‘Nothing at all,’ said Mrs Leigh with a toss of the head and a satisfactory reddening of her cheeks. ‘Some of us know what’s right.’

‘Well, some of us might do more good looking over the Bible where it talks of judging not that ye be not judged,’ said Maggie Mulcaster unexpectedly, who was able to read quite well. She looked significantly over at the next wynd where little Mary Atkinson was skipping with one of her friends.

There was a mutter of agreement. Mrs Leigh was less popular than she thought with the other women of the street.

‘If you can read, that is,’ said Alison Talyer, Kate Atkinson’s other neighbour.

‘Well, I’m very sure you cannot,’ said Mrs Leigh snappily.

Alison Talyer heaved her large round shoulders with laughter. ‘That’s true, but then I dinna give meself so many airs, eh, Mistress Leigh, with three maidservants, and a man and a boy and a fine new roof to me house?’

‘Can ye read?’ pursued Janet. ‘I’m learning it when I can find the time and it’s no’ so very hard, ye ken.’ The kindness in her voice would have spitted a suckling pig.

‘I’m sure I don’t have time to stand gossiping here,’ sniffed Mrs Leigh, quite defeated, and waddled back into her house, leaving the women behind to shred her character instead of Kate’s. Since it was an emergency and she had always liked Maggie Mulcaster, Janet gave her one of the cheeses, six of the eggs and half the wild strawberries to tide her over with looking after three extra children. She left Cuddy with her as well, in case she could put the lad to some use, rather than have him wandering about the Keep and getting into trouble.

‘Come along,’ she said to Julia, who had pulled a comb out of her purse, and was giving her long copper hair a good seeing to. ‘And ye can pull yer bodice lacings up tight again, you young hussy. What do you think ye’re at?’ she added flintily as she took Shilling’s bridle to lead him on. Julia blushed.

***

It was all terribly annoying, thought Scrope, gazing at the two contenders for the post of Deputy Warden of the English West March who were glaring at each other again. If these two fire-eaters could possibly bring themselves to agree, they might clean up the entire March between them and leave him with very little work to do. They would make a perfect team: his brother-in-law had energy and courage and a certain amount of wild ingenuity on his side, whereas Lowther had the local influence and vast experience. It was true that Lowther was deep in corruption and Carey was full of arrogance, but in the Lord’s name, it was possible. The Queen had persuaded men more fundamentally at odds than they were to work in harness together. Wistfully, Scrope wondered how she had managed it.

‘I don’t like your insinuations, Sir Richard,’ Carey was saying through his teeth.

Lowther was tapping the fingers of his left hand on his sword-hilt. ‘Ay, d’ye not?’ he said. ‘Well, I dinna ken and I dinna care how ye got the silly woman to confess like that, but it’s a poor thing to hide behind a woman, so it is.’

‘Now, Sir Richard,’ Scrope interrupted quickly before blades could be drawn again. ‘You have no evidence for that suggestion at all.’

‘Imprimis,’ said Lowther, placing a square thumb on a square finger. ‘Atkinson’s body was found in Frank’s vennel, not in his bed...’

‘I explained that the mattress was stained with blood...’

‘Item, his throat was cut and I’ve never heard of a woman killing anybody by cutting his throat; they haven’t the strength, they haven’t the height and forbye they havenae the courage. That’s a footpad’s trick, is that, and your man Barnabus is a footpad and well ye know it.’

Carey didn’t say anything to that, because it was true.

‘Item, we’ve only the woman’s word for it his throat was cut on the Monday morning and I dinna believe her. And naebody knows where your man was on the Monday night when Atkinson was likely done to death. It’s all a bit pat, is it no’, the time she gives is the time when Cooke has an alibi from Solomon Musgrave.’

Carey was breathing hard through his nostrils.

‘It’s possible to twist the clearest evidence,’ he said.

‘Clear? I dinna think so. We’ve no witnesses, no nothing. So what have we got? Your man’s knife and your glove by the body which is the next best thing. That’ll do. And ye’ll have wanted Atkinson out of your way, what’s more, so there ye have it. Ye had the will; ye had the tool in Barnabus, and he could ha’ done it. It’s good enough for a rope.’

‘I have explained about how his knife...’

‘Och, and a cock and bull story it is too. A boy says Andy wanted yer glove. Ye say Pennycook got Cooke’s knife fra the bawdy house. It’s all very complicated, verra elaborate, Sir Robert, but it willna wash, for all ye’ve got a couple of fools in the gaol to swear out their lives for ye.’

