P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

‘Fetch at least four men from the barracks and go and arrest Jock Burn. If you can’t find him, tell the men on the City gates that they’re on no account to let him out. And have the Crier give his name at the marketplace.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Dodd, wondering what on earth he was at but not inclined to argue with the expression on Carey’s face.

Philadelphia had already taken Julia Coldale up to her stillroom, given her a dose of something unpleasant and painted her usual infusion of comfrey on the terrible bruises around her neck.

By the time her brother arrived looking grim and followed by a puzzled Richard Bell, Philadelphia had decided she should be put to bed.

‘I have to speak to her first,’ said Carey. ‘I must know…’

Philadelphia drew him aside and whispered fiercely at him. ‘The poor girl can hardly breathe, let alone speak; you can talk to her tomorrow…’

‘It must be today,’ said Carey implacably. ‘Unless Scrope can get the inquest adjourned.’

‘What’s that got to do with…?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

He gently put her aside and went to stand over Julia who had started weeping quietly into her apron.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will you talk to me now?’

‘Ay,’ she whispered.

It took an inordinately long time for her to croak out the story: Bell had no trouble writing down what she said and when she finished, she made her mark with a shaking hand. Philadelphia was less sorry for her by that time, as she signed her own name in witness to the mark with Carey himself. She agreed with her brother to bring the girl down to the inquest in her own litter.

By that time the jury for the inquest were assembling at the town hall and Scrope was putting on his black velvet court gown and his gold chain of office, while the prisoners were fetched out of their various cells. Carey sprinted up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower to his own chamber to change his clothes to his good black velvet suit and found Simon Barnet asleep and snorting on the truckle bed.

Finally ready, Carey ran down the stairs again to join the tail end of the inquest procession, with his hat in his hand. Ahead, guarded by Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon and Lowther’s men, were all of the prisoners, including John Leigh: Barnabus shambled along looking frowsty and bad-tempered, Kate Atkinson walked with her head bowed and Andy was having trouble with his leg irons. It was a slow march. Dodd fell in behind him at the Keep gate with his four men and no prisoner.

‘No sign of him?’ Carey asked.

‘Nay sir,’ said Dodd mournfully. ‘We were too late. He must have run as soon as we left. I did the rest of what ye said.’

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ muttered Carey. ‘Why the hell didn’t I think of it?’

‘Well, sir,’ Dodd was comforting. ‘Ye couldnae arrest Jock Burn as well as his master wi’ only the two of us and a half-dead maid to carry; Jock would ha’ made mincemeat of us.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And ye’ve caught the master good and proper, sir.’

‘Have you got the shirt?’

‘Ay sir, but no’ the knife. I’ll send Bangtail for it; he’s a fast runner.’

Bangtail sprinted off from the end of the procession. Carey saw Janet Dodd among the crowd at the entrance to the town hall, a very formidable sight in red, black and brocade, surrounded by many of Kate Atkinson’s gossips, likewise dressed in their Sunday best. There was no sign of Mrs Leigh, which was hardly to be wondered at.

Edward Aglionby looked impressive in his budge-trimmed green velvet gown, black damask doublet and hose and tall hat. He stood on the steps of the hall as the Castle procession arrived and greeted Scrope with suitable respect.

‘My lord,’ he said in a carrying voice. ‘There’s nae room in the hall for all the folk that must be seen and examined and all the folk that wish to attend and so I have decided to hear the inquest at the market cross.’

‘An excellent idea, Mr Aglionby,’ beamed Scrope, who had been secretly dreading the heat and smell of a small town hall filled full of people in summer. ‘Please dispose your inquest as you wish.’

Carey looked about him, wondering if Aglionby had considered security for the inquest. He needn’t have worried. The Mayor and Corporation had called out the City trained bands and all three hundred of them stood around the cross, controlling the crowds, capped in steel, bearing halberds and billhooks and delighted to get such prime viewing positions.

Running his eye critically over them for the first time, Carey decided he liked the look of them. They were clean and so were their weapons and while they didn’t stand to attention, they were orderly, paying attention and not one was picking his nose.

A large table had been taken out of the hall and set up by the cross. Aglionby sat himself down behind it in the Mayor’s large carved chair, and indicated that Scrope should sit at his right at one end as a courtesy. The jury lined up on benches to his right. As they filed in Carey growled at the sight of them, for there at the front was Thomas Lowther, Sir Richard’s brother. Sir Richard himself was of course present to give evidence, his heavy face only prevented from grinning with satisfaction by invincible dignity.

The Chancellor of the Cathedral came in solemn procession, bearing the large Bible from his lectern. Each of the twelve gentlemen of the jury stepped forward to swear that he would truly judge of the matter before him, so help him God.

Behind Carey the marketplace was packed with people, talking excitedly, held back by their sons, brothers and husbands, stern-faced with office. An inquest was not precisely a trial, but it could be very much more than simply finding what a person had died of. Since the Assize judge and his armed escort would not be coming from Newcastle until Lammastide at the beginning of August, and as there were suspects in the case-too many, in fact-the Coroner had wide powers to establish the identity of the man or woman who actually went before the judge as the accused. At which point, of course, the thing was pretty much a foregone conclusion.

‘It is your duty, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Aglionby sonorously, ‘to decide how, when and why the deceased died and whether he died of natural or unnatural causes, by Act of God or by man’s design. To this end you are charged by Almighty God and Her most gracious Majesty the Queen…’

It’s still a bloody farce, Carey thought with disgust, looking at the two rows of assorted faces before him. Apart from Thomas Lowther there were Captain Carleton, his brother Lancelot and Captain Musgrave. He recognised another as Archibald Bell. One friend, eleven neutral or enemies. Their general hostility to Londoners was plain. His stomach tightened.

‘Does the jury wish to view the body?’ asked Aglionby and Thomas Lowther rose to answer him.

‘It willna be…’

Archibald Bell pulled on his gown from behind and whispered in his ear. Lowther coughed.

‘It seems it will be necessary,’ he finished.

The jury filed up the steps to the hall where Atkinson’s body, already smelling gamey, was laid out ready for them. They came back down, all of them impassive.

Aglionby asked Sir Richard Lowther to give evidence from the steps of the cross, since he had been called immediately and was the first gentleman to have seen the body. After swearing his oath loudly he gave evidence of where the body lay, in Frank’s vennel, on Tuesday morning, with great emphasis. He then added that he had immediately known who must have done the deed, to wit, one Barnabus Cooke, late of London town, footpad, currently pretending to serve Sir Robert Carey. He had hurried back to the Keep, found the said Cooke, and arrested him. Although he, Lowther, had besought the vile Cooke to confess his crime with eloquent words, he, the vile Cooke, had refused with many foul oaths, thereby compounding his offence. Seizing his moment, Carey stepped forward and bowed.