P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Will the Tod laughed. ‘Ay, I like to see my friends treated well. Now then. What’s all this I hear about you and Jemmy Atkinson?’

Carey shrugged. ‘It seems the whole of Carlisle believes I told Barnabus to slit his throat.’

‘And did ye?’

The headache came back with full force. ‘Mr Armstrong, I could have had him hanged for March treason last week, if I’d wanted…’

‘Ay, but that were last week. What about this week?’

‘God damn it, if you think I’m…’

‘Now there’s no need to get in a bate, Deputy. Did ye or did ye no’? I know ye didna do it yersen, for ye were riding about the Middle March with a pack of Bells and Musgraves givin’ Wattie Graham and Skinabake a good leatherin’, but did ye set any other man on to it?’

‘For the last time, Armstrong, and on my word of honour, I had nothing to do with Atkinson’s murder.’

‘Well, no need to bang on the table neither; if ye gi’ me your word, that’s good enough. Might Barnabus have done it by himself, thinking ye might want it but wi’out asking?’

‘No. He knows I’d hand him over to be hanged.’

Will the Tod’s eyebrows went up to where his bristling red hair flopped over his forehead.

‘Ay, well enough,’ he conceded. ‘Well enough.’

‘And you, Will. Why are you in town?’

‘Och, that’s easy. I came to warn Henry here.’

‘What about?’

Will the Tod harrumphed and took a long pull at his beer. Dodd spoke up.

‘King James is coming to Dumfries on a justice raid,’ he explained. ‘He’s looking for the horses that were reived from him last week.’

‘I knew he was coming,’ said Carey. ‘But what’s it got to do with you, Sergeant?’

Dodd was suddenly very thirsty as well.

‘Nothing, Deputy, nothing,’ boomed Will the Tod. ‘Only a matter of public interest, that’s all.’

Nancy Storey, who was known by the nickname of Bessie’s Wife, came over with a jug on her hip and her fair hair loose down her neck. All the northern girls wore their hair loose and uncovered until they married, and it was a delightful sight, Carey thought appreciatively. On the other hand, there were rumours that Bessie had been seen to kiss her on the mouth when tipsy, hence her nickname.

‘So where was Barnabus last night?’ Will the Tod asked, finishing his own beer and holding out the massive leather mug to be refilled. Bessie’s Wife tipped the heavy jug off her hip and poured for both him and Carey, while Dodd demolished his plate of food.

‘I’ll have some bread and cheese too, Nancy,’ Carey said to her.

She lifted her fair eyebrows. ‘Who’s paying?’

‘I am,’ said Will the Tod. ‘Get on with it, girl; the man’s like to die, he’s so famished.’ Carey didn’t know how he knew, but with the double-strength beer hitting his empty stomach, his head was reeling.

‘It’s encouraging to see how opposed Bessie’s household is to murder,’ Carey said sardonically as Nancy swayed her hips through the crowd.

Will the Tod quivered with laughter. ‘Nay, Deputy,’ he said. ‘If she were worried by such trifles, she’d have nae customers. It’s your position she’s worriting about: if ye’re no’ the Deputy Warden any more, what are ye and where’s yer money to come from? Ye’ve no family hereabouts, bar your sister, and no land and no men neither, bar the garrison men that have been given to ye and can be taken off ye again. So if ye’re a broken man, how will ye pay your debts? And if ye go back to London, why should ye pay them at all? That’s her concern.’

Carey grunted. There was nothing wrong with Bessie’s assessment of his situation, unfortunately. He had to remind himself that to a Borderer, a broken man was simply a man without a master. He didn’t like the sound of it; he had always thought of himself as the Queen’s man first, and the Earl of Essex’s second. But it was true at the moment: if Scrope took his office away, that was what he would be-broken.

‘How did you do with your enquiries, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Did Bessie see him in here last night?’

‘I only just got here,’ said Dodd mournfully, swallowing his last piece of cheese. ‘Ye can but ask. Hey, Nancy?’

Nancy put a wooden platter in front of Carey with the heel of a loaf and some cheese on it, with a couple of pickled onions rolling about beside the little crock of butter.

‘Ay, what is it, Sergeant Dodd?’

Carey pulled out his eating knife and started engulfing the food. He wondered privately why Sergeant Dodd could not simply do as he had been told. What had he been doing all morning if he had only just got here?

‘Did ye see Barnabus in here last night?’

She sniffed and tossed her head. ‘I did. He was here all evening playing dice.’

‘Where did he go when you closed?’

‘Out the door with the rest of them.’

‘Do you know where he was headed?’

‘It’s none o’ my affair. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, we’re that busy…’

‘Thank you, Goodwife.’

Dodd and Will the Tod exchanged glances.

‘Ah know how ye can solve yer troubles, Deputy,’ said Will the Tod as he finished his second quart.

‘How?’

‘Find Solomon the gateguard and get him to say he saw Barnabus coming in for the night.’

‘Barnabus says he was at Madame Hetherington’s.’

Will the Tod guffawed. ‘Ye could speak to the women, I suppose,’ he said. ‘For a’ the good that’ll do ye.’

‘No doubt they’ll lie,’ said Dodd.

Carey looked at him properly for the first time. Dodd’s long dour face was always hard to read, but at the moment he looked happy. That meant he was uncommonly pleased with himself.

‘What have you been doing, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Before you came here, I mean.’

Dodd sniffed. ‘I was looking for Simon Barnet.’

Simon Barnet was Barnabus’s nephew and was supposed to help Barnabus look after his master. In fact, Carey had been seeing less and less of him as he was sucked into the gang of boys that hung around the Castle, nominally working in the stables and kitchens. His speech had changed with lightning speed until now Barnabus often complained he couldn’t understand the lad at all.

‘Why?’ asked Carey.

Dodd gave another sniff and drank some more beer. He looked as if he was having one of his perennial internal struggles. At about thirty two years Dodd was the same age as Carey himself, although he looked older, and he had spent most of that time hiding a surprising intelligence. Whatever was going on under the miserable carapace would decide whether Dodd grunted something noncommittal or whether he actually explained what he was up to. Carey had already learned from experience not to interfere with his thought processes, and so he waited as patiently as he could.

‘Ye see, sir,’ Dodd began, ‘Begging your pardon, but I didna think what Barnabus was at last night was so important.’

Carey didn’t like being told his orders were unimportant but he kept his mouth shut.

‘Ye see,’ Dodd said again, staring at the lees in his mug. ‘I thought it stood to reason, if he’d had a good alibi for last night he would have said so to us. And he’d have said so earlier, and not even Lowther would have put him in the dungeon.’

‘Go on.’

‘So he hadnae got none or couldnae remember. So then I thought of what your lady sister said and I wondered, sir.’

‘What Philadelphia said?’

‘Ay sir. Lady Scrope.’

Carey tried to remember. Come to think of it, there had been something…

‘She said they found Barnabus’s dagger and one of my gloves by the corpse.’

‘Ay, sir. That was it. So that set me to wondering. How they got the dagger-well, if Barnabus was at Madam Hetherington’s it’s no mystery, but how did the murderer lay hands on one o’ your gloves?’