Chapter 17

17

T he reverend’s words were, unfortunately, prophetic. All plans to continue investigating Alnmouth went astray when the situation began to worsen much closer to home.

Late in the evening, after Roland, Ellesmere and Thorne got back from Alnmouth, Mr Shaw, the father of one of the missing children, went to the local tavern to drink his sorrows away. There, he and a few others got drunk as David's sow, and they decided the next best course of action was to break into the warehouses of Farnsworth Carriers by the edge of the river, looking for clues of their own.

They found nothing untoward. However, men who were falling-down drunk were not especially careful with their lanterns, and the fire that resulted not only burned down the Farnsworth warehouse, but another beside it that had winter stores of grain and roots.

By midmorning the next day, there was a tense standoff between Shaw’s sobering troublemakers and a cluster of the unhappy tradesmen whose shipments and storage had gone up in smoke. Before Colonel Ellesmere could successfully diffuse the situation, it escalated into a brawl that left three men nursing broken bones.

“Call for Mr Harding,” Grace insisted.

“I think I must,” Roland agreed. “Alnwick is besieged from without and within. I hardly know where to begin in sorting out this disaster, but one thing is certain… we need to keep matters from getting worse.”

Thorne was sitting at the desk, writing furiously. “Hopefully Mr Robson can deal with investigating wool shipments on his own for the moment. Shall I send him a message as well?”

Roland waved his hand in tacit permission as he went to tell a footman to summon Mr Harding once more. “Be my guest. And my right hand. We have to deal with this first.”

“What can I do to help?” Grace asked him. “Shall I go help soothe the tradesmen and see what we can do to arrange compensation?”

“No. Absolutely not,” Roland said. “If the people are unsettled, letting you go abroad would be like setting the cat among the pigeons. It would not be good for you to be available as a target for their frustrations.”

Grace reluctantly conceded his point, and twiddled her fingers. “Withers has told the maids to stay away from His Grace. Why?”

Roland set his fingertips to his temples. “Since shortly before Thaddius died, Withers has been managing His Grace’s worst spells with draughts, keeping him abed.”

With the unrest in the village, it was imperative that the Percy household step in to restore a sense of order, backing Ellesmere’s efforts and helping soothe discontent with the tradesmen. Roland had made the mistake of seeking his grandfather’s assistance in dealing with the brush fires happening in Alnwick, but it seemed whatever condition his grandfather had, agitation worsened the possibility of his having fits.

He had flown into a muddled rage at the impudence of the local peasantry that intensified into hallucinations of persecution by Alnwick’s citizenry. It took Withers a half of an hour to calm the duke into a semblance of rationality, and by then Roland understood the full magnitude of his grandfather’s unstable state.

Her eyebrows drew together, and Roland could see her calculating as he had, the number of times that the duke had been unavailable when they sought him directly. “How often is this happening?”

“Before the summer, perhaps once or twice a month. It was rare enough that it could be easily overlooked. But by the harvest season, it was apparent to Withers that his spells were being brought on by high emotion, and it was growing worse quickly. This morning, he was nearly combative in his confusion after he found out about the fire,” Roland confessed quietly.

“Goodness. You… will you be going out to continue searching?”

“I think I cannot, my love. If His Grace is unfit, then it falls to me to start wheels in motion that no one else can. I must reach out to the solicitor in Newcastle-upon-Tyne?—”

“I have already drafted that letter, Roland,” Thorne interrupted from the desk, and Grace touched her fingers to her lips to hide a small smile, though her eyes were slightly downcast.

“You were right. We must draw on the assistance of others to accomplish our ends,” Roland added drolly. “I must now be a politician and a steward, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing Thorne has been drafted into the position of my secretary. You need not do anything but rest and take care of yourself.”

“Well… all right, it seems you have things well in hand…” she said, glancing around. “I should find somewhere else to be so I am not underfoot.”

Roland wished he could keep her nearby, even though it would be a dull afternoon. “It would be less tedious for you. But know you are always here,” he consoled her, pressing her hand to his chest.

She nodded and slipped out of his study as Mr Harding arrived with an armload of ledgers. The man saw Thorne sitting at the desk and turned to Roland, perplexed.

“Congratulations, Harding,” Roland told him. “I am appointing you as Alnwick’s steward, effective immediately.”

“Er,” Mr Harding stammered, dropping one of the books.

Striding closer to Mr Harding, Roland picked it up and plucked the ledgers from Mr Harding’s hands, depositing them on a nearby table. “I trust this gives you sufficient authority to handle the issues related to the tenants, yes?”

“Er,” Mr Harding said again. “Does that mean I will be able to withdraw funds for repairs?”

“Yes,” Roland said succinctly as he shot a look at Thorne. “Perhaps it is best for me to assume handling payroll for the moment until things are caught up. Shall I increase your compensation to 100 for now, Mr Harding?”

“I’ll write the bank next,” muttered Thorne, shaking out the cramp in his hand as he blew on the current page.

“Lord Percy! I—that would be extremely generous?—”

“Good. When you take over the other disbursements in a few months, you can grant yourself another 50. Thank you for removing this issue of the tenant repairs from my plate.”

“It is my privilege, my lord, I assure you.” Harding gave a nervous bow. “Thank you for granting me another chance to prove my loyalty to the Percy family. Your trust will not be misplaced.”

“I expect not. No good deed goes unpunished, Harding. You probably will rescind your thanks when I raid the duke’s desk and find out what other paperwork has been languishing. Feel free to conduct your work here, for now, in case you need my approval with anything.”

Feeling a keen need to move, Roland abandoned his own office to the men and went to conduct his raid. Withers, predictably, showed up the moment Roland went to turn the doorknob of his grandfather’s study.

“Lord Percy,” Withers said, wringing his hands. “Are you certain that this is necessary to enter His Grace’s sanctuary like this?”

