“Yes, he had no authority to handle matters the way he has. I apologize most profoundly for the situation you’ve been in. Naturally I’ll make up the deficit in your wages.”
“Would it be you, sir, who gave Harris the black eye and the bruises he was sporting at the inn last night?” Grainger enquired laconically.
“I don’t tolerate incivility to women,” was all Nash said. He pulled out his roll of banknotes—thank goodness he’d come well provided—and peeled off a number of notes. “Ferring, here is five pounds for each of you owed wages. The rest is to be used for immediate needs. Present me with a list of what is owed and I will make up the balance. You and Mrs. Pickens have carte blanche to take on temporary staff; do not stint, I want this place to be sparkling clean, the garden to be tidied, and the grass to be cut.
“Grainger, hire some likely lads from the village to help you out in the stables, and also to deliver my letters.”
He turned to the cook. “Mrs. Goode, draw up an estimate of your requirements for the week to come—food and staff—and present it to Mrs. Pickens for approval. Again, do not stint. I want my guests to be as comfortable and well fed as we can make them. I’m leaving almost immediately but will return in a day or so. Questions?”
They were too shocked to say a word.
Nash stood. “Grainger, come with me to Harris’s house. I told him to be quit of it immediately, but I must warn you, if he’s there, it’s bound to get ugly.”
“In that case, it’ll be a pleasure, sir,” Grainger said with a grin.
“Good man.”
Nash took his pistol from the portmanteau that Grainger had brought in, checked it, then placed it in the pocket of his coat. “I intend to have him arrested. I’ll need to examine the estate records, but there’s no doubt in my mind there are criminal charges to answer. The man’s no fool, however, so I expect he is long gone.”
“Not so sure of that, sir,” Grainger said. “Harris was dead drunk in the inn by closing time last night. Couldn’t hardly sit his horse, so I reckon he’ll wake late. And in an ugly mood.”
Nash wished now he had knocked the man cold and conveyed him to a magistrate then and there, but it was too late for such regrets.
“That’s the house.” Grainger pointed to a solid-looking gray stone house on the edge of the estate. Smoke curled from one of the chimneys. Someone was home. curled from one of the chimneys. Someone was home.
“Go around the back,” Nash told Grainger. He knocked on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. Silence.
He peered in at the windows but could see no sign of anyone. After a few minutes, Grainger came back.
“He’s gone, sir. His horse isn’t in the stable. He hasn’t been gone long, though; there are warm horse droppings near the back door. And he don’t keep any servants. Can’t, I should say. Can’t get nobody to live in. Only dailies.”
Nash picked up a stone, intending to break in, but Grainger stopped him. “Back door’s only on the latch, sir.”
Inside, they smelled a strong stench of burning. They found the estate office fireplace gushing smoke and a fire smoldering, half smothered under a pile of papers and heavy, bound books.
“The estate accounts!” Nash dived toward the fireplace and dragged the smoldering pile onto the hearth, ruining his gloves in the process. Most of the papers were unreadable, but books didn’t burn so easily. The edges were charred but they were still usable.
“Good thing he was so mashed last night,” Grainger commented. “In no fit state to destroy the evidence.”
Nash went through the office, making a pile of whatever he thought was relevant. He wrapped them in an oil-proof cloth and tucked the bundle under his arm.
“I’ll take these away with me,” he said as Grainger locked up behind them. “Find me a couple of trustworthy men to stay here. If Harris comes back, they’re to arrest him and take him to the local magistrate on my authority.”
Grainger grinned. “I know just the men. Be a pleasure for them to deal with Mr. Harris, I reckon.”
As they passed the stables, Nash was reminded of the need for transport. “Where can I hire a carriage to transport six people as far as the next county?”
“Have to ride into Salisbury, I reckon. Unless the vicar will lend you his traveling chaise,” he added as an afterthought. “It’s a fine vehicle.”
“Excellent,” Nash said. “I’ll speak to him this afternoon.”
It occurred to Nash suddenly that he was expecting rather a lot from a small group of servants getting on in years and possibly set in their ways. “I’m not asking too much of you all, am I, Grainger? Expecting you to perform a small miracle in such a short time? Be honest now, I won’t hold it against you.”
Grainger laughed. “Mr. Renfrew, sir, I’m going to be the most popular man in the village, I reckon, handing out jobs, right, left, and center. Same goes for Ferring and Mrs. Pickens. And Mrs. Goode. Don’t you worry about us, sir. We know how the old house ought to be, and it’ll be our pleasure as much as yours to see it brought back to rights.”
Nash gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. Then if you could bring my horse around, I’ll be off to see a vicar about a chaise.”
As Nash crested the hill that led down to the vicarage, he couldn’t help but glance across at Maddy’s cottage. What the devil? A smart traveling chaise and four matched bays waited on the road outside her cottage. A coachman sat on top, and a groom in plain gray livery walked the horses back and forth so they wouldn’t take a chill in the cold breeze.
