Page 11 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Steadman remained puzzled over Morgan’s abrupt lack of engagement.

A silent supper the previous evening followed by a taciturn ride into the country left him scratching his head.

He assumed the lad was preoccupied with the investigation, but he worried, nonetheless.

Had he offended Mr. Brady with his comment at the river?

After all, many men laughed like a woman, including the Lord of the Admiralty.

He considered apologizing but could not find the words.

Before he managed to corral an apology, he and Morgan arrived at the Thrup farm.

“They will be waiting for us here?” Those were Morgan’s first unprompted words all morning.

“Yes. I sent a messenger early this morning announcing our visit. Farmer Thrup and Farmer Nott should both be in attendance.”

“The two primary plaintiffs?”

“Right, although they speak for several others.”

Mr. and Mrs. Thrup welcomed Steadman and Morgan and invited them into the parlor where Mr. Nott waited. He remembered them all, of course, from his youth. As he took a seat, Mrs. Thrup appeared before him and clapped her hands together.

“Oh, Mr. Drew! What an honor it is for you to visit.”

“Call me Steadman.”

She fluttered her hands and plopped next to her husband. “A celebrity in my home! You do us locals proud!”

“Leave him be, love,” said Mr. Thrup blandly. “You’ll frighten the man away.”

“But look at him! He is right here! In my home!”

Steadman glanced sidelong at Morgan to find his associate eyeing him curiously. He winked. “No, Mrs. Thrup, the pleasure is mine. But shall we discuss you instead of me, and in particular, the incidents that brought Mr. Brady and me to Wiltshire?”

She fluttered her hands again. “Oh, yes, by all means, proceed as you will and don’t mind me.”

“Of course.” He addressed the farmers. “As your farms are adjacent, is it true you were accosted during the same night.”

“That we were,” said Nott breathlessly. “They came ’round well after sundown, when the sun was down, and it was dark. With masks, torches, and firearms. Rousted us out of bed and forced us to gather. And me in my nightshift.”

“And what were their demands?”

“Highway robbery,” said Mr. Thrup. “No insult intended.”

“None taken. Go on, Mr. Thrup.”

“They demanded to purchase our wheat stores at half market value.”

“Less than half, dear,” said Mrs. Thrup. “One-third.”

“Yes, love. One-third market value. And the signing of a contract to bind it legally.”

Steadman turned his attention to Mr. Nott. “And you agreed to this demand?”

Mr. Nott nearly rose from his chair before sitting again. “No choice. We had no choice. They carried torches. Storage barns are constructed of wood. Fire burns wood. And wheat. And other things, but that’s not important now.”

Morgan leaned forward. “So, masked and armed men threatened to set fire to your wheat stores unless you sold it to them at a fraction of the market price?”

“Highway robbery,” said Mr. Thrup. “As I said. They paid us in guineas, loaded three wagons, and hauled it all away.”

“Four wagons, dear.”

“Yes, love. Four wagons.”

“How many men?” Steadman asked.

Mr. Nott jumped up this time. “Fifteen! Or sixteen. Maybe twelve. But no more than thirty.” He collapsed back into his chair.

“Too many to fight, regardless. Did they say who they represented?”

“In a word,” said Mr. Thrup, “No. But we know why they wanted the wheat.”

The farmer sat back with crossed arms, sure that Steadman knew why as well. However, Morgan apparently did not and leaned forward again. “Might you explain why?”

Mr. Nott found his feet again. “Foul weather. Which causes crop shortages. Which results in escalating prices. Of wheat especially. But also, milk. And other things, but that’s not important now.” He fell again into his chair.

“He’s right,” said Mr. Thrup. “But they took all of it. We’ve no wheat stores to survive the coming year, no seed for the spring planting, and the pittance they paid us will not see us through the winter.”

Steadman intended to press the farmers for their theories on who was behind the extortion, but Morgan slid his chair nearer the farmers. “They took only wheat?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Nott. “And my self-respect.”

