P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

Carey smiled cynically. “I think you should procure six witnesses to swear that they saw him going to Heneage’s house in Chelsea and the inquest should find him unlawfully killed by person or persons unknown and…”

Hunsdon rolled his eyes. “There’s no sign he was one of Heneage’s.”

Carey shrugged. “And?”

Hunsdon shook his head. “Come on, what could you see from the corpse?”

“Not the face of his killer in his eyes,” said Carey. “And I don’t know whether he was a commoner or a clerk or a gentleman. But I do know that the stab to his back didn’t kill him for he was put in the river still breathing since his lungs were full of water. I suspect that what killed him was the weight of iron chains on his feet pulling him to the bottom from the rust flakes on his ankle bones.”

Dodd nodded at this. “Ay, and when his flesh rotted enough, his feet broke off in the currents and the body could fetch up at the steps.”

“How long ago was he put in the river?” rumbled Hunsdon.

“Perhaps ten days, two weeks ago? I don’t know, it’s hard to tell with water.”

“Any more of Walsingham’s tricks?”

Carey shook his head. “Nothing that would give us his name, my lord, but I expect that’s why he had only his shirt on-his doublet would give too much away.”

Dodd sat still, transfixed with a sudden thought. If the man was stripped, why did they leave his shirt on? Modesty? Not very likely. Och God, he thought, I’ll have to go back into that pest pit again.

Fortified by brandy he leaned forward. “Ay, so what’s under his shirt?”

Carey frowned and was clearly thinking the same as Dodd. He sighed and stood up. “We’ll have to look.”

They walked back down the street, took several deep breaths of relatively clean London air, and then went down the stairs and past the guard. The tarpaulin was heavy and the ragged remains of the man’s shirt sticky with…something. Carey pulled it back. Dodd and he stared, looking for anything of interest. Nothing, if you ignored the damage done by fishes, except for a small knife scar on the ribs and a recognisable healed swordslash across the chest.

They looked at each other and Dodd’s gorge rose. He swallowed hard and held his breath.

Fearful of causing another corpsely fart, they hefted the man onto his left side very carefully. Dodd brought the flickering candle as close to the man’s back as he could. And there, at last, they found something interesting-little arrow-shaped scratches scattered at random across the water-swollen skin of his back. There were more grouped near the shoulders, as if the dead man had rolled in a bramble patch. Nothing else-the scars were mostly white and old, although a few seemed more recent.

Neither spoke as they let him down again, saving their breath. They pulled the tarpaulin back and hurried up the stairs.

Dodd was panting from lack of air and both of them were sweating. His head spun. He had to stop and sit on a wall for a moment because of the memories from when he was very little and still in his skirts: the bodies of people he knew, dead from plague, lying unburied around the village, and what had happened to them.

“I hope that was worth it,” said Carey. “I wonder what made those scratches. I know I’ve never seen it before but there’s something niggling me about it.”

“Ay,” croaked Dodd, very ready for more brandywine now, “but he wisnae actually flogged, that’s for sure.”

Carey nodded, gazing into space intently as if he was trying to read the answer written on the clouds.

They rejoined Hunsdon at the boozing ken who had got in more brandy for them and mild ale for Dodd.

“Just some odd little scratches on his back, and a couple of healed cuts” Carey answered his sire’s eyebrows. “They don’t help identify him. No tattoos or birthmarks that I could see, although you could cry the fact that his left index finger is missing its top joint.”

Hunsdon sighed heavily again and drank. “It’s worth looking at the warrants Mr. Heneage has sworn out over the past month just in case the man’s one of his, but it’s unlikely we’ll match them up. We need a proper identification. I’ll have the town criers in Westminster and the City cry the news, and bills printed up with his description. All I can do, unfortunately.”

“Meanwhile Mr. Recorder Fleetwood’s bloody nephew refuses point blank to act for me,” said Carey.

“Damn and blast,” said his father, sounding no more than wearily irritated, certainly not surprised. “I thought that might happen.”

“Is it no’ possible to proceed then?” Dodd asked mournfully.

“Of course it is. I’ll ask Cecil what he suggests. Or one of the Bacons…”

“Perhaps my lord earl of Essex could help?” Carey put in.

“Possibly. He’s back in her Majesty’s favour again at least,” said Hunsdon and Dodd thought he heard something cautious in his tone.

“The Bacons won’t deal with a mere case of assault…”

“They might know someone who will.”

“He’ll no’ come to trial will he, my lord,” Dodd said. “Heneage, I mean. He’s too important.”

“Criminal trial? We can make the attempt though I agree, I doubt it. It’s the civil case for damages that I’m interested in.” Hunsdon let out a tight little smile.

“And will the Queen no’ take his side? Seeing he’s her henchman?”

“There’s no telling what Her Majesty the Queen my cousin might take it into her head to do.”

Dodd knew about this. Hunsdon was indeed cousin to the Queen through his mother Mary Boleyn, the sister of the more famous Anne.

Dodd looked hopeful. “Untouchable, are ye, sir?”

“Good God, no,” said Hunsdon with a bluff laugh, “nobody’s untouchable. If Heneage could convince the Queen that I’ve turned traitor, I’d go to the block just like anybody else. Quite right too if the bill was foul and I was guilty.”

That was worrying. If somebody like Hunsdon came down, so would anyone associated with him. Hunsdon slapped Dodd on the back.

“Don’t look so worried, Sergeant, the Queen’s a lot more difficult to fool than Heneage thinks she is.”

Dodd nodded.

They sat in the back of the boat while Hunsdon sat in the front. Carey was looking annoyed, possibly because a boat full of musicians was following the Hunsdon boat, playing for all they were worth. Dodd couldn’t hear a word of what Carey was muttering.

“Eh sir?” he shouted. Carey tried again but couldn’t whisper loud enough. “What are they following us for?” Dodd wanted to know, wishing he’d brought a crossbow, especially for the viol player.

“Father’s in charge of the Queen’s entertainments at Court,” Carey explained. “They’re hoping he’ll give them a job.”

“Och.” Dodd shook his head at such folly. “Whit were ye saying…”

“I was saying that I was hoping to start for Carlisle soon.”

“Afore ye’ve seen the Queen?” Dodd was surprised.

“She’s at Oxford which is on the way.”

“Ah.” Dodd felt the corners of his mouth turning down sourly. Typical Carey, no consideration for anyone else.

“I’m surprised you’re not delighted, Sergeant.”

Dodd scowled at him for his ignorance. “Nay sir, I’m in nae hurry.”

“I thought you hated London.”

“Ay sir, I do.”

“And there’s plague about.”

“Ay sir.” Both of them were quiet for a moment remembering Carey’s servant Barnabus and his family. Hunsdon had indicated he would take Barnabus’ niece into his household until she could be found a good husband, and young Simon, his nephew, was already lording it over the other boys in the stables where he was a great deal more use than he was as Carey’s page.