As they entered the hamlet of Broad Chalke proper, Steadman mulled over his previous fifteen years, most of it outside the law. Planning, scheming, striking, running, only to repeat the cycle. All of it aimed at thwarting the very system he had once been destined to inhabit. To manipulate. To control. Only the miracle of Lucy, a lost child, had prevented him from descending into an abyss long ago. His father’s example had convinced Steadman to avoid fatherhood. However, fate had drawn up other plans in the form of a ten-year-old granddaughter of a duke without a family and in need of a champion. In his rumination, he glanced again at Morgan, who studied the village as if memorizing it. The lad’s presence reminded him again of what he had lost along the way—true friendship of equal minds. The fact that he had begun to find it in a rumpled, smooth-cheeked adolescent continued to surprise him.
Remarkable.
“Steadman?”
Morgan drew him again from the halls of introspection. “What now?”
“Will we continue riding west until encountering the sea, or do you have a more salient plan?”
He cast a cool but playful glare at the lad. “I always have a plan. Usually a brilliant one, though sometimes merely sublime.”
“So, you never rush into a situation with pistols cocked and just wait to see what happens?”
“Such actions result in pain and death. So, no.”
“Seldom wrong but never in doubt?”
“More or less.”
Morgan grinned. “Then might you share with me your surely sublime and possibly brilliant plan?”
“Of course. Anything to dispel your ignorance.” He pointed ahead. “We ride to the far edge of Broad Chalke to the residence of one Mr. Jarvis, constable of the village and surrounding areas. Once there, we will gather information regarding his knowledge of the events we have come to investigate. If that is acceptable to you.”
Morgan waved a lofty hand. “Ride onward, then.”
Within minutes, they arrived at the sundry shop and otherwise home of Mr. Jarvis. Steadman remembered him as a man whose self-aggrandizing talk always outstripped his courage. He hoped the man had changed but feared the worst. After tethering the horses, he grabbed the arm of a startled Morgan to pull him close.
“Let me do the talking. Watch and learn.”
Steadman entered the shop with Morgan at his heels. The shop was as he remembered—stuffed to the ceiling with virtually every item a household might need, from cookware to dry goods to second-hand clothing. A pair of shoppers gave them the standard local stare that said, “Welcome, but leave quickly.” He dismissed the women and turned his attention to the man behind the counter, grayer but still eminently recognizable. The man’s brow was drawn with suspicion. Steadman stopped in the middle of the small shop, stood tall, and gripped his lapel.
“I seek a Mr. Jarvis, parish constable.”
Frozen in place, Jarvis cleared his throat. “That would be me.”
His suspicion had given way to mild alarm. Steadman approached him to loom over the cowering man. “Mr. Jarvis. I am here on behalf of the Bow Street magistrate with regard torecent criminal behavior in the area and wish to obtain from you a full report of the events.”
Jarvis seemed prepared to melt into the floor, wilting like an uprooted flower under the July sun. Steadman shook his head. If anything, the man had become even more of a mouse. Steadman raised his hand to make a very strenuous point but halted when Morgan tugged his sleeve and stepped up beside him.
“You are Constable Jarvis?” Morgan asked calmly.
“Yes?”
“Wonderful. I was told that you were a distinguished gentleman, dapper of looks, who commanded respect by his auspicious presence. I am pleased to find the report to be true.”
Steadman cocked an eyebrow as he watched Mr. Jarvis straighten and resume his normal height. The shopkeeper’s wide smile chased away his frown. “Why, yes. Of course.”
“Steadman and I wonder if you might be inclined to answer a simple question or two. Nothing more.”
Jarvis’s eyes slowly widened as his stare shifted from Morgan to – him. “Steadman? Mr. Drew?”
“Steadman only. Never Mr. Drew.” He eyed the now fascinated women. “We require privacy, ladies. Unless you prefer that we search your houses for contraband.”
The women lifted their skirts and fled the store. When the door slammed behind them, Steadman returned a steely gaze to Mr. Jarvis. “First question. Are you aware of the wheat extortion scheme occurring under your watch?”
The constable shook his head. As Steadman leaned closer, Jarvis began melting again. “Second question. Are you certain you know nothing about a gang of armed men forcing localfamily farms to sell what little wheat they have salvaged from the poor harvest for half market price, under threat of violence?”
“No.”
