Following the metallic sheen of the Woodbrook as a guide, Tom made his way through the wasteland behind the houses of Mill Street towards Heathcote’s mill itself, moving as quickly as possible without making noise or slipping in the mud.

Suddenly, the sound of barking pierced the air, insistent and loud. Tom sprinted to the last cottage, gripping the corner with one hand and flattening his chest to the wall. A sharp bang rang out, ricocheting around the high walls of the darkened mill yard in front of him. Was he too late?

Taking care to keep in the shadows, Tom slid his body a little forward and widened his eyes to peer into the yard. It was enclosed on three sides and shaded from the moonlight, and at first Tom couldn’t make out what was going on. Then his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he gasped.

Someone was lying on the cobbles, the black mass of his body rising and falling in frantic, panting movements. Tom stared. Duke! It was Duke, the shaggy giant of a dog he’d petted only hours before. Old Ambrose had been wrong, then; Duke had known how to do his job. And it looked as if he’d paid the price for it. As Tom watched, motionless with shock and dread, Duke’s body gave a final shudder and fell still.

And that wasn’t all. Tom could see a large crowd of men gathering in the shadows of the courtyard. Their faces were smeared with stove blacking and half-hidden beneath neckerchiefs so that only the whites of their eyes were visible in the deep grey of the summer night. In perpetual movement like waves on a choppy sea, they seemed angry and impatient, growling in deep tones to one another, eager to get on with their task.

Many were carrying something – Tom could make out hammers and axes amongst their shadowy shapes – which they held ready, like troops preparing for battle. And in the middle of the mob stood Mrs Mackie, their thin old neighbour, each arm gripped in the hands of one of the gang. Her body shook with fear and her pale face stood out between the darkly disguised ones of her captors.

‘You stay here and keep lookout!’ Tom recognised the gruff voice of the stranger from Needles Inn as the tall, thick-set shape of a man broke away from the bulk of the gang and moved towards a group of four or five others. ‘And keep her quiet,’ he continued, turning back to wave a pistol at Mrs Mackie. ‘If she won’t, give her the same as I gave the beast.’ He turned away, beckoned to the others and ran over to the door of the casting house. He was followed by a surging tide of men.

Tom didn’t hang around to see them enter. Slipping back behind the cottage, he retraced his steps a short distance along the Woodbrook and cut between two cottages onto Mill Street. Surprisingly, despite all the noise and activity in the yard, the street itself was empty, with no one but himself seeming to be aware that anything out of the ordinary was happening.

But there was no time to let anyone know otherwise, no time to waste going for help. Running as fast and as noiselessly as he could, Tom approached the back door of the mill. He must find a way inside it. There was nothing else for it; Tom had to warn his father.