‘Then what did you do?’

‘We hid the body under the bed. I’d asked a... friend what we should do, and he said, best thing was to dump it in an alley. So after nightfall we got it in a handcart covered wi’ hay and that’s what we did.’

‘Explain to me about Barnabus’s knife and my glove,’ put in Carey.

‘Ay, well.’ Andy Nixon coughed and continued staring at the floor. ‘My... er friend said it wasnae enough to dump the corpse, somebody had to take the blame, and it might as well be ye, sir, since ye hadnae kin here and ye were a gentleman so ye wouldnae swing for it but only go back to London, which would suit Mr Pe... my friend. So he arranged for your man’s knife to be got at the bawdy house.’

‘My glove?’

‘Ay. Well, I thought it weren’t enough to catch ye, so I thought I could get something of yourn to add to it, see, and I went by myself and found out which boy was your servant and then bet him he couldnae get me one o’ your gloves, and he give it me, and then I put it with Jemmy’s body as well. It was me own idea.’

Overegging the pudding, Carey thought; just as well for me you did that, you young fool.

Nixon looked contemplative. ‘I’ll hang for that glove, will I not?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘Tell me how you did the murder?’

‘What’s the point, sir? It’s done now.’

‘The point is that I want to know.’

Lowther tutted and rolled his eyes and Carey noticed that Long George had come up to the council chamber and was standing at the back, sniffling self-importantly. What’s happened now, he wondered.

‘Ay well, the murder, sir.’ Nixon thought for a while. ‘He were killed in bed, in his sleep, sir. I... er... I climbed up from the street and got in at the window, and then I... er... I cut his throat.’

Carey’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you climb up from the street?’

‘On the Leighs’ shop awning and the scaffolding and then onto the eaves. And then back again when I’d done it.’

‘And when was the murder done?’

‘About dawn on Monday.’

There was a concerted gasp, though of course that had to be right. Scrope interrupted fussily.

‘Wait a minute. Are you telling us that Jemmy Atkinson was killed early on Monday morning, not on Monday night?’

‘Ay sir, of course. We hid the body through the day, first under the bed and then in Clover’s byre and then I put it on a handcart and I...’

‘Quite so, quite so. But his throat was slit on Monday morning.’

‘Ay sir. Dawn or thereabouts.’

‘Hmf,’ said Lowther, ‘why should we believe you?’

Nixon shrugged. ‘It’s when he died, sir. I dinna ken how to prove it to ye.’

‘After you climbed the awning and got through the upstairs window?’ Carey asked again with a frown.

Nixon nodded. Scrope tutted. ‘What is the point of repeating it, Sir Robert?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Carey admitted. ‘I’d like...’

‘Well then, don’t interfere. Very well, Nixon, you can go back down to the cells for the moment and we’ll consider what to do with you.’

Dodd and Archie marched him out and Long George came forward to whisper urgently in Carey’s ear.

‘One moment, my lord,’ he said. ‘Apparently the woman wishes to confess as well.’

Scrope looked pleased. The whole thing was turning out very neatly. With luck his wife would stop giving him trouble over the way he was treating her brother, as if that could be helped.

Her brother, however, was being aggravating, shaking his head and pacing up and down.

‘That’s not right, that can’t be right,’ he was saying.

‘What on earth is troubling you, Robin?’ Scrope demanded. ‘Nixon has just exonerated Barnabus Cooke for you.’

Carey blinked at him as if he’d forgotten all about Barnabus.

‘But, my lord,’ he said in a voice tight with frustration. ‘What Andy Nixon has told us makes no sense at all. I have the testimony of his landlady that she was with him from the dark before dawn until the sun was up.’

‘Perhaps he mistook the time.’

‘Hardly likely, my lord, if he’s confessing. And it’s hard to make a mistake about something like dawn. Noon perhaps, but not dawn. And in any case, I can’t see Andy Nixon climbing any awning or scaffolding to get to a high window, not with his hand the way it still is. He was badly beaten up on Sunday night and his hand trodden on. I doubt he could do it now.’

Lowther was staring at Carey from under his bushy eyebrows, as if at some two-headed wild man of the New World. Carey ignored him and carried on pacing until Kate Atkinson was brought up from the prison by Dodd and Archie. She stood staring round at them and Carey saw she was ghostly white and shaking.

‘Tell us what you want, Mrs Atkinson,’ said Scrope.

‘I... I want to confess to k-killing my husband.’

‘In the name of God,’ growled Lowther. ‘This is a bloody farce.’

‘Just a minute, Sir Richard,’ said Carey. ‘Are you getting this down, Mr Bell?’

‘Ay sir.’

‘Mrs Atkinson, tell us how you killed your husband?’

‘I crept upstairs after I’d given the children their porridge, and he was still asleep, so I took a knife and I... I cut his throat like a pig’s.’

‘While he was in bed on the Monday morning?’

‘Ay sir. And then I sent for Andy Nixon...’

‘Your lover,’ put in Lowther contemptuously.

‘My friend,’ said Mrs Atkinson firmly. ‘I sent Mary for him and when she brought him, he said he would ask Mr Pennycook, who he works for, what to do.’