A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (7 page)

“More’n a week ago, ladyship, honest,” said the innkeeper. “He saw his lawyer and then he went out to a dice game, he said, and that’s the last I seen of him.”

“Didn’t you look for him?”

The landlord shrugged. “’Course I did, ‘e hadn’t paid his bill had he, but I couldn’t find him.”

Dodd’s eyes were narrowed too. There was something radically wrong here.

Lady Hunsdon made a harumph noise like both her husband and her son. Behind her, Letty was snivelling into her sleeve. The landlord invited them to a drink on the house and Lady Hunsdon agreed, sharp as a needle. They were shown to a back parlour with some ugly painted cloths hanging on the walls where Lady Hunsdon drank brandywine with a large spoonful of sugar, Letty drank mild, and Dodd had a quart of some of the worst beer he had ever tasted, thin, sour, over-hopped and not very strong. Lady Hunsdon said nothing, gazing beadily at Letty who was trembling and clearly trying not to cry.

Before they left, Lady Hunsdon beckoned the landlord and spoke quietly in his ear. A gold angel passed from the lady to the landlord and his demeanour changed.

“Sergeant Dodd,” she said, “would you be so good as to go upstairs with mine host and search the bedroom used by Mr. Tregian?”

“Ay m’lady,” said Dodd, not sorry to be leaving his beer unfinished.

He followed the landlord who seemed nervous. The private room was better than the common run, reasonably well-furnished with a half-testered bed, a truckle for the servant, and a couple of straw palliasses for pageboys or henchmen, a chest with a lock and a table and chairs. The jordan was under the bed, not only empty but clean. So the room hadn’t been let.

Dodd couldn’t slit the mattresses with the landlord watching but he could and did search methodically and carefully, working from one side to the other, like a maiden doing the cleaning. All he found was an old book of martyr stories on a shelf which was a little loose. Dodd jiggled it a couple of times and then looked at the join it made with the wall. It was definitely loose at one end. He peered at it from underneath and saw something folded and wedged up behind the wood of the shelf. With the tip of his dagger he teased it out and found two blank sheets of paper. Presumably they’d been put there to stop the shelf wiggling and he was about to throw them in the fireplace when he caught a faint scent of oranges from the papers. It was an expensive way of fixing a shelf after all.

He folded them carefully and put them in his belt pouch, then went on down the stairs. The ladies were ready to go so Dodd went ahead. Out of habit, he checked under his saddle and his girth, mounted then bent to hand Lady Hunsdon up behind him.

“London Bridge,” she ordered.

They carried on, shoving through the crowds, all of whom seemed to be heading for the Bridge, which was hard on the temper.

“Powerful lot of folk here,” said Dodd as he pushed on through an argument between three men and a donkey stopped in the middle of the path and all four braying furiously.

“Have you never been on London Bridge, Sergeant?” asked Lady Hunsdon with a naughty sparkle. “Or did you cross several times and simply not notice that the best drapers, haberdashers, and headtiring shops in the world are there?”

“Ay,” Dodd admitted, “that’d be it.”

They were coming to the gate towers with their fringe of traitors’ heads, where you could hear the rush and creak of the newly installed waterwheels, the crowd nearly solid as they passed through the narrow entrance. The gate gave onto the street over the Bridge which was enclosed by the shops and houses built right on it and dim enough to need lanterns at the shop doors. Suddenly there was a gasp behind them as if somebody had been stabbed. Dodd jerked round to see Letty staring up at the row of spikes along the top of the gatehouse. A crow was flapping heavily away from the newest of the heads there, arrived from Tyburn the day before. Letty seemed struck to stone by the sight of the bearded and now eyeless face. Her hands flew to her mouth, she breathed deep, and then she screamed like a pig at the slaughter.

Dodd’s gelding took severe offence and, despite the weight of two people on his back, tried to pirouette, then backed frantically into a group of stout women with baskets who all shouted angrily. Letty was still screaming which had thoroughly spooked the mare she was sitting on. Shakespeare was frantically sawing at the reins as the animal lunged sideways, snorting and kicking and starting to crow-hop to get rid of her burden. A gap opened in the frightened crowd and she looked ready to take off for the far hills.

