“All this from an animal burrow?” he asked.
His friend Morgan dismounted and went down on his haunches to look at the damage. “No sign of badger or rabbit burrow,” he murmured. He glanced up at Sir Robert.
“Perhaps a fox,” Lucy suggested, chin high. The men looked dubious, and she waved a dismissive hand. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s gone, and we’ll…”
Morgan continued to examine the fallen timbers. “Dry rot?” He looked to Vincent Thatcher for an answer.
“Aye, Sir. Been there a while,” Vincent turned to Sir Robert. “We thought we had time to let it go a few months. We didn’t expect this.”
Morgan looked up at Rob. “There’s dry rot on those boards, but not enough to collapse the wall, and no rabbit could have dislodged those stones. I see no sign of badger. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Miss Whitaker,” Sir Robert said with exaggerated patience, “I don’t think an animal did this.” He turned to Morgan and Vincent. “Do you see any trace of sabotage?”
Soon the three men were on their knees examining the ruined wall in detail. Lucy couldn’t stop them; she could only stomp her foot in frustration. “That’s ridiculous. Why would someone sabotage the old stables?
Sir Robert rose, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Good question. Why, indeed.”
“We have only my horse and trap to house. The building is the least valuable on the property.”
“Perhaps its disuse made it an easy target.”
Lucy had to admit the sense of that.But why?She bit her lip, lost in thought.
“Disgruntled tenant?”
“Of course not!” Her outrage heated her cheeks. “Willowbrook tenants would never—”
“Miss Whitaker tells the truth. Folks on Willowbrook land have it better than much of the county—Caulfield Hall tenants for sure, begging your pardon.” Vincent’s stout defense warmed her heart.
“Who then?” Benson asked.
Morgan sank back on his heels and peered up at his friend. “Someone did. The wood may have had rot, but someone dislodged the stone beneath it. There are a few axe cuts in the wood, too.” He stood then, waiting patiently.
“Does anyone bear you a grudge, Miss Whitaker?” Benson asked.
The question deserved an answer, but Lucy couldn’t verbalize one. She shook her head.
“Thatcher?” Benson turned to her tenant.
The man breathed deeply. “Miss Whitaker is well-liked in Ashmead. She drives a hard bargain on market day in Nottingham, though, and at the sheep auctions. There are those that take a woman with sharp skills amiss.”
“Can you think of one who resents her expertise enough to hurt her?” Sir Robert asked Vincent.
Lucy glanced up sharply. Expertise? Does he truly see me that way?
“No, Sir. None in the valley. Except—” Vincent waved the thought away with a hand.
“Except who?” Sir Robert demanded.
“The old countess doesn’t like Miss Whitaker a whit, but that don’t make sense. The old woman stays in London and can’t be bothered with us.”
Sir Robert brushed that aside.
Quite right, Lucy thought. The dowager countess would never bestir herself to give me so much as a thought.
“With no evidence—” Sir Robert gestured to the pile of rubble. “—and fewer leads, we can only keep watch. Can you spare someone to keep watch?”
“We need all hands in the fields during the day, but the barn loft is dry. My boys could sleep there.”
