‘Is there any evidence of that?’ said Webster.

‘It may have taken place and then been covered by the ruins of the embankment,’ said Gunson. He saw that Webster was about to interject and raised his voice. ‘But it has recently come to my knowledge that on the night of the disaster, cracks appeared on the wall of a house near the reservoir.’ He appealed directly to the jurymen. ‘The cracks in that house were caused by a landslip, the same landslip that caused the crack in the embankment and resulted in its collapse.’

‘Why, we must visit that property and view these cracks,’ said Webster.

Gunson hesitated. He looked at Perronet who closed his eyes briefly and nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I’m told the house in question was swept away. What we do have is the word of the occupants who escaped the deluge.’

‘Do you? Well, words are cheap. Or perhaps not, eh, Mr Gunson?’

Webster was implying that a bribe had been given. He left Gunson floundering. Gunson gasped, then found his voice. ‘I’m sure the farmer concerned would be willing to give evidence to say cracks appeared in his walls.’

‘But are we then expected to leap to the conclusion the cracks he says he saw were caused by a landslip? No, I think we have gone as far as we can with this,’ said Webster, folding his arms.

Whispers spread in a creeping tide across the room. Gunson rubbed his beard and found the eye of Perronet, who nodded, telling him without words that he had successfully introduced an element of doubt. He’d done all he could to save the reputation of the Sheffield Waterworks Company, and his own.

When Gunson arrived home, the front door stood open. Just inside the threshold, Charlotte was tying the ribbon of her bonnet.

‘I have had a most draining day,’ he said.

‘A cold supper is already laid out for you,’ she answered briskly. ‘I must hurry or I shall be late. I’m being collected shortly.’

‘But where are you going?’

She handed him a piece of newsprint. ‘Did you know that more than four thousand homes were flooded?’

‘Yes, of course. I hear of nothing else on a daily basis.’

‘And the poor people who didn’t lose their homes entirely couldn’t make a fire to warm them because the coal cellars were swamped. There are people who still have only the clothes they stand up in, or slept in. Working men who didn’t lose their lives lost their tools so how are they to making a living?’

‘It is terrible…’ said Gunson.

‘Yes. It is. I am meeting the ladies of my music club tonight at Union House. We intend to organise some urgent relief, to assist the general fundraising being done. You really have no idea how terrible this situation is for the poor and dispossessed.’

Gunson peered at the newsprint. The owner of a furniture shop on the Wicker was offering to sell his damaged stock of beds, bedsteads and mattresses ‘at a great sacrifice in price’ at the auction rooms in Fargate. He looked up at Charlotte, bewildered. ‘Do you want a bed?’ She shook her head in an exasperated way and pointed at a notice in the corner of the page.