“I see. I have a question, then. Do both of you operate a three-cycle rotation among wheat, barley, and clover underseed before allowing a field to lie fallow?”

The farmers nodded in unison. Steadman blinked at Morgan, his mouth no doubt agape. The young man ignored him and tapped the table with his index finger.

“And they took wheat because that is what you both had just harvested?”

“Yes.”

“And both your farms are sixty acres?”

The farmers exchanged glances. Mr. Thrup nodded. “Well, yes.”

Steadman closed his slack jaw and cocked his head at Morgan. “You appear to know a fair bit about farming.”

Morgan opened his palms. “I grew up in a country parish. It was my duty as a vicar’s…son to know the specifics of how our parishioners made their living.”

“I see. But you appear to have a notion about the size of the farm plots.”

Morgan tapped a finger to his chin and eyed the low ceiling. “From the complaint letter, it seems that all victims of these marauders own sixty-acre plots and were growing wheat at the time. Is that unusual?”

The farmers exchanged a glance of epiphany. Mr. Nott jumped from his chair. “Why, yes! Quite unusual. And odd. And terribly coincidental.”

“You see,” explained Mr. Thrup as Mr. Nott began pacing the room.

“The majority of the land in this area has been enclosed into larger estates owned by the gentry since the enclosure laws went into effect some decades ago. Perhaps one in five acres still belongs to family farms, most of them only a few acres.”

“One in six acres, dear.”

“Yes. One in six acres, love. And most of those have been in barley, in clover, or lie fallow at this time.”

Morgan’s insight finally impacted Steadman. What a clever lad! Steadman raised a finger to punch the air. “So, then. Only the largest farms were targeted, and only those that had just harvested wheat?”

“Yes.” This from Mr. Nott as he passed behind Steadman.

“And if you have no wheat for the winter and no seed for the spring planting, what will happen to you?”

Mr. Nott halted his wandering and crumpled back into his chair. “We starve. Or we sell to an estate. One of those.”

Steadman locked stares with Morgan. The lad’s wide eyes indicated he shared Steadman’s conclusion. Morgan rose from his chair and spread his hands.

“Mr. Thrup, Mr. Nott. Before the night visit from the marauders, had anyone pressured you to sell your farm?”

“Constantly,” groaned Mr. Nott.

“At least once a week,” said Mr. Thrup. “They do it still.”

Dark suspicions drove Steadman to his feet to stand beside Morgan. “Who? Who is bringing this pressure to bear?”

Mrs. Thrup joined them on their feet. “An agent. A foul little man who invades my home with his insidious machinations and poor table manners.”

Steadman narrowed his eyes. “The agent’s name?”

“Mr. Cecil Dunwoody.”

The name exploded from the bowels of Steadman’s memory to raise the hackles on his neck. He peered intently at Mrs. Thrup. “Mr. Dunwoody, the financier who lost a fortune these past two years?”

“The very one. Do you know him?”

Steadman placed his hat on his head. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. and Mrs. Thrup. Mr. Nott.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door. “Come, Mr. Brady. We’ve work to do.”

***

Morgan hurried to match Steadman’s pace as he retrieved his horse and rode toward Broad Chalke. She spurred her mount to catch his.

“Who is Cecil Dunwoody?”

Steadman peered sidelong at her and tucked his chin. “Why do you ask?”

His coy response drew her nearer. “Because at the mention of his name, a look came over you, and decidedly unlike the one you showed me on the road.”

He turned his face back to the lane, the grit of his square jaw practically creating sparks. “Oh? What kind of look?”

She recalled his expression and how it had unsettled her. How she briefly experienced a desire to flee. “Like a hunter. A wolf on the prowl. You know this man personally, don’t you? You dislike this man.”

“I don’t dislike Cecil Dunwoody.”

“Is that so? I was well fooled, then.”

Steadman peered at her again, his eyes disappearing beneath his brows. “I do not dislike Cecil Dunwoody. Rather, I despise Cecil Dunwoody with the fire of the sun. Dislike is too bland a description.”

