"What do you mean, disappeared?" 

Cullen looked over at Pritchard and said, "Gone. Not in his room. We think he might have gone back to his cabin, but. . ."

"You've told someone?"

"We-we informed Miss Agatha. She s-said someone would be-be sent to inform the gamekeep-p-per." Pritchard's stutter had clearly worsened since the storm. "That's-that's all we've been able to d-do."

Montgomery and his problems would have to wait, I wanted to inform the men of the latest development on the job front as soon as possible. I didn't want to risk letting Mr Stevenson wait too long for his new man. 

"Fine. Well. I can imagine he's worried about the state of his cabin after all the rain. If he's not back by meal time, we'll send someone out after him." 

Not all of the Hutch men were in the office, so I sent Pritchard out to round them up while I took off my traveling hat and pulled the order for the backbar out of my handbag  putting  it on his desk for processing.

It was going to be delicate informing the men about this, but after the initial surprise, they'd be terribly keen on the idea, I thought. When they were all assembled and, judging by their faces, ready for a routine announcement, I stood up and smiled at them. 

"As you all know, the purpose of Field Rabbit and indeed, the whole point of the programme here at Cloud Hill, is to train and find good, stable employ for all of you so that you may return to society and build up your lives again independently."

They'd heard this many time before, and no doubt they could quote it back to me if asked. 

"And as you also all know, finding positions for us is difficult. That's why I'm more than pleased to announce that one of you," and here I looked around at the whole group, "has a position waiting for him in London with an established printer! The position entails processing printing orders and general office work. The pay is good and suitable accommodation close by. One couldn't ask for a better start."

The expressions that now faced me rapidly changed from polite interest to shock and then to open-mouthed fear. Ruddy good health drained from their cheeks and was replaced by a pallor the likes of which I'd only seen them have during triggering episodes.

Cullen chewed his lip, Fitz-Roy looked like someone had just spit in his pudding, Rhys-Jones tugged at the fabric of his trousers and the other men looked to be hovering between being ill and needing a gasper.

Well, I hadn't expected cheers and somersaults.

For a long moment, no one spoke.   

"Congratulations Pritchard," Fitz-Roy said quietly into the silence. 

Low murmurs of congratulations followed. 

"No," I said, raising a hand, "sorry Pritchard, but this position is exclusively for a man who brings his own chair with him. You're the only one this doesn't apply to." I said, nodding at him. He seemed instantly relieved.

"Each one of the rest of you has an equal chance at the position. The only stipulation is that the candidate doesn't drink on the job and knows when work starts in the morning. I believe all of you can manage that." I smiled at them, hoping a small joke would lighten the mood. None of them smiled back.

 I told them more about the printing factory and what Morris and I had seen there, careful not to leave anything out.  

"So, I want you each of you to think this over carefully and tell me in the morning if you wish to apply. Mr Stevenson isn't particular, so we'll do all of the formalities here.  If everything works out, it's possible another position for a Hutch man will open up. That would be preferable, although we can not rush things." 

Still nothing.

"Good." I took up my things. "I know it can seem daunting at the start. But, that's the entire point of you being here. To eventually strike back out on your own. And now, let's all get back to work, shall we?" 

Nods all around. 

"Pritchard, a word, if you please?" 

While the others went back to their respective jobs, I pulled up a chair and explained the backbar order and then about all the signs I'd seen in the windows in London. Pritchard was our only professionally trained office worker and had trained the others. It only seemed logical that he'd be the one to work in a new batch. 

"What do you think of that?" I asked him quietly, not wanting too much of what we were talking about to reach the ears of the others. "Do you think you could manage a new training programme?"

"I can-can certainly t-try." He smiled. "But it'll be a sh-shame to lose the ones w-we have." 

"True. But that's always been the point."

"Of course."  

I knew what he was referring to. The men knew what the programme was about, but didn't honestly believe it would ever happen for them. They believed they would be at Cloud Hill indefinitely. That no one in the outside world would ever take them. And I hadn't done a sterling job of dispelling that. 

I'd only managed to place three men in the last two years. 

Four men now. Maybe five or six if Morris' instincts were on the nose. 

I left Pritchard to his work and went to change and freshen up. The specks of coal embers from the train needed to be brushed out of my coat and hat, and my hands needed a scrub. 