‘How the devil do you think I got them to do that, eh, Sir Richard? Your own methods of bribery or threats would hardly persuade anyone to die for me.’

‘Hmf. It’s no’ so hard. I heard ye had a long chat wi’ little Mary Atkinson, did ye no’?’

It was impossible to miss the implication, even without the heavy sneer across Lowther’s jowelly face. Sir Robert’s face took on the white masklike appearance of a Carey about to kill someone, and his hand fell on his swordhilt. Scrope leapt to his feet and put himself between them.

‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘This is all complete speculation. And very offensive, Sir Richard, very offensive indeed. You have no call to go making that kind of accusation.’

‘Me?’ said Lowther. ‘I’m not making accusations, my lord. If the boot fits him, let him wear it.’

‘Yes, well, you know perfectly well what you’re about. I think you should withdraw it.’

There was a moment of tension while Scrope wondered if he would, and then he growled, ‘Ay, well, perhaps I let my tongue wander on a bit. I dinna believe the woman, though, and I willna without better reason to.’

‘You withdraw your hints about Mary Atkinson?’ pursued Scrope.

‘Ay, I do,’ said Lowther heavily. Carey bowed slightly in acknowledgement, obviously still too angry to speak. ‘In fact, I’ll go further,’ Lowther added. ‘I’ll say that perhaps—perhaps, mark you—it was all a misunderstanding betwixt yerself, Sir Robert, and your servant. Was there no’ a king I heard of once, that said he wanted to be rid of a priest and off his henchmen went and killed the man wi’out asking did he mean it? Now, I could see that happening here, Sir Robert; I could accept that.’

Carey was still silent which encouraged Lowther to expansiveness.

‘There’s always the risk of misunderstanding when ye’ve a quick tongue and a short fuse. And you’ve come up from London where perhaps they do things differently, and perhaps you and your man have made a mistake.’

‘And?’ enquired Carey very softly.

Lowther smiled as wide as a death’s head on a church wall and waved a velvet-clad arm.

‘Och. It’s only Barnabus Cooke that did the deed, especially if he did it on a misunderstanding. If you take yerself back down to London again, where you belong, we’ll hang your little footpad and that’ll be the end of it, for me.’

‘I’m sure you think that’s very generous,’ said Scrope quickly. ‘But... ah, of course, it’s a nonsensical suggestion and I’m certain you had no intention of further insulting Sir Robert, but I have to tell you that I think—quite objectively, mind—that you are wrong. I believe the woman, Mrs Atkinson. I think she did kill her husband, and conscience has very properly prompted her to confess to us at last.’

‘Ha!’ said Lowther, moving to the door. ‘I see blood’s thicker than water as usual. Ay well, it willna make no odds in the long run. Your footpad will hang, Sir Robert, and if it’s aught to do with me, you’ll face the axe on the same day.’

The door banged as he made his exit and Scrope turned nervously to Carey, who was still standing there gazing into space.

Carey gave a little jump and looked at him remotely as if not entirely seeing him there.

‘Hm? Oh, Lowther. Yes. He’s well dug in, isn’t he? I expect he’s got the inquest jury packed.’

Scrope sighed at this undeniable truth. ‘I’ve done my best to find gentlemen who hate him too,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, the reason why they hate him is generally that they’re afraid of him and his Graham allies.’

Carey sighed. ‘I suppose that’s what I thought would happen. Never mind.’ He turned to go, looking tired and depressed.

‘You know,’ said Scrope, just remembering something important in time. ‘My lady wife is... er... very annoyed with me. She says I work you too hard and don’t feed you properly; she wants you to have dinner with us this afternoon.’

Carey bowed. ‘I am at your lordship’s command,’ he answered. ‘Tell my lady sister I’ll be delighted to come. Would you mind if I made some more enquiries into Atkinson’s death?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Scrope instantly. ‘Firstly, I’m quite satisfied that Mrs Atkinson did it as she told us she did. And secondly, there are the letters to write concerning the muster, and the Coroner’s jury to empanel, and I simply cannot ask Richard Bell to do all of it so you’ll have to.’

Carey’s face darkened again, though more with depression than with anger. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he hated paperwork, even if he hadn’t had some notion about poking around looking for yet another suspect for Atkinson’s murderer.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Carey said meekly enough. ‘I must take Thunder out for a run but then I’ll deal with it.’