‘They got into a bit of a barney.’

‘What about?’

He shrugged. ‘I heard Mr Liversedge call Mr Ellerby no better than a murderer, then he finished his drink and walked out.’

‘How much longer before Mr Ellerby left?’

‘Five minutes, mebbe. Not long.’

I mulled this over as he excused himself to serve more customers. Jack Liversedge’s wife, Florence, a wool sorter, had died of anthrax two months ago. It is a terrible disease, and one we were only slowly coming to understand. Through my own research, I had been in correspondence with two important scientists working in the field: M. Casimir-Joseph Davaine, in France, and Herr Robert Koch, in Germany. Thus far we had been able to determine that the disease is caused by living microorganisms, most likely hiding in the alpaca wool of the South American llamas and the mohair of the Angora goats, both of which Sir Titus imported to make his fine cloths, but we were a long way from finding a prevention or a cure.

As I sipped my ale and looked at Jack Liversedge, I began to wonder. Richard Ellerby was a wool buyer. Had Jack, in his distraught and confused state, considered him culpable of Florence’s death? Certainly from what I had seen and heard of Jack’s erratic behaviour since her death, it was possible, and he was a big, strong fellow.

I was just about to go over to him, without having any clear plan in mind of what to say, when he seemed to come to a pause in his argument with himself, slammed his tankard down and left, bumping into several people on his way out. I decided to go after him.

I followed Jack down the stone steps to the towpath and called out his name, at which he turned and asked who I was. I introduced myself.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘’tis thee, Doctor.’

The towpath was unlit, but the canal was straight, and the light of a three-quarter moon lay on the still water like a shroud. It was enough to enable us to see our way.

‘I saw you in the Travellers’ Rest,’ I said. ‘You seemed upset. I thought we might share the walk home, if that’s all right?’

‘As you will.’

We walked in silence, all the while growing closer to the mill, which rose ahead in the silvery light, a ghostly block of sandstone against the black, starlit sky. I didn’t know how to broach the subject that was on my mind, fearing that if I were right, Jack would put up a fight, and if I were wrong he would be justly offended. Finally, I decided to muddle along as best I could.

‘I hear Richard Ellerby was in the Travellers’ the other night, Jack.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I hear you argued with him.’

‘Mebbe I did.’

‘What was it about, Jack? Did you get into a fight with him?’

Jack paused on the path to face me, and for a moment I thought he was going to come at me. I braced myself, but nothing happened. The mill loomed over his shoulder. I could see a number of emotions cross his features in the moonlight, from fear and sorrow to, finally, resignation. He seemed somehow relieved that I had asked him about Richard.

‘He were the wool buyer, weren’t he?’ he said, with gritted anger in his voice. ‘He should’ve known.’

I sighed. ‘Oh, Jack. Nobody could have known. He just buys the wool. There are no tests. There’s no way of knowing.’

‘It’s not right. He bought the wool that killed her. Someone had to pay.’

He turned his back to me and walked on. I followed. We got to the bottom of Victoria Road, and I could hear the weir roaring to our right. Jack walked to the cast-iron bridge, where he stood gazing into the rushing water. I went and stood beside him. ‘And whose place is it to decide who pays, Jack?’ I asked, raising my voice over the water’s roar. ‘Whose job do you think it is to play God? Yours?’

He looked at me with pity and contempt, then shook his head and said, ‘You don’t understand.’

I looked down into the water, its foam tipped with moonlight. ‘Did you kill him?’ I asked. ‘Did you kill Richard Ellerby because you blamed him for Florence’s death?’

He said nothing for a moment, then gave a brief, jerky nod. ‘There he were,’ he said, ‘standing there in his finest coat, drinking and laughing, while my Florence were rotting in her grave.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I told him he were no better than a murderer, buying up wool that kills people. I mean, it weren’t the first time, were it? He said it weren’t his fault, that nobody could’ve known. Then, when I told him he should take more care, he said I didn’t understand, that it were just a hazard of the job, like, and that she should’ve known she were taking a risk before she took it on.’

If Richard really had spoken that way to Jack, then he had certainly been guilty of exhibiting a gross insensitivity I had not suspected to be part of his character. Even if that was the case, we are all capable of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, especially if we are pushed as far as Jack probably pushed Richard. What he had done had certainly not justified his murder.

‘How did it happen, Jack?’ I asked him.

After a short pause, he said, ‘I waited for him on the towpath. All the way home we argued and in the end I lost my temper. There were a long bit of wood from a packing crate or summat by the bushes. He turned his back on me and started walking away. I picked it up and clouted him and down he went.’

‘But why the weir?’

‘I realized what I’d done.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It’s funny, you know, especially now it doesn’t matter. But back then, when I’d just done it, when I knew I’d killed a man, I panicked. I thought if I threw his body over the weir then people would think he’d fallen. It weren’t far, and he weren’t a heavy man.’

‘He wasn’t dead, Jack,’ I said. ‘He had water in his lungs. That meant he was alive when he went into the water.’

‘It’s no matter,’ said Jack. ‘One way or another, it was me who killed him.’

The water roared in my ears. Jack turned towards me. I flinched and stepped back again, thrusting my arm out to keep him at a distance.

He shook his head slowly, tears in his eyes, and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. ‘Nay, Doctor, you’ve nowt to fear from me. It’s me who’s got summat to fear from you.’

I shook my head. I really didn’t know what to do, and my heart was still beating fast from the fear that he had been going to tip me over the railing.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘all I ask is that you leave it till morning. One more night in the house me and Florence shared. Will you do that for me, at least, Doctor?’

As I nodded numbly, he turned and began to walk away.

Early the following morning, after a miserable night spent tossing and turning, grappling with my conscience, I was summoned from the hospital to the works office building, attached to the west side of the mill. I hurried down Victoria Road, wondering what on earth it could be about, and soon found myself ushered into a large, well-appointed office with a thick Turkish carpet, dark wainscoting and a number of local landscapes hanging on the walls. Sitting behind the huge mahogany desk was Sir Titus himself, still a grand, imposing figure despite his years and his declining health.

‘Dr Oulton,’ he said, without looking up from his papers. ‘Please sit down.’

I wondered what had brought him the twelve miles or so from Crows Nest, where he lived. He rarely appeared at the mill in those days.

‘I understand,’ he said in his deep, commanding voice, still not looking at me, ‘that you have been enquiring into the circumstances surrounding Richard Ellerby’s death?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Titus.’

‘And what, pray, have you discovered?’

I took a deep breath, then told him everything. As I spoke, he stood up, clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room, head hanging so that his grey beard almost reached his waist. Though his cheeks and eyes looked sunken, as if he was ill, his presence dominated the room. When I had finished, he sat down again and treated me to a long silence before he said, ‘And what are we going to do about it?’