The Duke's Agent by Rebecca Jenkins

objected.
    â€˜It is urgent,’ insisted Jarrett. He felt in his pocket and drew out a coin.
    The innkeeper looked him up and down. ‘You look a mite rough, sir.’
    â€˜No matter,’ Jarrett brushed his concern aside. ‘A misadventure on the road. This letter?’
    The innkeeper cocked his head to look out the window and down the empty road. ‘Well, I reckon we can squeeze another in. For York, you say?’
    â€˜Yes. For the Marquess of Earewith to await collection at the Red Lion.’
    â€˜For the Marquess, is it?’ The postmaster perked up at the name. ‘Well, now, why didn’t you say so before – always a pleasure to oblige a lordship.’ The innkeeper’s shrewd countryman’s eyes noted the stiffness with which his customer moved. ‘Trouble on the road, you say?’
    â€˜Two ruffians attacked me on the way from Woolbridge. After my purse, I dare say, but I saw them off,’ replied Jarrett briefly. ‘Do you have a pen, ink and sealing wax?’
    â€˜You was attacked? Well, sir, that is too bad. We don’t get much of that sort of trouble round here. That’s bad news, that is.’
    â€˜There is a postscript I must add before the mail comes,’ prompted Jarrett, urgency giving his words a pronounced edge. He tried to add a conciliatory smile. ‘I would be most grateful.’
    With a slight sigh at the difficulty of serving the gentry the innkeeper went off to fetch the necessary items.
    Jarrett broke open his letter, dashed off a hurried postscript about the attack and his misgivings and resealed itwhile the innkeeper carefully added the new arrival to the way-bill. The man was just refastening the York mailbag when the sounds of a coach horn were heard in the distance and everyone hurried out to watch the arrival of the mail.
    The fresh horses stood prepared under the charge of ostlers. Directly opposite the inn’s main entrance, the two leaders fretted, ready harnessed and coupled together. Another blast of the horn and the mail appeared bearing down the straight moor road in the grand style at full gallop. With nice judgement the coachman reined back his horses to bring them to a halt, the red body of his coach settling precisely between the two fresh wheelers lined up on the road. The ostlers leapt up to unthread the buckles and unhitch the four foam-flecked horses. The guard, in his fine scarlet jacket, sprang down from his box, the pedlars surged forward to clamour for the passengers’ custom and the innkeeper pressed through the scrum to exchange his bags for the down mail. The George prided itself on performing the Change in less than the five minutes prescribed by the Post Office.
    Above the confusion, the coachman sat in a heap on his box, his shape and aspect reminiscent of a comfortable and competent toad. He wore a squat beaver hat with a rakish curl to its brim, and his overflowing chins were supported by a silk handkerchief printed with bilious spots on a chocolate ground. Despite the heat of the day he wore a light overcoat thrown open sufficiently to hint at the several layers of miscellaneous coats underneath. He tied up the reins and stowed his whip in a stately fashion, while the passenger who had won the privilege of sitting by him eagerly wrestled to unbuckle the lead reins.
    The guard was a well-made young fellow with curly black hair. He consulted the clock he carried in a sealed case slung over his shoulder.
    â€˜You’re twelve minutes late,’ said the innkeeper, as he checked the timepiece and filled in the guard’s way-bill.
    â€˜Aye,’ replied the guard, ‘an affair held us up at the last stage. There’s been a murder up on the moor.’
    The crowd picked up the sound of the word. ‘Murder? What murder?’ ‘There’s been murder done?’ The guard looked up to the highest authority present. The coachman prepared to come down from his