“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?”
