“Erasmus Atkyns,” Neville replied. “He died last month.”

“Who the devil is Erasmus Atkyns?” Justin asked. “Not that vicar in Tavistock?”

Neville nodded. “His widow has written. He’s… His property is…”

Tom stood and came to join him. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

Neville handed him the letter, waiting while Tom read through it. The other men resumed their conversation. Something about the feasibility of improving the cliff road. A tedious subject, and one that Justin had been rather keen on since first learning of his impending fatherhood.

“When the heavy rains come, the road washes out, and we’re isolated here for days at a time,” he was explaining to Mr. Hayes. “It won’t do when there are children in residence. If one should become ill or injured, there would be no way to summon the village doctor or the surgeon.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t removed to town for the winter,” Alex said. “With your wife expecting, it seems only sensible. You’ll want her under a doctor’s care.”

“She won’t go,” Justin replied grimly. “She insists on remaining here for Christmas. Besides which, she has a well-founded mistrust of doctors. Our child’s to be delivered by a village midwife.”

Neville was only half listening. He couldn’t focus on anything fully at the moment. The news of Mr. Atkyns’s death had thrown his thoughts into chaos. Sensing his distress, Paul and Jonesy milled about nearby, too concerned for him to lie down.

“Mrs. Atkyns is very civil,” Tom murmured as he read. “But it seems her husband was in some financial difficulties. He must have been for them to be having the estate sale so soon after the funeral.” He looked up from the letter. “Will you go?”

Neville’s stomach tightened with apprehension. Mrs. Atkyns had invited him to attend the sale. Had said she wished to speak with him further on the matter of the Dartmoor ponies. But it would mean leaving Greyfriar’s Abbey. Traveling to Tavistock, and staying a day or two, at least. “I d-don’t—”

“It sounds as though she’s eager to speak with you in person.”

“Yes, but…” Neville felt the bitter urge to laugh. Speak with him? Wouldn’t that be a charming conversation. Him stopping, starting, and stammering, and her trying to make heads or tails of what the devil he was saying. “I don’t want…” He took a breath. “It isn’t…”

Tom’s eyes were keen, as always. Seeing everything. “You needn’t decide this very moment. The sale isn’t until after Christmas. There’s plenty of time yet to determine the best course.”

Neville took back the letter. He folded it carefully.

“If you require any help,” Tom said, “any advice, I’m here. You need only ask me.”

“I know that.” Neville was grateful to him. Tom never pressed. Never attempted to exert his will. “Thank you.”

Tom smiled. “Won’t you join us? God only knows how much longer the ladies will be with Ahmad.”

“I can’t. I…” Neville cast a look at the door. He wanted to get out, not only of this room, but of his own head. To walk, or to work with the horses. Something physical. “I need…I need some air.”