He faced the road again, apparently finished speaking on the matter. Morgan raced her mount ahead and spun it in the road, forcing Steadman to pull up his horse. He frowned at her, his face granite.

“You wish to say something?”

“If I am to help you with this investigation, I require your confidence. An explanation of your animosity towards this Dunwoody character would be a wonderful start. Don’t you think?”

He continued watching her, as if sifting her soul, until she grew uncomfortable and looked away for fear he would identify the woman beneath the bluster.

“Very well,” he said. “You are right. Again.”

He prodded his horse forward and she fell in beside him. He watched the clouds for nearly a minute, a man lost in memory. Then, before she realized, he was speaking.

“Dunwoody is a snake, but one with a powerful friend. Lord Atwood, baron and otherwise blight of Prescombe Manor.”

“The local baron?”

“The very one. Dunwoody attached himself to Atwood decades ago, sucking and feeding. The baron is only happy to be bled. To be poisoned.”

“The baron is no better, then?”

Steadman chuckled primally. “No. Perhaps worse. But he is behind this extortion, I am convinced.”

Her curiosity mounted. “How do you know? Are you a seer?”

“No. Only a minor prophet, unhappy to be correct in this case.”

“Might you explain your prophecy, then? I am a mere mortal with poor foresight, as evidenced by my agreeing to accompany you here.”

Her plan to soften his mood paid dividends when he smiled. “Every prophet requires his acolyte, I suppose. I will deign to enlighten you.”

“I sit humbly at your feet, oh wise one.”

Steadman swept his arm to the west. “Atwood’s estate sprawls beyond Broad Chalke as he gobbled up land from small farms over the years.

However, his reputation as a landowner is poor.

He has mismanaged his lands and lost a fortune in Dunwoody’s schemes.

I believe he is using Dunwoody to grab more land by forcing farmers into insolvency. ”

The theory sounded plausible to Morgan. Greed was a powerful motivator. She had seen it happen in her parish and understood the process well. “But how could he guarantee acquiring the insolvent farms? Are those farms not re-allotted by a local commission?”

He flashed her a wicked smile. “Exactly. And do you know who constitutes this area’s local commission?”

“Lord Atwood and Cecil Dunwoody?”

“Clever lad.”

He turned away again to fume. His vitriol for both men was too personal to leave unaddressed, though. She inhaled a pair of deep breaths to find the pluck to ask what she must. “How do you know these men?”

“What makes you think I know them?”

“Do not patronize me, sir. Answer the question.”

He smiled at her again, leaving a mark. “Still fighting back, I see. Well done.”

“And the answer?”

He huffed a breath. “The Drew family is tightly knit with the baron. He infests them with the same poison that consumes him – corrupting, tainting, corroding. They are lost.”

As he spoke, barely constrained passion bubbled perilously near to the surface of his explanation. She failed to discern what sort of passion, but sensed the anger, regret, and concern stirred into the stew of his festering response. Her curiosity swelled until she could not restrain a question.

“So, you have a family?”

He peered at her again, his features wracked with indecision. Slowly, however, the granite of his expression melted into something softer, and his eyes reappeared from the shadows. He turned away.

“Yes. A mother and a sister.”

He lapsed into silence, offering nothing further. After a minute, he cocked his head at her. “You mentioned small brothers.”

Morgan hesitated, not wishing to disclose too much. Unneeded information might make the unearthing of her ruse too easy. “Half-brothers. Much younger and left adrift when my father died. And my father’s sister lives with us.”

“And you bear the burden of supporting them?”

“Yes. Gladly. They are my family and all I have in this world.”

Steadman nodded slowly with a look of approval. “You are a good sort, Morgan Brady. Many a young man would simply leave their family to rot.”

“I am not ‘many a young man.’”

“As I have noticed.”

As they continued down the road in relative silence, Morgan wondered about Steadman. What kind of man was he? Had he left his family to rot? She wanted to believe better of him but feared the truth.