“Well,” the innkeeper continued, taking a modest pull at his own tankard, “there do be the vicar, for sure, but he bain’t no use to nobody these days. A man more changed than he I never did see.”
“A sombre, silent man he is now, surely,” the grocer confirmed.
The butler nodded ponderous agreement.
“He used to dine with us once a week regular, but hasn’t been near the Hall since—not for eleven months. They say that he never stirs out of his study now.”
“I was looking over his garden wall only last night,” the innkeeper observed. “It do seem—the whole place—to be going to rack and ruin. And he so proud of his garden, too.”
“He has had some sort of a loss, perhaps,” Mr. Johnson suggested.
“None as any one knows of,” the butler affirmed. “He’s a widower and have lived alone ever since he came here. There are some who say that he’s had a falling out with the Squire, but if that be so, none of us have heard of it.”
“The Squire?” Mr. Johnson repeated hopefully. “And who might he be?”
The butler’s manner betokened hurt surprise.
“The Squire, sir—my master—is Sir Bertram Ballaston of Ballaston Hall.”