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.
