‘You don’t think …’ Gwen gropes for words as she summons the courage to voice her fears.

‘What?’

‘You don’t think Jack could have done it, do you?’

‘Done what?’

‘He wouldn’t have done anything to … to stop Gordon.’

‘Dear God, Gwen …’ Muriel spins to face her, sporting a look of horror. She drops her voice. ‘You mustn’t even think such things let alone say them out loud.’

‘I know … I just … but what if he did?’

‘Gwen, why are you saying this?’

‘He said he was inside, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t in the tack room when I was shutting up, I’m sure of it.’

‘Perhaps he was in one of the other buildings. The privy even!’ But the housekeeper begins to chew her lip, and Gwen wonders if the same suspicion has already crossed her mind. Muriel takes her hand. ‘You mustn’t think things like that. Jack Ellison is a good man.’

‘I know,’ Gwen whispers. She has come to realise just how good he is.

‘Don’t think on it, love. It can’t have been Jack.’

She watches as Muriel pedals from the house. She returns to the kitchen, her mind restless and fearful. She is about to check on Tom when the gun cupboard above the hall door catches her eye. For several seconds she stands staring at it. Are the doors as snugly shut as she left them? Is it her imagination or are they not quite flush?

She pulls herself together and crosses the room, determined not to encourage her fanciful thoughts, but as she reaches the hall she darts back to the kitchen table and lifts a chair clear. She slams it down on the flags underneath the cupboard and steadying herself on the dresser, she climbs up to pull apart the double doors.

The twelve-bore lies upon its shelf. She brings it down, breaks it open, sniffs the chamber for signs of recent use, but she can’t be sure. Frustrated, she returns it to the cupboard and as she does so, she sees the cardboard box of cartridges, its lid up. Did she leave it that way? Was she the last one to use the gun? When had Jack gone after the fox? She reaches for the cartridges, wishing she could recall how many were left.

‘Gwen?’

She jumps out of her skin. The chair wobbles and she grabs the cupboard shelf to brace herself. Jack is standing at the back door, his face black with dust, his clothes embedded with grime.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I just … I was just … checking …’ She slams the cupboard doors. She is unable to look at him as she gets down from the chair. Without comment, she returns it to the table.

‘You’ll be wanting a bath,’ she says.

‘Aye … if there’s any chance of one.’

‘Yes … the copper’s on, I got washed earlier … There should be water for you.’