P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

Carey had put on the Courtier again and was also wearing a suspiciously knowing look. Dodd was beginning to suspect that the real article was the Berwick man who showed up occasionally when Carey was under pressure, but Carey as Courtier never failed to irritate him with his breeziness and arrogance. As the Courtier sauntered into a group of glaringly-dressed young men and greeted them affably, Dodd found a padded bench to park his padded hose on and felt for his pipe.

A small bullet-headed man with a smiling face sat down next to him and offered him a light so Dodd passed him the pipe.

“You’re the northerner, ain’t you,” said the small man, puffing away appreciatively, “what’s come sarf wiv Sir Robert?”

“Ay,” said Dodd, taking the pipe back.

“I’ve ‘ad the word out to leave you be and not try to tip you any more lays.”

Dodd nodded politely at this because he had no idea what the small man was talking about.

“Fing is,” said the man, “I can’t be seen talking to Sir Robert in public and he knows it, ‘cos that cove over there is one of Cecil’s boys…”

Dodd followed the man’s glance and saw the pale oblong face of Poley.

“So when you see ‘im go in the back, I want you to go wiv ‘im. Understand?”

Dodd bridled slightly at being told what to do but simply nodded. “Ay,” he said.

The small man smiled, held out his hand. “’Course, I can see you don’t know me. I’m Laurence Pickering.”

Dodd shook. “Ah…Henry Dodd, sir. Sergeant of Gilsland.” He blinked. Was this the King of London in dark brocades and furs, his balding head bare? Brother-in-law to the London hangman and master of the thieves of the City? He looked like a very prosperous merchant. Which in a way he was, just as Richie Graham of Brackenhill was very much the lord of his manor, never mind where his family came from nor how they got there.

Pickering winked at him, jumped up, and headed into the throng of players in the corner. The way everyone parted for him told Dodd a lot more than the man’s compact size and modest manner.

Carey was deep in a game of primero, with the boy in cramoisie and tangerine clearly set out before him like a peacock ready for carving. He drank and smiled and laughed and shouted eighty-five points as he always did and casually tossed an angel-a genuine gold angel this time-into the pot.

Dodd, shuddering at the idea of a week’s wages being where you started in this game, stood up and wandered over to the dice players. They were playing with very fine ivory dice with gold pips-perhaps to make them more difficult to palm and swap which had been one of Barnabus’ specialities-the women cheering as one of them threw two sixes and scooped the pot. It was all shillings and crowns there and as Dodd generally played dice for fractions of a penny, he didn’t fancy that game either.

He hid a yawn. He could have spent the time gazing at the naked women all over the painted cloths, but didn’t want to risk being tempted by one of the girls with her tits peeping over the lace edging of her stays. Although there were musicians in the corner, they were playing quiet complicated music on lutes with no drums at all which was boring to listen to. He had thought that rich folks in London somehow had more fun but as far as he could make out, they did the same things as poor folks only their boredom was more expensive and complicated and took a lot longer. In fact it was worse because with horse-racing you had the excitement of reiving the nags first.

He could see there were special arrangements to make sure none of the games were crooked. For a start the floormats were clean and white and obviously changed often, while the light from the banks of candles made the room quite bright if very warm. There were no handy shadows where you could hide things or drop inconvenient cards. Young men in tight jerkins with tight sleeves moved about, picking up packs of cards and dice between games and inspecting them. One player had his cards taken and then he was grabbed by three of the burly men standing near the door. Two of them upended him while the other searched him and pulled out several high-ranking cards. He was removed, squawking, down the stairs and some of the gamers peered out the window to wait for the splash as he was thrown in the Thames. There were cheers and catcalls and Pickering leaned out of a window.

“Don’t come back. If you do, I’ll give you to my brother-in-law.”

Much obsequious clapping from the young men in jerkins and the women in very low-cut bodices. That was when Dodd spotted him. He frowned. What was Enys doing here-he didn’t gamble? Or he said he didn’t. As casually as he could, Dodd got up and sauntered over to the table where he had seen the heavily pock-marked lawyer.

They were playing primero, the play tense and close and the pot large. Dodd couldn’t quite make out Enys’s face because he was sitting well back in a corner so he waited until the man had lost and got up to get a drink.

“Mr. Enys,” said Dodd as breezy as he could, “fancy meeting you here…”

The man seemed to jump, but then bowed shallowly. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I fear you mistake me, my name is Vent, not Enys.” Dodd blinked at him, puzzled. Certainly the voice was different, but the face…The face was definitely familiar though not really Enys’s.

“Ay?” said Dodd, “ye’re nocht ma lawyer?”

“Er…no,” said the man, Vent, “though I have heard I have a double practising law in the Temple at the moment.” He coughed or perhaps hid a laugh. “Possibly I should sue him for defamation of character.”

“Good Lord, Ah’m sorry, sir, I was sure it was ye.”

“No matter,” said Vent, “Perhaps you would give your lawyer my compliments, and tell him I would be delighted to meet him over a hand of cards.”

“I will,” Dodd answered, now feeling awkward. After all, he never liked it when people thought he was the legal type of Serjeant as opposed to a Land-Sergeant. They bowed to each other and Dodd turned back to watch Carey at his game. Several others were watching the game, including Pickering and three of his bully-boys.

Carey nodded and laid his cards down. “Prime,” he said. The boy in cramoisie and tangerine stared fixedly and then laid his own cards facedown without another word. Carey smiled sweetly at the lad and pulled the pot towards him. As he pocketed his haul, two of Pickering’s men came and stood behind him, one murmured in his ear. Carey looked surprised and then stood up, headed for the door at the back of the room.

After a moment of concern, Dodd quietly followed them and into a small parlour with a bright fireplace where Laurence Pickering was standing blinking at the flames.

“Well, Sir Robert?”

Carey smiled. “Well, Mr. Pickering?”

“How’s ‘e doing it? Young Mr. Newton?”

“He’s not cheating in any way I can see,” said Carey thoughtfully, “although he’s not as good a player as he thinks he is.”

“So why does he win?”

“I’m not sure,” said Carey spreading his hands. “He might simply be lucky.”

“Or ‘e’s got a magic ring.”

Carey’s eyebrows went up. “Hm. I’ve heard of them and a number of astrologers and magicians and whatnot have tried to sell them to me but I’ve never heard of one that actually worked. It’s like alchemy. It’s always going to work, or it would have worked if you hadn’t scratched your nose at that particular moment, or tomorrow when the stars are conjunct with Jupiter it will work, but today, right now, when you want them to, in my experience, they never work.”

Pickering had his head on one side, exactly like a blackbird eyeing up a worm. He looked sceptical. Carey smiled his sunny, lazy smile. “Besides, if you had a ring like that which actually did work, would you sell it?”