Dodd felt Lady Hunsdon’s arms clasp tight around his waist and her hands lock together.

“Help them, Sergeant,” came the firm cool voice behind him.

Dodd brought his whip down brutally on his gelding’s side, which got the beast’s attention. Then Dodd turned him around and drove him after Shakespeare’s and Letty’s mount, knocking pedestrians and one Cornishman aside. He came alongside the bucking, frantic nag, grabbed the bridle, and leaned over to put his sleeve across the silly creature’s eyes. Being a horse, she immediately stood still because she couldn’t see and Dodd muttered in her ear, telling her gently how he would have her guts for haggis casing and feed her rump to the nearest pack of hunting dogs he could find. It didn’t matter what you said to the animal, so long as your voice was right. At least Letty’s screaming had stopped, though a glance over his shoulder showed this was because Shakespeare had a hand firmly on her mouth.

Shakespeare’s face was white and there were hot tears boiling down Letty’s cheeks, little cries still coming from behind Shakespeare’s palm.

“God’s truth, mistress, did ye wantae die…?” he snarled.

“Shhh,” said Lady Hunsdon behind him in a voice that was an odd mixture of fury and sadness. “She’s seen something that upset her. We’ll go back to Somerset House now.”

“Ay m’lady,” said Dodd, and turned both the horses. “Will ye bide quiet now, lass?” he asked Letty who was trembling as much as her mare. She nodded so Shakespeare took his hand away, after which she dropped her face into her hands and started to cry.

Dodd was sweating from all the drama, which was made much worse by the stares and sniggers of the Londoners standing back unhelpfully to watch the show. The Cornishmen were helping Hunsdon’s henchmen to pick up and dust down a couple of annoyed lawsuit-threatening Londoners who hadn’t moved away fast enough.

Dodd jerked his head at Shakespeare and they closed up the distance between the horses. A Cornishman cudgelled an urchin who had his hand in the heaviest pannier on the packpony as Dodd swatted away a small bunch of child-beggars with their hands up and their sores exposed. Their party formed a tighter group and headed back for the other side of the City as fast as they could.

“M’lady, what the…”

“She’s just seen her father’s head on a spike at London Bridge,” said Lady Hunsdon drily into his ear. “I think that’s a reason to be upset, don’t you?”

Dodd craned his neck to see. The only recognisable head was the priest’s, that he and Carey had seen hacked off the day before. His mouth went dry.

“But m’lady…?”

“Be quiet.”

“But…but Ah thought Papist priests couldnae wed…?”

“Precisely. We’ll discuss this in private.”

***

A war council of the Hunsdon family convened at dinnertime, with Sir Robert, Lord and Lady Hunsdon, and Sergeant Dodd staring at each other over some marvellous venison and more of the mutton pasties. When the second cover was served and Dodd could wonder at the jellies and custards that were laid out for no more than a normal meal, the servingmen were sent out of the room. Letty had been put to bed with a strong posset and a girl to watch her, while Dr. Nunez and his barber surgeon had been sent for to bleed her against the shock.

“You are quite certain it is Richard Tregian, my lady?” rumbled Lord Hunsdon, staring at his clasped hands.

“I am, my lord,” said his lady soberly. “He had a scar by his mouth from a hunting accident a few years ago and his beard was still red. I knew him at once even on a …at that distance.”

“No priest then,” said Hunsdon.

Lady Hunsdon snorted. “Hardly. He was a Papist though.”

“He was the man you were in London to meet?”

“Yes, my lord. I wanted to find out more before I broke the matter with you, but events are now ahead of me. I discovered from my sister’s husband that there have been some very dubious land-deals happening in Cornwall and Richard Tregian was up to his neck in them. He was in desperate need of money to pay his recusancy fines, to be sure, but there was more to it than that. There was Court money involved. The land around the Fal has tripled in price in the last three years, but additonally there have been some very surprising purchases further north in the tin-mining areas near Redruth. I would have gone to Sir Walter Raleigh as President of the Stannary when I had consulted you, my lord, but Sir Walter is in the Tower for venery, I find. I wanted to warn Richard away from whatever deals he was doing and I brought Letty up to town with me in the
Judith
to talk some sense into him.”

