only a dream, a nightmare, and couldn’t understand why a wave of plunging doom was continuing to tighten in his chest. Then he remembered.