He spoke more excitedly. ‘There’s one thing: try as they will, they can’t make it murder. Accidental manslaughter, that’s the most they can make of it. That means a couple of years hard labour. You can’t tell. . . . It depends on the damned jury. Only mention the word “poaching” and the judges are again’ you. Yes . . . you can’t deny she’s been a good wife, if I hadn’t married her too young. I’ve got mother to thank for that. But I don’t know what’ll happen to her. She’s too proud for charity, and she’d starve herself and the children rather than take a penny piece from mother.’ ‘She won’t want while I’m here,’ said Abner. George looked at him steadily without replying. ‘You mean you’ll stay here and keep the home together?’ ‘If you want me to,’ said Abner. ‘You’re a good pal, Abner,’ he replied. ‘I’ve said that before. And I wouldn’t have her suffer. There’s something in what her dad used to say . . . about good blood and that. If I hadn’t took a fancy against her this wouldn’t never have happened. I wouldn’t have the home broke up.’ ‘I’ll look to that,’ said Abner. ‘That is, if she don’t turn against me.’ George’s handsome face was working, against his will. He grasped Abner’s hand in his. It seemed a natural gesture. ‘You’re a proper pal,’ he said, and then, in a debauch of self-pity, ‘By God, you’re the only pal I’ve got that I can trust!’ Morgan came running into the room ahead of Gladys, anxious to be the bearer of exciting news. He ran straight to his father. ‘Well, son?’ said George. ‘Dad . . . dad. . . . There’s a pleeceman comin’ up the drive with a bicycle,’ he cried. ‘A strange one we don’t know,’ Gladys added. ‘Go into the back to your mother,’ said George. The constable from Lesswardine knocked at the door and handed two summonses to George and Abner. ‘Inquest at the Pound House at two o’clock. You understand it’s important.’ ‘Have a drink of beer before you go?’ said George. ‘I don’t mind,’ said the constable, becoming less official. George went down into the cellar with a jug. ‘This is a bad job,’ said the constable. ‘A bad job, sure enough.’ Abner asked him which way he thought it would go. ‘There’s no saying,’ he replied. ‘As long as they don’t bring it in “murder.”’ He was a fair young man, newly recruited to the force from some Herefordshire village. The ride in the snow had freshened his complexion and made him look healthy and jolly. ‘There’s a nasty drift at the bottom of the hill by the bridge,’ he said. ‘A good six foot of it! Well, here’s luck!’ he said, as he drank off George’s beer. ‘Luck’s the word!’ said George, ‘and God knows I need some!’ Mary came into the room with a set face. ‘Warrants for the inquest,’ said George. ‘Oh, is that all?’ she answered, with relief.