“Was there any question of treason involved, my lady?”

Lady Hunsdon bowed her head. “Letty says not, but I simply don’t know.”

Lord Hunsdon sighed heavily. “Sir Robert?” he said formally to his son.

Carey looked at Dodd briefly, then at his mother, before he answered his father quietly. “We watched Richard Tregian die yesterday under the name of Fr. Jackson. He was gagged and had been tortured. The hangman gave him a good drop so he was quite dead by the time they came to draw and quarter him.”

Lady Hunsdon nodded. “Thank God for that at least.”

“How do you know he was tortured?” asked Lord Hunsdon.

“His wrists were swollen and showed the print of bindings with swelling above and below. I would say the rack or the manacles.” Carey’s voice was remote.

There was a long moment of silence. “What statute was he sentenced under?” asked Lord Hunsdon.

“Henry VIII’s Praemunire.”

“Nothing more?”

“Now that I think about it, the announcement was very short.”

“He made no sign?”

“He was in no state to do it before he was hanged and moreover he was gagged.” More silence. “I wonder whose authority was on the warrant?” Sir Robert added softly.

“It will have been genuine and the authority unexceptionable or Her Majesty would not have signed it.”

“Heneage?”

Hunsdon shook his head. “Not necessarily. Sir Robert Cecil or Lord Burghley himself could have been involved, or even my lord the Earl of Essex. Someone of lesser rank could also have originated the warrant, such as the Recorder of London or the Constable of the Tower. Of course, I could do so if I needed to.”

“Was yer man not tried?”

After a pause Lord Hunsdon said reluctantly, “Obviously not, Sergeant.”

“So what was Richard Tregian actually doing?” asked Sir Robert, leaning his elbows on the table. Nobody had touched any of the elaborate sweet dishes, but Dodd, who had a less delicate stomach, reached for a pippin and started munching it. He liked apples and you didn’t get many of them on the Borders because raiders kept cutting or burning orchards down. “Buying land from cash-strapped fellow-Papists and then selling them on to a courtier or two? Or informing on Papists and getting a cut from the lands when they were confiscated?”

Lady Hunsdon shook her head. “I don’t see Richard informing—and even if he did, he wouldn’t last very long in Cornwall. They don’t like blabbermouths there. I would say it was the first. He may even have been an agent, using his principal’s money and then taking a cut.”

“Well there’s nothing treasonous about that,” boomed Lord Hunsdon. “Perfectly legitimate thing to do, I use agents myself. Keeps the prices down a bit.”

“My lord, I dinna understand,” Dodd put in. Lord Hunsdon looked enquiringly at him. “Only, this land was to be sold? To somebody wi’ plenty o’ money at court?”

“Probably. That’s where the money tends to be.”

“Ay, so why would they buy it? Cornwall’s a powerful long way and…”

“It might be the tin. It’s quite a fashion at Court now to start mining works and similar on your land if there’s anything there to be mined.”

“Is tin worth so much?”

“Not really,” put in Lady Hunsdon, “There’s more of it in Spain and easier to get at.”

Something Dodd had heard in a long drinking session with a miner from Keswick tickled his memory. “There’s tin, so is there gold as well?” The Hunsdons were watching him thoughtfully. “Only that would make sense of poor land being worth buying on the quiet until ye could take the gold out.”

“If there is it would belong to the Crown anyway,” said Hunsdon. “You’d need a license.”

“All the more reason for keeping it quiet until ye could take out the gold for yersen.”

“Hmm.”

“Well the obvious candidate for his principal is Heneage,” pointed out Sir Robert, “and that would explain his ending up on a scaffold if Heneage didn’t want to pay him.”

“I doubt it,” said Hunsdon. “Heneage could simply have delayed payment until Richard Tregian got tired of asking or went to jail. There would be no need to kill the man.”