When we reached the churchyard I told him to go home for tea, and I would be back shortly. Sitting on a gravestone in the shade of the ancient yew trees, I tried to think. The committee supported Henry Blackman, but did they really have all the facts? He was such a clever man, so persuasive, so well informed about the law. I got the impression they were all rather in awe of him, and poor Pa was simply outnumbered. Besides which, with the money business hanging over him, he was clearly afraid.

People were fearful for their jobs, of upsetting their neighbours, or perhaps even that Blackman might find some way of persecuting them too. I remembered how he’d urged the committee to keep the matter confidential and told Eli that if he talked, it would be ‘the worse’ for him.

Blackman’s way of operating was so secretive, and so insidious. Perhaps the legend about the dragon was true: if you disturbed it, evil would spread through the village. Last time it was bombs. This time it was a man they called the Blackness. But how could we expose him for what he was doing, or even gather a group of people to oppose him, when so many were afraid of him?

I was deep in thought when a familiar voice hailed me. ‘Molly Goddard? It might never happen, you know.’

I’d never been happier to see Kit’s broad smile. ‘What do you mean?’ I said, trying to ignore the furious pounding of my heart.

‘You look so serious. What’s up?’

‘Long story.’

He waved a bunch of letters in his hand. ‘Just let me post these for Ma and I’ll come back. Then you can tell me your long story.’

‘What a dutiful son you are,’ I said, when he got back.

‘Doing my best,’ he said, plonking himself down beside me and sweeping back the hair from his face. ‘I’m in the doghouse at the moment.’

‘What’ve you done, Kit?’

He swatted the air with a hand. ‘It’s too boring.’

‘Have you been away?’

‘In London. Bloody hell, it was so hot in town. For once I was actually glad to be back in the country. And it’s good to see you, too. I was going to call in tomorrow anyway.’

‘What were you up to in London?’ I asked.

‘Oh, this and that,’ he said, kicking the dusty ground. ‘But you haven’t told me why you’re sitting all alone in the churchyard.’ He put on a theatrical voice. ‘’Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.’

‘Whoever said that got it about right. About hell and contagion.’

‘Hamlet, I think. But what do you mean?’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Pirate’s honour,’ he said, crossing his hands over his chest. ‘My lips are sealed. Fire away.’