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“I believe Mr. Wallace ’as it occasionally. For far too ’igh a price. But it’s not been regularly in stock since February,” she said.

“How is that possible? Even with the shortage early last year, our fall harvest was sufficient to have supplied the shop until now.”

“I can’t tell you, my lord. Mr. Wallace claims the miller’s ’ad no wheat since then.”

Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. Something was very wrong with this scenario. He’d personally assisted with the Farwell Farm harvest, had watched the number of sacks of wheat loaded onto the cart multiply until the horses could barely pull the weight. Everyone involved had considered it a bountiful crop. The entire load had been scheduled for delivery at the local mill.

“I believe a visit to the miller is in order,” Benedict said.

“I daresay ’e’d be the best one to talk to. When I asked Mr. Wallace about it, ’e didn’t seem to know much. And since ’e couldn’t tell me when ’e’d be gettin’ more flour in, I asked Stokes to order a delivery from Gloucester. ’E had Mr. Rowe take care of it when ’e was there.”

“So, Mr. Rowe is aware of this flour shortage?”

“Yes, my lord. ’E came to speak to me directly about it. Said ’e could buy some from a gristmill just outside Gloucester. Wanted a better idea of ’ow much flour I required, ’e did.” She paused, her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Geoffrey Blyton and Sons. That’s what the place was called.” Cook opened a cupboard door, pulled out a mug, and carried it to the stove. A small spiral of steam was rising above the pot. “The milk’s almost ready. If you’d like to take a seat, my lord, I’ll bring it to you.”

“I did not ask for warm milk,” he said.

She gave him a meaningful look. “’Ow long have I known you, my lord?”

“All my life.”

“That’s right. And you’ve been wanderin’ into my kitchen in the middle of the night lookin’ for a mug of warm milk since you were a boy.”

Benedict dropped into the nearest chair. There had been several years during his youth when he’d been plagued with nightmares. He’d been too old for a nursemaid, but Cook had taken on the task of joining him in the kitchen when he’d been unable to sleep.

“As I said before,” he told her, “you are too good to us. To me, in particular.”

“It’s my pleasure, my lord.” She set the mug before him. “And seein’ as I was up anyway, it’s no trouble at all.”

Chapter 16

Benedict rode Saxon across the old gristmill’s uncharacteristically empty yard, slid from his saddle, and tied the leather straps to a post. Saxon snorted. It was the only sound beyond the trill of a couple of blackbirds in a nearby hawthorn bush and the rush of nearby water. The stone building stood perched at the edge of the riverbank, its large wooden waterwheel partially submerged in the river below. Benedict studied the motionless waterwheel and frowned. Surely the miller would normally have the grinding stones working at this time of day.

Leaving Saxon to graze on the grass verge, he crossed the short distance to the main door and tried the handle. It turned, so he walked inside.

“Mr. Abney!” he called.

The echo of shuffling footsteps filled the vast room, and a short man appeared from the other side of the enormous grinding stone. His graying hair was tied back with a narrow black ribbon, and his serviceable clothes were covered in dust.

“Lord Benning.” There was no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “Welcome.”

“Good day to you, sir,” Benedict said.

“And t’ you, m’lord.” He bowed. “What can I do fer you?”

“I’ve come in search of information,” Benedict said.

The miller’s faded hazel eyes regarded him curiously. “If I can be of assistance, I’m ’appy t’ ’elp, m’lord.”

“I recently learned that Mr. Wallace’s shop in Leyfield has been without flour for months.”

Mr. Abney’s expression fell. “Aye. Terrible, it is. An’ I wish there were somethin’ I could do about it.”

“You are a miller. Surely you can provide him with flour.”

“Would that it were that easy, m’lord.” He gestured toward two sacks sitting in the corner. “One sack o’ oats an’ ’alf a sack o’ barley. That’s all I ’ave left. I’ll ’ave that ground by the end o’ the week, an’ then I’ll just ’ave to ’ope someone else brings more grain. Without grain, my mill is useless.”

“I understand that the shortage of wheat last year must have caused great difficulty. But the worst is long past. Last autumn’s harvest should have been enough to keep up with local demand. Farwell Farm alone produced the best part of one hundred eighty bushels.”