P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

‘Or he’s cleverer than you think him and offering me a way out is a trap as well, a means of getting me to admit my guilt by running away.’

Scrope looked sideways at him. That was the irritating thing about the Careys; sometimes they were sharper than they seemed.

‘Yes, that’s also a possibility. If so, then you must have disappointed him.’

Carey looked away and swallowed, still clearly furious at Lowther’s imputation that he was threatening little Mary Atkinson in order to maker her mother confess to the murder.

Scrope stopped playing, stood and started digging in the casket of sheet music.

‘I’m sorry, Robin, I don’t believe it. The whole thing is far too elaborate and complicated for Lowther. Oh, he’s capable of it, but if he’d been the man behind the killing Jemmy Atkinson would have wound up in your bed with his throat slit, not his own or Frank’s vennel or wherever it was. Lowther’s simply grabbing at an opportunity he sees to oust you. While I’m not at all surprised about the packtrain, I doubt very much he made that opportunity himself.’

Philadelphia had come back into the room and sat down quietly.

‘But that leaves only Mrs Atkinson as the murderer.’

‘Quite,’ said Scrope complacently. ‘I think she did it, just as she confessed.’

Carey held onto his temper.

‘My lord, I’m sorry, but I think she was lying to save Andy Nixon’s skin, just as Andy Nixon lied to save hers. I have to admit I think Lowther was right about that; cutting someone’s throat is not a woman’s means of murder. And Mrs Dodd has pointed out to me that doing the deed in her own bedchamber let her in for a great deal of work in washing the sheets.’

Philadelphia nodded vigorously.

‘Janet Dodd is talking good sense,’ she said. ‘And in any case, what on earth could Mrs Atkinson hope to gain by it?’

Scrope smiled at her kindly for her womanly obtuseness. ‘She wanted to marry Andy Nixon,’ he explained. ‘So of course she had to kill her husband.’

Philadelphia glared at him for some reason, then turned and picked up her workbag, delved in it, pulled out some blackwork and began stitching with short vicious movements.

‘Let’s make up a fairy tale,’ she said at large. ‘Let’s pretend, Robin, that you wanted to marry someone who was married to another man.’

Carey gave her a glare of warning but she wasn’t looking at him, she was squinting at a caterpillar made of black thread, which was eating a delicately worked quince.

‘Now let’s suppose that you and this other man’s wife plot together and you decide to solve your problems by killing the woman’s husband. Would you cut his throat?’

Carey harumphed. ‘What are you getting at, Philly?’ he asked in a strained voice.

‘Robin, I’m not accusing you of anything improper. I’m playing let’s pretend. Go on. Would you cut his throat?’

‘Probably not.’ Carey’s voice was wintry in the extreme.

‘Do you think Eli…the woman would cut her husband’s throat?’

‘Er…no.’

‘And why not?’

‘Well, obviously, you would want to make his death look like an accident so no one would be blamed. If his throat was cut people would look around for the murderer and unless his wife had an excellent alibi, they would think of her.’

‘She would be risking a charge of petty treason?’

‘Yes.’

‘And burning for it?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘So do you think Mrs Atkinson wanted to die at the stake?’

The question was actually intended for Scrope, although it was aimed at her brother. Neither man answered her.

‘I mean, burning to death is a very painful way to die,’ Philly continued thoughtfully as she elaborated on the caterpillar’s markings, ‘I’m not sure hanging, drawing and quartering is that much more painful. Think of the Book of Martyrs and Cranmer and Latymer burning for their faith under Queen Mary-half the point is that they faced a much worse death than just hanging or the axe. Isn’t it?’

‘I was intending to order the executioner to strangle Mrs Atkinson at the stake,’ said Scrope gently, ‘before the fire was lit.’

Philly didn’t look at him. ‘Well, she couldn’t know you would do that. Nobody bothers with witches, do they? Do you really think Mrs Atkinson is stupid enough to kill her husband by cutting his throat in bed, where the blood alone is likely to accuse her, never mind the corpse? I mean, there’s nothing much less accidental than a cut throat, is there?’

‘Well, she might not have thought of it…’ said Scrope lamely.

Philadelphia found her snips and cut her thread peremptorily.

‘Oh, my lord,’ she cooed. ‘Every woman knows the loyalty she owes her husband as her God-given lord. Every preacher makes it clear, every marriage sermon tells her. It’s not a secret. Mrs Atkinson isn’t half-witted. Cutting his throat would have been idiocy for her.’

‘But Philadelphia,’ wailed Scrope. ‘Who did it then? If it wasn’t Barnabus and it wasn’t Andy Nixon and it certainly wasn’t Lowther and it wasn’t even Kate Atkinson, who did it?’

His wife was stitching a cabbage quite near the caterpillar. She stopped and looked up at Carey.

‘Ask the question nobody seems to have thought of yet,’ she said to him simply. ‘You remember, Robin, Walsingham’s question.’

‘What’s she talking about?’ demanded Scrope, his brow furrowed.

It wasn’t exactly the light of revelation, more the promise of it, the moment when Alexander the Great drew his sword when faced with the Gordian knot.

‘She means the lawyer’s question. Cui bono ? Who benefits?’ Carey explained slowly. ‘It was what Sir Francis Walsingham always asked when faced with some complicated political puzzle.’

‘Ah,’ said Scrope, not sounding very enlightened. ‘Well, you’d best be quick about it, Robin. The inquest opens at 11 o’clock tomorrow which is the earliest the jury can get here.’

And I’ve been wasting my time with damn silly letters about lodgings, Carey thought to himself.

‘Plenty of time if you get up early enough,’ said Philadelphia brightly, reading his mind. ‘And my lord gives you leave.’

‘Oh, ah, yes, of course,’ said Scrope, his attention already diverted back to the music in front of him. He squinted at the close-printed notes and began playing again.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Carey said nothing more, blinked past the candles on the virginals lid at the copper sunset light slowly seeping into the bright sky. He shook his head suddenly like a horse with a fly in its ear, as if he had almost fallen into a dream standing up.

Philadelphia was silent at last. Scrope looked sideways at him, saw the frustration and annoyance still in him and rambled into a madrigal accompaniment that he was sure Carey knew. For a moment Scrope wondered if his brother-in-law was still too tense to take the musical bait, but then he opened his mouth and began singing the tenor line to it, which happened to be a very graceful melody. Scrope closed his eyes: God had made a miracle in the human voice, there was no instrument like it, and Carey’s tenor was very good, clear, like a bronze bell, entirely free of affectation. When he forgot the words in the third verse, he made some up and they came to a flourishing end with a cascade of nonny-nos which Carey miraculously managed to negotiate without getting his tongue tangled. Philadelphia had listened to the end without moving, her heart-shaped little face tilted to one side, and then she rose, kissed her brother on the cheek and silently left the room, went down the stone stairs.

Scrope sighed happily and turned a beaming face to him.

‘Splendid. What it must be to be able to sing…’