Frank looked up at Adam anxiously. ‘Are yer sure, Squire? Yer wouldn’t fib ter me, would yer?’

Adam smiled kindly. ‘No, I wouldn’t, Frank. I am telling you the truth, son.’

‘Your father is resting comfortably,’ Clive interjected, ‘and as soon as I get him to the hospital we’ll be able to treat him properly.’

Frank looked from Adam to Clive doubtfully, sniffing and suppressing his tears. He was silent and thoughtful for a moment and then he addressed Eddie. ‘He will get better, Eddie, won’t he?’ he whispered.

Eddie stepped forward, forcing a cheerful smile on to his drawn face. ‘Aye, lad, he will that! Yer father’s a strong ‘un. Now, don’t yer fret yerself, lad. Come on, I’ll take yer ter yer Aunt Lily’s.’ Eddie threw a swift glance at Adam, who nodded acquiescently. Adam patted Frank’s shoulder. ‘Run along with Eddie, Frank. And the doctor will stop by to see you later.’ Adam’s eyes examined Frank, sudden concern in them. ‘Are you all right, son? You weren’t hurt, were you?’

‘No, Squire,’ said Frank, still sniffling.

‘All right, then, off you go. And thank you, Eddie, for all your help. I appreciate it.’

‘I just did me best, sir,’ said Eddie, smiling briefly. ‘I’ll be taking the lad ter his aunt’s. She’ll look after him.’ Eddie grasped Frank’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly, and the two of them left, Eddie murmuring consoling words to Frank.

‘I think I had better go into Wilson’s office and see the other men, Clive. I want to thank them and make sure they are comfortable,’ Adam remarked.

‘Let Violet take a look at those hands of yours, Adam,’ Clive ordered firmly. ‘They look a little raw to me.’

Later that afternoon Adam strode up and down the library at Fairley Hall, a brandy and soda in his bandaged hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. Wilson, who had just arrived, sat on the Chesterfield, watching him closely, quietly nursing his whisky.

Adam finally stopped his incessant pacing and sat down in the chair opposite. He lit a cigarette, drew on it, and said, ‘How do you think the fire started in the warehouse, Wilson? It went up very suddenly and burned rather rapidly for my liking. I questioned Edwin earlier, and he said the wooden skips were blazing furiously when he opened the door, and that the first stack of bales were already flaring. I suppose the flying embers could have ignited the wool, and the draught from the door obviously fanned the flames, but it’s still a mystery to me. Any ideas?’

Wilson was silent, his mouth tight and drawn, his face a picture of gravity. He sighed and looked directly at Adam. ‘I could hazard a guess, Squire, but it’s not a very palatable one.’

Adam leaned forward and stared at Wilson, fixing him intently. ‘Speak up, Wilson. You’ve obviously given this some thought, just as I have myself all afternoon.’

Wilson scowled. ‘Arson maybe.’

‘Arson!’ Adam was so flabbergasted he sat up with a start and banged his drink down on the table with a crash. ‘Oh, come, come, Wilson, that’s not possible. Surely it isn’t!’

‘Well, sir, raw wool doesn’t burn that easily. But wood does. I also spoke ter Master Edwin and he told me the same thing-them there skips were going like wildfire. A bit of paraffin on one of the bales, soaking through the sacking inter the wool-’ Wilson stopped and looked down into his drink, sighing. ‘Yer knows, Squire, that could have been a bloody holocaust down there this morning, but for the wind changing and the rain starting when it did. We only had the fire in the warehouse partially under control, yer knows.’

‘But why?’ Adam demanded, still stunned and aghast at Wilson’s words.

Wilson hesitated and sipped his whisky. Then he looked Adam squarely in the eye. ‘Retaliation.’

‘Retaliation! Retaliation for what? Against whom? I’ve been more than decent with the men in the last few years, for God’s sake. You can’t be serious, man.’

Wilson, who had been pondering on the cause of the fire for several hours, picked his words with care. He knew what had to be said, but he felt he must couch his opinions in the most diplomatic terms possible. He cleared his throat. ‘Yer haven’t been at yon mill much in the past year, sir, what with yer travelling an’ all. The men are a bit out of touch with yer, so ter speak. And when yer have been ’ere, yer visits have been brief-’

‘Get to the point, Wilson. You said retaliation. I want to know what you mean by that,’ Adam snapped.

Wilson drew in his breath. ‘I thinks the fire might have been started on purpose like, because of Master Gerald.’

Adam stiffened, his eyes widening. ‘Master Gerald! What’s he been up to in my absence? By God, Wilson, I’ll have his hide if he’s responsible for this. I’ll skin him alive!’

Wilson cleared his throat nervously. ‘Look, Squire, Master Gerald’s a hard worker. I’m the first ter say that. And he luvs the mill, like yer father did. But Master Gerald-well, sir, he just doesn’t know how ter handle the men. Most of ’em just grin and turn away like, pay no attention ter him and get on with their work. But there’s a little extremist group down at yon mill. Troublemakers ter some extent, yer might say. Labourites, yer knows, Squire. Well, they have come ter resent Master Gerald’s way of dealing with ’em.’

‘Out with it all, Wilson,’ Adam said sternly, his anger most apparent.

‘It’s his manner, like I said,’ Wilson replied, lighting a Woodbine. ‘He’s allus pushing the lads around, goading ’em on, cracking t’whip like. And when they come ter him for a few simple concessions, like a longer tea break for one thing, he just wafts ’em away-’

‘You can’t be serious! You don’t expect me to believe a fire was started simply because Master Gerald refused to give the men a longer tea break. That’s preposterous and damned ridiculous, Wilson!’ Adam exploded, his usual self-control slipping momentarily.

‘No, Squire, not for that one thing only, but for lots of things that have mounted up like, over these last months. Small things admittedly, but I knows some of the lads have been boiling lately at Master Gerald’s harshness, his bullying, his temper an’ all-’ Wilson’s voice trailed off.

Adam sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair, his eyes resting on Wilson contemplatively. ‘And so you think some of them started a fire to get even.’ Adam now moved forward, his gaze more penetrating than ever. ‘But that’s a futile gesture, Wilson, since the mill itself could have gone up, and they would have been laid off for weeks on half pay.’

‘Aye, I knows. I’ve considered that fact meself,’ Wilson conceded wearily. ‘But I thinks a small fire was started ter make a point like. I don’t think them as might have started it expected it ter get out of hand the way it did. I don’t, really. Yer knows what I’m getting at, sir. Start a little blaze, destroy a few bales of wool. As I said, make a point. Slow down production, cause a bit of trouble. Make us sit up and take notice.’

‘The culprits?’ Adam demanded, glaring at Wilson.

‘That’s it, Squire, I can’t be pointing any fingers. That group of men I mentioned were all at t’mill this morning, and they all pitched in like hell, that they did.’ Wilson refrained from adding that three of the most violent agitators against Gerald Fairley were, in fact, noticeably and fortuitously absent that day. He himself would deal with them later. For he did believe arson was involved and he was fairly certain the absentees were the arsonists. He would put the fear of God into them. He prayed Adam Fairley would do the same with his son.

Adam was thoughtful, reflecting on Wilson’s words, and then he said, ‘What you’re saying doesn’t really make any sense. Why would they start a fire and then expose themselves to it? That would be most foolhardy.’

‘I told yer, sir, I thinks them as started it intended it as a bit of a scare, that’s all, never expecting it ter blaze the way it did, ter get out of control.’