He had survived the inquest, despite Webster’s best efforts to ruin him. The jury had rejected any suggestion of criminality in the collapse of the dam, and concluded that Thomas Fairest, a furnaceman selected from among the victims to represent them all, came to his death by drowning in the inundation caused by the tragic bursting of the Bradfield dam. There would be no charge of manslaughter laid at the door of the Sheffield Waterworks Company.

But two days after the verdict, Gunson had retrieved the newspaper before the maid could finish twisting the pages into balls to layer the coal fire. He read and re-read the inquest report until he could recite by heart the jury’s declaration that, ‘in our opinion there has not been that engineering skill and attention to the construction of the works, which their magnitude and importance demanded.’ There has not been that engineering skill. There has not.

There it was, in black and white. Committed to print. A permanent stain on his reputation.

Then came another deeper blow.

At the end of May, the Rawlinson Report, the government inspector’s findings on the catastrophe were presented to Parliament. It was damning. The design was flawed, the construction method faulty. David Craven had flown into Gunson’s office in a fury. ‘This is my good name being dragged into the gutter!’ The report came with the Chief Constable’s updated list of the dead, a list that twisted Gunson’s heart. He had tasted sour dirt again, a recollection of sprawling in the mud after the miller had told him about the tailor’s search for his newborn son’s body. He realised he didn’t know where – or whether – the infant had been found and it had felt important, suddenly, that he should have this information. He had wondered who he could ask.

Gunson had wrenched his attention back to Craven.

‘And now we are to have a public meeting about the company’s decision to increase the water rates by twenty-five per cent.’ Craven had paced the room. ‘Can’t you see that this adds insult to injury, John?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Oh, I know, I know, money must be found for the compensation claims.’ Craven flapped his hands. It was like being trapped in the room with an angry crow.

And now, after the passage of several weeks in which he dared hope the dust had settled, Gunson’s superiors had asked him to report to them first thing tomorrow. He was to be sacrificed on the altar of popular opinion, he was certain of it. Parliament had approved the increase in water rates and voices were growing louder in support of wrenching the company from private hands. A scapegoat might appease the mob, and the rifle sight had settled on his head.

Charlotte laid her hand on his arm. ‘You are a million miles away. Self-pity doesn’t suit you, John.’

‘I’m not…’

‘I say they would be foolish to let you go, but consider this. We are comfortably off, are we not? Retirement might suit you. It might suit us both.’