P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Carey was still silent which encouraged Lowther to expansiveness.

‘There’s always the risk of misunderstanding when ye’ve a quick tongue and a short fuse. And you’ve come up from London where perhaps they do things differently, and perhaps you and your man have made a mistake.’

‘And?’ enquired Carey very softly.

Lowther smiled as wide as a death’s head on a church wall and waved a velvet clad arm.

‘Och. It’s only Barnabus Cooke that did the deed, especially if he did it on a misunderstanding. If you take yerself back down to London again, where you belong, we’ll hang your little footpad and that’ll be the end of it, for me.’

Was Lowther trying to drive Carey into a killing fury, or did he genuinely think the man would abandon his servant and take himself back to London again without a second glance? Scrope shook his head and put out one hand to touch Carey’s right arm which had dropped across his body again, the fingers on his sword hilt.

‘I’m sure you think that’s very generous,’ said Scrope quickly. ‘But…ah, of course, it’s a nonsensical suggestion and I’m certain you had no intention of further insulting Sir Robert, but I have to tell you that I think-quite objectively, mind-that you are wrong. I believe the woman, Mrs Atkinson. I think she did kill her husband, and conscience has very properly prompted her to confess to us at last.’

‘Ha!’ said Lowther, moving to the door. ‘I see blood’s thicker than water as usual. Ay well, it willna make no odds in the long run. Your footpad will hang, Sir Robert, and if it’s aught to do with me, you’ll face the axe on the same day.’

The door banged as he made his exit and Scrope turned nervously to Carey who was still standing there gazing into space.

‘He’s a very obstinate man,’ he said, half in excuse for Lowther whom he had known since he was a boy and feared almost as long.

Carey gave a little jump and looked at him remotely as if not entirely seeing him there.

‘Hm? Oh, Lowther. Yes. He’s well dug in, isn’t he? I expect he’s got the inquest jury packed.’

Scrope sighed at this undeniable truth. ‘I’ve done my best to find gentlemen who hate him too,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, the reason why they hate him is generally that they’re afraid of him and his Graham allies.’

Carey sighed. ‘I suppose that’s what I thought would happen. Never mind.’ He turned to go, looking tired and depressed.

‘You know,’ said Scrope, just remembering something important in time. ‘My lady wife is…er…very annoyed with me. She says I work you too hard and don’t feed you properly; she wants you to have dinner with us this afternoon.’

Carey bowed. ‘I am at your lordship’s command,’ he answered. ‘Tell my lady sister I’ll be delighted to come. Would you mind if I made some more enquiries into Atkinson’s death?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Scrope instantly. ‘Firstly, I’m quite satisfied that Mrs Atkinson did it as she told us she did. And secondly, there are the letters to write concerning the muster, and the Coroner’s jury to empanel, and I simply cannot ask Richard Bell to do all of it so you’ll have to.’

Carey’s face darkened again, though more with depression than with anger. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he hated paperwork, even if he hadn’t had some notion about poking around looking for yet another suspect for Atkinson’s murderer.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Carey said meekly enough. ‘I must take Thunder out for a run but then I’ll deal with it.’

‘Of course, of course, my dear fellow,’ said Scrope, hugely relieved that he had escaped the whole interview without either blades or blood being drawn. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

***

Despite the sunlight, as soon as he had returned Thunder to the stables and told the head groom to fetch in the farrier for a new set of shoes, Carey conscientiously went to his office to work on the letters organising lodgings for the gentlemen coming in for the muster and the inquest. The simple act of riding Thunder had done a lot to relax him. Unfortunately, as soon as he re-entered the Queen Mary Tower his whole towering thundercloud of worries closed in on him again. Richard Bell was there waiting for him, with a list of people to write to and a couple of form letters to give him the style. It had not occurred to him, when he persuaded the Queen to let him come north, that he would spend so much of his time acting like one of her own blasted secretaries, but he darkly supposed she knew perfectly well and had found it funny. He was a third of the way through the letters when there was a knock on the door to the stairs.

‘Enter,’ he said automatically, hoping Simon Barnet might have come with the beer, as ordered at least an hour ago. Barnabus was still in the gaol and would stay there at least until the inquest.

He heard the feminine rustle of petticoats in the rushes and looked up to see Janet Dodd, magnificent in her new hat and red gown, followed by a doe-eyed copper-haired creature in a blue-green kirtle who seemed vaguely familiar. Both of them curtseyed to him but Janet Dodd then folded her arms and gazed at him steadily. He looked back with considerable wariness.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Dodd?’ he asked, his courtesy a little strained.

‘Is it true what I hear about Kate Atkinson burning for killing of her husband?’

‘Aahh…Has the Sergeant told you?’

‘Nay, I’ve not seen him. I had word by my father that her husband was dead so I came in to help my old friend Kate. I heard it from her gossips. And why d’ye want to burn her?’

‘She murdered her husband.’

‘Hmf. Is it right what Julia says, that his throat was cut in his bed before dawn on Monday?’

Carey’s eyes had suddenly gone intensely blue. ‘That’s when Mrs Atkinson confesses to having cut it.’

‘Och God, the silly bitch,’ said Janet disgustedly. ‘She’s saying she cut her own man’s throat in their own marriage bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did ye have Andy Nixon under lock and key when she told you it?’

Carey smiled a little oddly. ‘Yes, and in fact Andy had just finished telling us that it was him cut the man’s throat and Mrs Atkinson knew nothing about it. Unfortunately, my Lord Scrope believes Mrs Atkinson.’

‘And you?’ demanded Janet. ‘What do ye believe? Sir?’ she added belatedly.

‘Please, Mrs Dodd, be seated. And you too…er…’

‘Julia,’ simpered the girl, who had not in fact done her bodice up again. ‘Julia Coldale, sir.’

‘Julia.’ And what a lovely warm smile the Deputy had for a girl with copper curls tumbling down her back and her bodice half-open, to be sure, even though it was clear he had a lot on his mind. Janet’s own expression would have done credit to her husband.

There was only one joint stool in there which Carey was using to pile his completed letters upon. Janet removed them, put them carefully on the chest by the door and sat down. Julia perched herself at the other end of the chest, a little tilted forwards to make the best of herself.

‘Well, sir?’ Janet said. ‘Which do you believe?’

‘I don’t believe Andy Nixon did the killing because my man Long George Little has confessed to beating him up in an alley along with three other men that very night and furthermore the window would be far too small for him to get in by. I doubt I could get through it myself and I’m narrower built than he is.’

‘Just what I was going to say, sir,’ said Janet, lightening slightly. ‘And Kate?’

‘Mrs Atkinson?’ Carey looked stern. ‘She’s confessed to it.’ Privately he was worried by Lowther’s logic, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it.