Walter’s gaze sharpened into something near outrage. “Mistress Quinn knows much of dead bailiffs after three days beneath our roof?”
Amelia looked up from the roll. “No. But I’m good with numbers, and these are lying.”
Walter’s mouth thinned until it nearly disappeared beneath his nose. “Numbers do not lie.”
“People using them do.”
Thomas nearly choked on a laugh.
Walter turned his reproachful glare on him.
Thomas coughed into his fist. “Show him.”
Amelia hesitated. For a moment, something uncertain crossed her face, something that reminded Thomas she had no place here, no standing, no right to correct an old steward before the lord of the manor. A woman alone in a house that was not hers. A runaway wife, by gossip. A faery, according to the lads.
Then she seemed to gather herself and pointed to the tally.
“The south field. Twelve sacks cut. Eight stored. Four supposedly sent to the miller. But the miller’s mark here does not match his mark there.”
Walter took the roll as if he expected it to bite.
“And here,” she said, finding another note. “Widow Maud’s hens. Paid, then owed again. Here as well. Two days’ labor from Rob Miller marked against his rent, then charged as unpaid. And unless I’m misunderstanding your system, which is entirely possible because it looks like someone threw the village into a bag and shook it, several tenants have been charged twice.”
Walter bent closer.
Thomas watched as Walter’s expression did not change, but one hand tightened around the roll.
Amelia noticed. The woman noticed everything except when she was about to say something that could get her dragged before a priest.
“I’m not saying you did it,” she said gently.
Walter’s head snapped up. “I should think not.”
“I’m saying someone counted on no one having enough time to compare one list with another.”
Walter’s nostrils flared. “Wexford kept the rolls. He had the tallies split and matched, stood before me and swore the barns held less because of spoilage.”
Amelia looked at Thomas. “Did they?”
Thomas thought of the barn. The grain bins. The tight faces of the men who had counted them twice and still come away with too little.
“Some spoiled,” he said. “Not so much as this says.”
Walter looked as if he had swallowed vinegar. “He was a faithless cur.”
“He is dead,” Thomas said.
“So are many better men,” Walter snapped, then seemed to remember himself. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Thomas reached for the cup of small beer and found it empty, which was further proof that God had chosen to test him this morning.
“How bad?” he asked.
Amelia pressed both palms to the table. “I need to see everything.”
“No,” Walter said.
Thomas looked at him.