2 A Season of Knives: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (17 page)

‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong.’

‘And we’ll have another quart in the booth over there when ye’ve a minute, Bessie,’ Will the Tod added to Bessie’s departing back as she went to mark up the English Armstrong’s heroically long slate. ‘Now then, Deputy, ye come along wi’ me, we’ll see ye right.’

Carey was borne along in Will the Tod’s wake by sheer force of personality, to the booth where Dodd was sitting with a large jug in front of him and a plate of bread and cheese. Carey found his mouth watering at the sight.

Carey lifted his pewter mug to Will the Tod as he slid in beside Dodd, and put his morion down on the bench beside him.

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue yet again, Will.’

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?’

Carey laughed. ‘By God, how did I miss that? Excellent, Dodd, of course.’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd smugly, ‘So I said, the one to ask is Simon Barnet. But I havena found him.’

‘Damn.’

‘No bother, sir; the lads are in town now and I’ve set them to searching for him. He’ll turn up. And then,’ Dodd said ominously, ‘we’ll ask him.’

They had finished eating by the time Bangtail Graham and Red Sandy Dodd arrived, looking about for them. Red Sandy went straight up to Carey and handed him a piece of paper. Carey looked at it with awful foreboding; it was an official-looking letter sealed by Scrope’s signet ring. He put it down by his trencher and finished his beer, his heart beating hard. The seal was in the nature of a Rubicon: once opened…He thought about it.

‘Now why would the Warden do that?’ asked Will the Tod’s voice, fascinated.

‘Hm?’ Carey asked.

‘Send for ye by letter? He only has to tell Red Sandy to tell ye…’

‘Och,’ said Dodd. ‘It’s quite friendly, really.’

Carey had worked it out but was a little surprised that Dodd had.

‘See,’ explained Dodd patronisingly to his father in law. ‘If he’s made a warrant out for Sir Robert, an’ he tells him by letter, he’s covered but Sir Robert can still…er…get away and no one the wiser. Or not, as he chooses.’

‘Trouble is,’ Carey said, putting his tankard down again with a decisive tap, ‘where the hell would I go?’

‘The Netherlands?’ suggested Will the Tod, with all the impersonal ingenuity of one who was quite secure in his position. ‘There’s always room for right fighting men there.’

The Netherlands were fast becoming a sink hole for the unemployable young gentlemen of Europe. All of them went in the hope of sacking a town and making a fortune; most of them died within six months of fever, wounds or, occasionally, starvation.

‘Or Ireland?’ put in Dodd with ghoulish interest.

Carey shuddered slightly. He had heard descriptions of that particular hellhole from Sir Walter Raleigh, one of those unfortunate enough to have served there, of malarial bogs and half-savage but extremely intelligent and ferocious Wild Irish.

‘Not if I can help it,’ he said to the both of them as he picked up the letter and used his eating knife to break the seal.

Aggravatingly, Scrope had not seen fit to be clear when he wrote. All it said was, ‘Sir Robert, I require to speak to you immediately. Please come up to the Keep at your earliest convenience.’

Carey sighed. The only possible indication was the signature, which was Thomas, Lord Scrope. If a warrant had already been issued, it would more likely have been Lord Scrope, Warden. However, there was no question but that he was right about its meaning.

He stood up and took his morion. The bloody thing was more of a nuisance than his jack, whose weight he hardly noticed any more. But the helmet weighed several pounds and was too expensive to lose.

‘Where are ye going, sir?’ asked Dodd.

‘Up to the Castle,’ Carey answered, putting his helmet on.

Dodd gave a dour nod. ‘I’ll keep asking for ye,’ he said as if it were a foregone conclusion that Carey would end up in the Lickingstone cell next to Barnabus.

Red Sandy came with him, not precisely as an escort, more likely out of nosiness.

‘Will ye be taking the patrol tonight, sir?’ he asked.

Carey had forgotten all about it and looked up at the sky. It was promising rain.

‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’

‘Ay,’ said Red Sandy happily. ‘Who d’ye think killed Atkinson, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ Carey looked curiously at Red Sandy, who was Dodd’s younger brother but took life much less seriously. ‘You’re the first man who hasn’t asked me whether I’m sure I didn’t do it.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Red Sandy. ‘See, I wouldna say ye wouldnae do it, sir, of course not, but by my thinking ye’d ha’ done it better.’

‘Thank you, Red Sandy.’

‘H’hm. Your usual hobby’s in the stables by the way, sir, wi’ his tack on. In case ye’ll be needing him for…for patrol, sir.’

Carey nodded. It was very touching really, their consideration for him. And it gave an insight into the Borderers. Carey had spotted Dodd’s intelligence, but had thought Red Sandy the same as any others of the garrison, much better at fighting than thinking. But there it was: he must have tacked up the hobby himself as soon as Scrope gave him the letter, which suggested he understood its meaning too. Given their intelligence, why on earth did so many of them spend most of their time raiding and killing each other?

Tuesday 4th July 1592, early afternoon