“Then why on earth did you climb it?”
“Because someone had to.”
“With thirty-seven cottages on this estate alone, don’t I have a thatcher to do that?”
“You might have once,” Meg said, grimly. “You’ll want to speak to your land agent.”
“It appears I might at that.”
“Are you sure you didn’t injure yourself.”
“I’m fine. We weren’t even going that fast, it just felt like the saddle gave out.”
Meg frowned at the saddle, running her hands over the leather. It was worn but oiled and well cared for. She lifted one of the straps. It was ragged, cut through in a way that leather would never do.
Someone had damaged it on purpose.
“Like the carriage wheel,” Dougal said, stunned.
“Like the carriage wheel.”
“But why bother? Killing me won’t get the treasure found any quicker.”
“But the ensuing chaos would admit any number of strangers into the house,” Meg said.
“Bloody treasure hunters are a menace.”
“Especially if Lord Eaton is poking at them.”
He sighed. Meg and Charlie exchanged a glance. When he finally muttered under his breath, they chorused with him, in perfect unison.
“Damn King Henry the Eighth.”