It was getting on towards tea time when I came back downstairs. I found Agatha doing some mending of linens in the light of one of the windows in a startlingly dust free grand salon. Looking around, I saw neither hide nor hair of a Mrs Thrower.

"Ah," said Agatha looking up, as I approached "you're back. How did it go?" 

"Unusually beneficial." I hesitated, but could see no reason why I shouldn't address the other mater. "About our guest. Have your suspicions been confirmed?" 

I sat down on the couch next to her, determined not to let her wiggle out of an explanation again.

"As much as they are going to be." She put her sewing down, and fixed me with a very level, aunt-like gaze. 

"She's husband hunting, Olivia. That's what I've surmised. She's heard about our work here, and has concluded that a husband with a guaranteed job is exactly what she needs. She's a bit older, so she can't be terribly choosy. And you must admit, neither can the men here." 

"She. . . she's husband hunting?" Here? That was utterly ridiculous.

"Yes. And we have approximately fifty potential candidates all in one place for her to peruse. Rather clever, in fact. I'm beginning to wonder why we don't have more women in less-than-ideal circumstances on our doorstep." 

Agatha picked up her sewing again.

"Alright, she's found the cock roost. What about the false reference? Who is she?"

"That's a good question. I don't know. What I do know is that the real Mrs Thrower was let go along with the rest of the servants after the Bucking-Coombs decided to close their city home in Bath and stay permanently on their country property."

"But not her. She wasn't let go. She didn't work for the Bucking-Coombs, did she?"

"No. But she knows a surprising amount about the details of the family and their circumstances. Far too much, in fact, to be made up. My guess is she's a friend of the unfortunate Mrs Thrower, and took advantage of what seemed to her like a golden opportunity to find a husband and start a new life away from whatever situation she was in before."  

"By passing herself off as someone else and weaselling in here."

"Not the best of strategies, I admit, but it does show initiative. And, if one, or several, of the men sees a bride in his future, it may be enough of an incentive to find a job away from Cloud Hill.  That's why I think Katie should stay. She'll get her ring and be off as quickly as she can, taking one of our charges with her. And in the meantime, we can use the extra pair of hands. At an affordable price."

"Katie?"

"That's what she said her Christian name was, yes."  

Agatha was sympathetic to the plight of servants and I well understood why, but the cheekiness of the woman still made me bristle. I wasn't pleased with the notion of her prowling around the men, looking to snag one with the same sort of dishonest means she'd shown in her dealings with me. Perhaps I was being overprotective. 

"I'm not sure," I said. "I don't want the men lied to, and you saw how little she understands how easily they're set off."    

"She's being frightfully girlish, it's true. But that just might appeal to some men, as silly as it looks to us. And they're grown men, Olivia, not little boys. They can take care of themselves. Or at least, more of them need to start doing just that. "

Well, we agreed there. Even if we saw how to achieve it differently. 

"I'll still have to have a think about it," I said, getting up. "Anything else happen while I was in Town?" 

"Oh, apparently Montgomery has run off back into the forest."

"Yes, I heard. Has Carter been informed?"

"Not yet. No need to bother him if the man returns by supper."

"No. You're right." I went back up to my room. 

The sun was just starting to set and I paused to look out of a back window at the colours in the sky. Streaks of sunlight gilded the edges of small clouds, and I was reminded of a fairy tale about a magical fish with golden scales that granted wishes to whoever was lucky enough to catch it.

Perhaps I could catch it? And if I did, what wish would it grant me? 

I must have stood there dreaming for some minutes, as suddenly, through the glass, I became aware of the sound of voices shouting. The same sentence was being repeated over and over again, and for a moment I was confused as to where they were coming from exactly, caught as I was between clouds in the sky and the fairy tale images in my mind.

It was only when other voices, closer to the house, took up the call that I recognised the words and my hands started to shake as I beat at the window to open it. 

Please, God, not that. Anything but that!

The window swung open with a long groan and I thrust my head out, grasping the window sill so tightly it hurt. 

But it seemed God wasn't listening. 

The call that was being repeated again and again, now by several loud, masculine voices all along the back of the house, spreading the news, was the one sound I'd prayed I'd never have to hear again in my life.

Man over the top! Man over the top! Man over the top!

Cloud Hill had just had its ninth suicide.