P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

‘What the hell is it…?’ he demanded. ‘Och, sorry, sir. Is there a raid?’

‘Er…no, Sergeant,’ said Carey, trying not to look past his shoulder at where Janet Dodd lay in the rumpled little bed. ‘Only we have a lot to do and not much time to do it in.’

‘Oh. Ah,’ said Dodd, slowly catching up with this. ‘There’s no raid?’

‘No.’

‘Och God, it’s still the middle of the night, sir; it’s…’

‘Dodd,’ said Carey patiently, wondering what on earth was the matter with the man. ‘It’s a couple of hours before dawn and I want to start rounding up witnesses for the inquest, so I’d be grateful if you would get yourself dressed and come and help me.’

Dodd leaned his sword against the wall and then put his hand across his eyes and moaned like a cow in calf.

‘Ay sir,’ he said heavily at last. ‘I’ll be wi’ ye.’

Dodd yawned and shut the door. Carey went outside the barracks building and stood in the yard, mentally making lists. Janet came out still lacing her kirtle and hurried past him with an amused expression on her face.

‘Have they opened the buttery yet, do ye know sir?’ she asked him.

‘I don’t know, Mrs Dodd.’

‘Och,’ she shook her head and hurried on.

By the time Dodd was ready, the stable boys were beginning to stir although the gate wasn’t due to open for an hour yet. Solomon Musgrave opened the postern gate for them and Carey and Dodd went down past the trees and into Carlisle town. There were a few lights lit in the windows and a night-soil wagon clattered slowly down Castlegate ahead of them, while two men with shovels picked up the least unpleasant piles of manure and tossed them in the back.

‘Now,’ said Carey. ‘Firstly, what did you find out last night, Sergeant?’

Dodd blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘Ay,’ he said with great effort. ‘Er…well, after I found Michael Kerr, I spoke to the men working on the roof by the Atkinsons’ house and asked if any of them had seen aught, and the foreman said they hadnae but they had found a bloody knife stuck deep in the new thatch and they were going to give it to the master.’

‘To John Leigh?’

‘Ay. So any road, I got them to give it to me and it’s in my room now.’

‘Excellent, Sergeant, well done. Anything else?’

There were a few women moving about the streets, maidservants who didn’t live-in going to their work.

‘Ah…Janet went to speak to Julia Coldale again, but got nothing but cheek from the girl, so she came away. None o’ Mrs Atkinson’s gossips saw aught; it was too early in the morning and they were too busy. Janet says none of them save Mrs Leigh thinks Kate Atkinson did the murder. Maggie Mulcaster was wanting to know was there anything they could gi’ ye to persuade ye to leave it.’

Carey sighed. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said she didnae think so and besides ye’re a courtier and verra expensive, but in any case she thought ye had enough sense to see she didnae do it, but it was a case of convincing the jury and ye hadnae set that up, Lowther had.’

‘Well, that’s something. Though Lowther still thinks it was Barnabus. Anything else?’

‘Then we went to Bessie’s to see if anybody there had heard anything, but they hadnae except that Pennycook’s left town and gone back to Scotland.’

‘Very wise of him,’ said Carey. ‘And that was it?’

‘Ay sir,’ Dodd saw no reason to fill Carey’s enquiring pause with the details of their evening in Bessie’s. ‘Janet says she thinks ye should arrest young Julia and frighten her into…’

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Carey softly. ‘Look there.’

It was hard to miss the girl’s wonderful fall of hair, even under her hat, as she walked quickly down the street ahead of them. Carey put his arm out to stop Dodd and then followed her cautiously. The girl went to the door of the Leighs’ house and knocked softly. The door opened at once and she stepped in.

‘What’s she up to?’ Carey said to himself, walking about under the spidery growth of poles and planks on the Leighs’ house. The workmen had pulled up all their ladders when they left the night before. Carey whistled very softly between his teeth.

‘Right, Dodd,’ he said. ‘Give me a leg up.’

‘Eh?’

‘Give me a boost. I want to get up the scaffolding.’ He was already unbuckling his sword.

Dodd sighed, bent his knee next to one of the poles and Carey climbed from knee to shoulder, to an accompaniment of complaint from Dodd, caught the horizontal pole of the first platform and heaved himself up.

Carey’s legs were kicking, so Dodd backed off a bit. It was the Courtier’s padded Venetian hose that were causing the trouble; they had caught on the edge of one of the planks. No doubt they were well enough for a life spent parading in front of the Queen, though Dodd with sour pleasure.

At last Carey was onto the first platform, a bit breathless. He let down one of the ladders and Dodd climbed up after him, bringing the sword belt, then he pulled the ladder back up to use it for getting to the second platform. Once there, Carey went to the boundary with the Atkinsons’ house and called Dodd over. He nodded at the place where Carey was pointing.

‘Ay,’ he said, suppressing a feeling of sickness at being so high over the street. ‘I was wondering about them marks.’

Carey went along the platform again. ‘Where did they find the knife?’

‘Just about here, sir.’

‘Right. Help me make a hole.’

‘But sir…’

‘Don’t argue, Sergeant. I don’t need a warrant.’

‘But they just had the roof done, sir.’

‘So they did, Sergeant.’

Carey had drawn his poignard and was digging away among the rushes. Reluctantly Dodd took out his own knife and helped. The hole was rather large when the Courtier finally hissed softly through his teeth and started pulling something from the thatch.

It was a man’s linen shirt, crackling and stiff with brown crumbling stains.

‘Och,’ said Dodd and then. ‘The silly bastard.’

Carey looked at him quizzically and gave him the shirt.

‘Why?’

‘Should ha’ burned it, that’s why. What’s he want tae keep it for?’

‘Couldn’t bring himself to waste a shirt. Or was going to but hasn’t had the chance yet.’

Dodd shook his head. Carey led the way back along the platform and started down the ladder, but Dodd stopped by the small window and peered in between the shutter slats.

‘Sir,’ he said softly. ‘Come and look at this.’

Carey came back, peered between the shutters as well. It was hard to be sure in the half-light, but there were two people standing in the little room. One was John Leigh, the other the girl with long red curls. They were murmuring too low for Carey to hear. The girl shrugged and spoke sharply. John Leigh nodded and held out what looked like a heavy purse. The girl reached to take it and in that moment, John Leigh dropped the purse, grabbed her wrist and hit her hard on the jaw. She reeled back and slumped. Then John Leigh was on her with his hands round her neck, silently squeezing the life out of her.

Dodd’s mouth was open. Carey stepped back, lifted his boot and kicked the shutters hard, kicked again. Dodd remembered something, left him to it, and slid down the ladder to the next level.

It was a horrible shock to John Leigh when a boot suddenly started splintering the wood of his window shutters and then burst apart the lead flushings of the expensive little diamond window panes.

Foolishly he let go of Julia Coldale’s neck, and started back, staring wildly. The head and one shoulder of the Deputy Warden shoved through the tattered window, causing glass to fall and shine in the rushes.