P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Carey would bet a lot of money that whichever man it had been, he’d left Rycote on Saturday night, but so had plenty of other people. Or had he? There were so many servingmen, henchmen, and general hangers on at Court, even on progress, the poisoner could easily have stayed with the Court if he kept his nerve.

He was restless and out of sorts. He couldn’t even enjoy playing cards with Cumberland when he could hardly make out the pips. Darkness fell which eased him somewhat. And so Carey sat and drank mild ale in the little alehouse on the corner of the Hollywell Street, staring into space, trying to filter out the noise of a lute being played by an idiot and some extremely bad singing.

The hammering and sawing died down and the workmen started filling up the alehouse, spending their wages. Flocks of students moved restlessly along the street in their black gowns, arguing and drinking and, occasionally, fighting.

Somebody else got hold of the lute, somebody who could actually play the damned thing because he started by tuning it. No alehouse lute was ever in tune. When the man began playing, Carey sat up and put his mug on the table.

It was the Spanish air he had sung at Rycote. The tune didn’t have the same arrangement that Byrd had given it, but it was still the same wistful melody. And the man playing the lute was the man who had disappeared from Byrd’s music consort on the Saturday night after hearing Carey sing.

Carey’s neck felt cold. Had he put the poison in Carey’s booze? Why would he do that? He’d annoyed Mr. Byrd by leaving the musicians’ consort-that didn’t say he’d left the whole party.

The man finished playing that air and then played two other tunes more. Despite applause and calls for more from the workmen, he put the lute down and walked out of the alehouse without even passing a hat round.

Goddamn it, he needed a man at his back, he wished he hadn’t sent the yawning Tovey off to his bed. At least Tovey could have run to Trinity College and rousted out Sergeant Ross and a few Northerners to arrest the man.

No help for it, he couldn’t afford to lose the man so Carey put his half-finished ale down and followed. At least now that the streets were fully dark apart from occasional public-spirited lanterns on college gates, his eyes worked very well. He could see as clearly as if it were a moonlit night and not as overcast as it was.

The man walked purposefully along the road to New College, went into the tiny boozing ken next to it, picked up the violin there and played that. Once again the Spanish air rang out, followed by two more tunes and the man left once more.

Carey pulled his hat down, wished he’d bothered with a cloak and pretended to be staggering drunk as he followed the man on down the lane that eventually wound up passing by Magdalen deerpark where he turned right and came back along the High Street.

There were a lot of inns and alehouses on the High Street and the man went into each one, played the Spanish air and a couple more tunes, then left without passing a hat round or accepting any of the beer offered to keep him in the place.

He stayed and ate the ordinary at the London Inn on the southwards road from Carfax, then off he went again, having maybe one quart of mild per five boozing kens and playing the Spanish air at each of them. And there certainly were an amazing number of inns and alehouses in Oxford. Studying must be thirsty work.

Just as Carey was loitering in a doorway on the corner of St. Giles after a foray to the Eagle amp; Child where the alewife had scowled at both of them, he saw a looming pair of shoulders and a statute cap pulled down low on Hughie’s saturnine young face.

“Ay, sir,” said Hughie, when Carey caught up with him, “I came to find ye because I minded me of something. The hand of the man that gave me the flagon back…it was…Ah…ye ken, his fingernails wis long and he had rough ends tae his fingers.”

Carey paused, his heart lifting. Hughie was screwing up his eyes and frowning and Carey knew that the very little light from the torches on the college gates was still bothering him.

“Hughie, well done!” he said, clapping the man’s shoulder, “That’s wonderful because I think I may be following the villain. Come with me.”

They went into the White Horse where the musician was just setting down the house lap harp and being applauded. There was a flicker over his face which could have been fear. As far as Carey could tell he had a square handsome old face, grey beard and hair, a solid-looking, dependable man, not at all what you might expect a musician to look like. He didn’t even have a drunkard’s red nose. Perhaps he and Hughie could lay hands on the man?

Then he heard a quiet cough behind him, turned and found Sir Robert Cecil sitting in a corner booth. Cecil lifted his quart to Carey.

“Sir Robert,” said Burghley’s second son, “I’m glad to see you up and about again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Carey warily.

“May I get you anything?”

In the corner of his eye, he could see the greybeard musician moving toward the back of the alehouse. Under his breath he said to Hughie, “Is that him?” Hughie made the indeterminate Scotch sound “Iphm” which probably meant he wasn’t sure. “Go after him, keep him in sight,” Carey hissed. “Do it quietly.”

“Ay sir,” said Hughie with a shy smile, and went over to the bar.

Cecil had already beckoned the potboy. Carey certainly couldn’t ignore a Privy Counsellor in favour of an old musician, so why not? He had run out of money again, having come out with only a shilling in his purse. “Thank you, sir, I’ll have brandywine.”

At Cecil’s gesture, he sat down in the booth facing the youngest member of the Privy Council. Meanwhile Hughie had carried his jack of ale straight over to the musician, tapped him on the shoulder and asked him in a harsh slurred voice how you set about playing a harp, it was something he’d always wanted to do. The greybeard paused and then warily let Hughie sit next to him and started showing him how to tune the instrument.

“Ye have to do that, eh?” said Hughie, after a big gulp of ale. “Why?”

“No sign of Sergeant Dodd yet?” Cecil asked while the musician stared at the lad and clearly struggled to find words to explain something so obvious. Carey shook his head.

“My father’s gone south again to try and find him.”

Cecil smiled. “I wanted to tell you that I found a distraught innkeeper at the post inn that had its roof burnt off on Saturday night. He had been suspicious of Dodd because he was, of course, riding one of the Queen’s horses but didn’t present his warrant to get half-price booze.”

“Ah.”

“By his account, he locked Dodd into his room, and put one of his men on guard, planning to alert the authorities in Oxford.” Carey winced slightly. “Yes, indeed. The mysterious fire started in the wall between Dodd’s and the next chamber. However when I had my pursuivant find and question the merchant in that room, a Mr. Thomas Jenks, he insisted that Dodd was clearly a man of worship and no horsethief, had very kindly helped him carry out his strongbox when his two pages had run away, helped his young groom in the stable to get the beasts out, refused any reward and behaved very gentlemanlike all round. Mr. Jenks last saw Dodd make an impressive flying leap onto the back of his horse and chase a bolted nag out of the inn gates.”

Carey laughed outright. Sir Robert Cecil smiled. “And then, I’m afraid, the trail goes cold again. Nobody between the London inn and Oxford has seen hide nor hair of him-they would have noticed him because he would have been riding without a saddle, of course.”

Hughie and the musician were getting along famously. Hughie had the harp on his lap and was clumsily twanging the strings. He started a song, some Scotch caterwaul about corbies which was Scotch for crows and no crow could have made a less musical noise than Hughie when he sang. Even Cecil winced at it and glanced at the barman, while the musician closed his eyes in pain. Something niggled Carey about Hughie then. What was it?