She returned with another young man, this one breathing hard and red in the face. The liberal dusting of sandy dirt showed he had been riding hard.
“Your brother’s footman, master. He says he was sent in great haste, but I told him that’s no excuse for beating on the door as if he would throw it down. If I had my way—”
“Thank you, Hannah,” Adam said quietly. “Let me hear my brother’s message, since this young man has flown here to deliver it.”
“My master asks … that you do come to Trundon Hall … as quick as you can, sir,” the footman gasped. “He has … great need of you. This morning, Sir Jackman Wennard has been killed … out with the fox hunt. Thrown by his horse, ’tis said. Coroner planned to hold his inquest tomorrow … but his doctor isn’t satisfied what caused the death. My master wants you … to give a second opinion. The coroner can only wait another day before convening his jury. The weather is warm … and the dead man’s son, Sir Robert as is now, be making a most fearful fuss.”
“Very well,” Adam said. “Return to your master and tell him I will set out within the hour. Hannah, give this poor lad a drink of some good ale to wash the dust from his throat. Then send him on his way.” He turned to his patient. “Our time is cut short, Mr Scudamore, but you have all you need. I will visit you in two or three days to check on your progress. Please inform Lady Alice that I will venture to call upon her at the same time, should it be convenient.”
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