Ironbound

"I was aware the figures were inaccurate. I certified them regardless."

Three men are dead. A bridge lies in the Avon gorge. And somewhere between the desk of a meticulous Bristol clerk and the notebook of a Welsh bridge-builder who warned everyone who would listen, the truth is buried under six weeks of managed testimony, careful omissions, and the slow, grinding machinery of institutional self-preservation.

It is 1847, and the inquest into the Avon Gorge railway bridge collapse has convened...