LITMIR.BIZ

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found John Coachman, Richard and Harrison in the loft above the tack room where they’d been given accommodations for the night. The two horsemen were chatting while Harrison, an affronted expression on his face, picked a piece of straw from his coat with his good hand.

      ‘How does the arm?’ Ned asked, pitching his voice low.

      ‘Richard fetched water so I’ve washed and dressed it,’ John Coachman replied. ‘Long as he don’t take fever, he should heal quick.’

      Ned gave his valet a sympathetic glance. ‘I dare say you’re not sure what is more painful, eh, Harrison? The wrist or being compelled to pose as a groom.’

      ‘Are you sure you want to continue with this … scheme?’ Harrison replied, pausing, Ned suspected, to swallow an adjective like ‘caper-witted’.

      ‘It do go against the grain, not reporting the attack,’ the coachman added. ‘An outrage, it is, good Christian folk being attacked in full daylight! Dastardly ruffians ought to be prosecuted.’

      ‘What would you have me tell the magistrate?’ Ned said. ‘That our coach was accosted by five masked, armed men who shouted slogans, fired their weapons wildly, winging one of our party before fleeing into the woods? We couldn’t even give a good description of the perpetrators.’

      ‘Recognise the horse, if’n I seen it again,’ Richard spoke up.

      ‘Even if we identified the horse, we’d have no proof its owner was involved. It wouldn’t be the first time a mount was “borrowed” from his pasture. No, I shall not report the incident. I’ll let the attackers wonder why there was no report. Let them speculate that they intimidated us, or that the magistrate did not deem the incident of sufficient import to investigate. Such conclusions may make them bolder and more likely to do something for which I can lay charges.’

      ‘Are you sure you want us to leave?’ Richard asked. ‘We could be three more pairs of eyes watching out, Sir—I mean, Mr Greaves,’ he corrected at Ned’s sharp look.

      ‘No, ‘tis better that you all go, lest one of you slip up and address me with proper honours. I shall discover much more quickly what is going on here if I can mingle among the farmers more or less unnoticed.’

      As the three servants exchanged glances over that dubious notion, Ned added, ‘Come now, who would not more easily confide something to a man near his own station? The sooner I uncover what has transpired here, the sooner other good Christian souls can travel the roads in safety.’

      That being unanswerable, Harrison said, ‘As you wish, sir, but if you do not leave here with your linen grey and your coats frayed, I shall be much surprised.’

      Ned grinned. ‘You think me too high in the instep to care for myself? I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of tying my own cravats, shaving and dressing respectably. And if the laundry maid’s skills are not adequate, I shall engage another one.’

      Sobering, he continued, ‘I appreciate your desire to be of assistance, all of you, but you can serve better elsewhere. Lord Englemere must have his coach returned—and repaired—and should be made aware of what has transpired. Harrison should rest and let that arm heal.’

      John Coachman nodded. ‘If’n that’s the way you want the game played out, Sir—Mr Greaves—then I reckon we must do it your way.’

      Ned nodded. ‘Very good. I shall count on the loyalty and discretion of you all. Harrison, do you think you will feel up to travelling tomorrow? ‘

      ‘Aye, sir. Reckon I’ll go to my sister in Kent. She’s been after me for a while to come visit. But how long do you expect to remain in this … interesting situation?’

      ‘I cannot be sure. I’ll send word when I wish to recall you. In the meantime, I’ve a letter for Lord Englemere. See that he gets it immediately upon your return, and all of you, please say nothing about what happened here to anyone else.’

      The three men nodded. ‘Best you watch your back, sir,’ Harrison added.

      ‘I shall,’ Ned said soberly. ‘On my guard as I am, I don’t intend to be surprised by anything else that happens here.’

      The following day, Ned went to meet Mr Martin, introducing himself as the replacement estate agent dispatched by Lord Englemere. Greeting him warmly, the old man immediately offered to give Ned a tour of the estate and introduce him to those of the tenants who’d not been driven off by the dwindling price of harvests and the steadily increasing rents.

      Ned’s initial good humour diminished with every mile they drove. Fully half the farms were abandoned, the former tenants having left to seek work at the mills in Manchester, Nottingham and Derby. It pained him more than finding gorse in a fine stand of wheat to see so much land lying fallow.

      He was more shocked still when Martin led him to the ‘mill’ Nicky had supposedly set up. The empty, roofless two-storey stone building stood silhouetted against the sky in a small clearing near a well, lacking not only a roof, but also doors, window frames, stairs to reach the second floor—and knitting looms.

      Worst of all, though, were the thin frames and gaunt faces of the tenants and the tales they related of the greed and abuse of authority practised by Barksdale, Greville Ander’s supervisor.

      Making a note of the names, needs and conditions of each tenant family, Ned thanked the workers for their candour and left with promises of seeds for planting, repairs to their dwellings and new and better farm tools. Though from most he received at least a nod of agreement, more telling than all the tales of mismanagement were the blank looks with which most received his promises, mute testaments of their disbelief and hope less ness.

      Unlike at his own estates, where visiting a tenant usually ended with them sharing a mug of home-brewed, though none of Blenhem Hill’s people were openly hostile, only one offered him any hospitality. Elderly Dame Cuthbert begged them to honour her by accepting a mug of cider.

      The old woman, Martin told him as they followed her into her tiny cottage, had been raised on Blenhem land, married a Blenhem farmer, and had a grown son who’d recently abandoned the property to seek work in the city.

      Though the exterior of the dwelling looked as dilapidated as the other Blenhem cottages, the dirt-floored interior was tidy, the rough wooden table clean and the hearth freshly swept. But Ned noted with a troubled glance the dampness on the back wall where the rotted thatch must have let the rain in. The old woman herself was far too thin and frail, her eyes large in her emaciated face, veins visible beneath the translucent skin of her parchment-wrinkled hands.

      After pouring cider into two earthenware mugs, she offered them a bite of cheese to accompany the beverage. Having already realised with a shock that there appeared to be nothing but the one jug of cider and a single round of cheese in her small larder, Ned sent a sharp look to Martin, who politely refused.

      Already angered, dismayed and distressed at the condition of Blenhem and its tenants, Ned left the cottage with an ache in his gut. ‘How does she manage with her son gone?’ he asked Martin abruptly as they climbed back into the gig.

      ‘I help out some, and the Reverend sends her cheese and ale when he can,’ Martin replied. ‘Poor Dame Cuthbert was another reason I was so glad to see Lord Englemere had sent you! Barksdale threatened to evict her after her son left—cast her out of the only home she’s ever known with no place to go. ‘Twas what drove me to write that letter to his lordship and tell him how things stood here. Praise heaven, he sent Anders and his bully boy packing before Barksdale could make good on his threat.’

      ‘No wonder she offers you half her victuals.’

      Martin shrugged. ‘Only tried to do what was right. Biddy Cuthbert’s a kind soul—good to the bone, no matter what life hands her.’

      After returning Martin to his cottage, Ned drove back to the manor, his head filled with facts and faces, his mind simmering with projects and potential remedies. While he planned and figured, his heart ached for the misery and hopelessness of the

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