Roland tried to hold his temper and deal with the old butler gently. Perhaps the duke was not the only elderly resident of Alnwick Castle who was slipping in good sense. “Unfortunately, I believe the answer to that would have to be a yes, Withers. I do not want to violate my grandfather’s privacy, but the lapse in oversight has gone on for too long. I simply wish to ensure that nothing crucial has been left unattended. It is in the estate’s best interest.”

The butler reluctantly nodded. “Yes, of course, my lord.”

“Come. I know you have been assisting the duke. I also know that Mr Harding has been forwarding requests that were beyond his capacity for nearly an entire year, and many have not been dealt with. Where are they? With your assistance, my need to disturb the duke’s space will be at a minimum.”

As Roland sat behind his grandfather’s heavy desk, Withers directed his hands to a drawer on the right. Opening it, Roland inwardly cursed as he found a sheaf of papers. Mr Harding’s requests for funds. Orders for repairs to the fencing. Petitions for reductions in rent. Requests for grazing rights and subletting.

My god, Roland thought, resting his head upon one hand. When was Withers going to bring this to his attention?

“Please take this to Mr Harding immediately.” Roland gave the stack of papers to Withers, and closed the drawer with a thump. Then he checked the drawer above. The duke’s signet ring glinted dully in the drawer next to a stick of sealing wax. Roland withdrew the ring, examining the smooth face with the reversed image of the Percy lion carved into its face.

Sighing, Roland closed the drawer, pocketing the ring. It would not be his to wear until the duke died. But while Roland had to act in His Grace’s name, he would need to use the seal to show that the ducal approval was granted.

Leaving the duke’s study, Roland ruthlessly suppressed an urge to find Arion and go ride out to meet Mr Robson. He did not want to be here, dealing with paper and propriety. The mantle of the duke’s responsibilities pulled him in two directions, and as he heard footsteps approaching from behind him, he gritted his teeth in anticipation of another urgent issue, pretending he did not hear.

“Lord Percy, I beg your pardon.”

Roland turned at the sound of Brigg’s voice and found himself pressed against the wall like he was the victim of a mugging. He certainly hadn’t expected to be accosted by his own valet, and he nearly stumbled as the man laid his hands on Roland to straighten his cravat, and then his hair. He was shocked at first, and then chagrined at the length of time it took Briggs to restore order to Roland’s appearance.

“There, now you look a little less like a wild thing. Don’t— ” Briggs insisted, “run your hands through your hair, my lord!”

Blinking at him, Roland uttered the first words that came to mind. “Yes, mama. ”

Briggs gave Roland a toothy grin, and leaned in to whisper. “I mean it. Don’t muss your hair. The footmen here are terrible gossips.”

“Duly noted, Briggs. Was that all that you needed to tell me or was there somewhat else?” Roland inched away.

“Colonel Ellesmere has brought the tradesmen by. Since Withers and the duke were unavailable, I’ve settled them in the drawing room next to your study. Shall I bring tea?”

Roland began to lift one hand in an urge to pull his hair again. Briggs cleared his throat loudly, giving him a look Roland hadn’t seen since he misbehaved in school. “Right. Yes, tea. And possibly some of that swill my brother likes to drink—but send that to my study for afterward.”

The tradesmen put on a show of disgruntlement, but they were quickly mollified by the talk of compensation for the loss of their goods. All too soon, the light began to fade outside of the windows, and Roland sent the tradesmen on their way.

“You need to work on your face of indifference, Lord Percy,” Colonel Ellesmere remarked. “Or perhaps I am wrong, and you should continue cultivating your fearsome visage. It certainly kept the fussing from Farnsworth to a minimum.”

“Would that being fearsome could solve other tasks so handily. Have you had any luck investigating the path of the wool?”

“No, I am sorry to say. I haven’t even had a chance to start to look into it,” Ellesmere murmured. “Hopefully things are quieter tomorrow, because I have even fewer searchers to look after today, even if you and I were available to ride.”

“What do you mean?” Roland asked. “Has something happened to the searchers?”

“No, Lord Percy. But like Mr Robson, Alnwick’s few constables are just farmers serving their appointed year.” Ellesmere grimaced, tossing back the remains of his cold tea. “I requested more hands from the area when we began the search, and they have other duties to go back to. You don’t happen to have something stronger than this, do you?”

“My brother’s rot-gut is next door,” Roland said, inviting Ellesmere into his study.

“That’ll do.” Colonel Ellesmere nodded in greeting to Mr Harding and Thorne, and Thorne, reading his mind, poured four glasses of whisky.

“To our current problems that not all the money in the world can solve,” Roland said mildly, lifting his glass in a sardonic salute. “Perhaps we shall need to find the money for a few permanent lawmen so we never again have an issue arising from conscripted farmers.”

Thorne, Roland and the Colonel drank to that, but Mr Harding fingered his glass for a moment. “Lord Percy, if I might suggest something boldly…”

“Please.”

“Money might solve your problem. You might have a thousand willing searchers if you put a reward at stake. Something sufficiently lucrative that every rock will be turned in search for the villain. Perhaps, say, a percentage of next year’s sheep shearing?”

Roland and Ellesmere stared at Mr Harding, but Thorne broke into a chuckle. “A reward from the sheep? That would be a nice bit of irony, Mr Harding.”

Pondering the idea, Roland refilled the rest of their glasses, waiting pointedly until Mr Harding downed his first one before he filled it again and set down the bottle. “Perhaps we could. We could send out criers. Have Reverend Shepherd and the clergy spread the word.”

Finally, Roland felt as though there might be hope. “I will require all of your help. We will, doubtless, be inundated with false leads. But at least the leads will come to us, and there will be no safe haven for the kidnapper.”