‘I didnae understand because he spake braid London,’ said Lowther.

Probably just as well, thought Carey. ‘Did he say anything you understood?’

‘He lied.’

‘What did he actually say?’

‘He said he didnae do it. But he...’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I arrested him.’

‘Barnabus, stand forward,’ Carey said and Barnabus took a step out of the group of accused. ‘Is this the man you arrested?’

‘Ay.’

‘Tell me, how did his face come to be so battered?’

Lowther shrugged and wouldn’t answer. There was a certain amount of muttering among the public, none of whom were naïve.

‘Who else was in my chambers?’

Lowther shrugged again. ‘A boy,’ he said.

‘In fact, Simon Barnet, Cooke’s nephew.’

‘If you say so, Sir Robert.’

‘Is it true that you tried to get into my office and Barnet prevented you, so you beat him as well?’

‘Nay. He was insolent.’

‘Did Lady Scrope then come and order you out of my chambers which you were preparing to search?’

‘Ay.’

‘Did you, in fact, threaten her as well?’

‘Nay,’ said Lowther. ‘She threatened me.’

Scrope blinked gravely at Lowther. ‘You hadn’t mentioned this, Sir Richard,’ he said reproachfully, which was why Carey had brought it up. Lowther cleared his throat and Aglionby put out a repressive hand. Scrope subsided.

‘Now, Sir Richard,’ said Carey. ‘Apart from a knife and a glove laid carefully on the corpse, did you have any other reason at all for accusing Barnabus Cooke?’

‘The man’s throat was cut. Yon’s a footpad’s trick.’

‘Is there no other man in Carlisle who can use a knife?’ Carey asked, rhetorically.

‘It’s a footpad’s trick,’ repeated Lowther doggedly.

‘So you actually had no other evidence or reason for thinking that Barnabus Cooke had killed Atkinson?’

Go on, thought Carey, I dare you; I dare you to say you thought I’d told him to do it. For a moment he was sure Lowther would say it, but in fact he did not, he simply stood there with his arms folded and a sour expression on his face.

‘Thank you, Sir Richard.’

Carey made a gesture of dismissal and the Coroner nodded that Lowther could go.

Michael Kerr was ready to be examined next. He gave his evidence in a mutter that the jury had to strain to hear. He had happened to go through Frank’s vennel that morning. No, he had not been sent. Yes, he did know he was on oath. No, he had not been sent, well, he had wondered if there was anything to find there. He couldn’t remember why. Yes, he knew the dead man. Yes, he was Mr James Pennycook’s factor and son-in-law. Yes, he understood Mr Pennycook had left town. He had gone to join the Scottish King’s Court, he believed. No, he didn’t know anything about anything else.

According to the list Carey had provided, the next to be called was Fenwick the undertaker who had come to fetch the body away.

He explained that he had done this but that he had been worried by many things about the body.

‘Oh?’ said Aglionby with interest. ‘What were they?’

Fenwick’s grave face was troubled and he put up one finger. ‘Considering the man’s throat was cut, there should have been blood in the wynd. There was none that I could see. There was blood on his shirt, but not his outer clothes, except the linings. He lay very straight, as if he had been arranged, quite respectfully really, and on his back which is not the way someone falls when they have been attacked from behind.’

‘I see, thank you. Sir Robert?’

‘Did you notice any tracks in the wynd, Mr Fenwick?’

He hadn’t at the time, though now he came to think about it he thought there might have been marks of a handcart in the softer parts.

The next was Barnabus himself, brought forward under guard to stand by the cross. Of course, as one of the accused he was not allowed a lawyer, even if there had been one available. The day was warm and Carey had already started to sweat under his black velvet: Barnabus was unwell and unhappy in the sunlight after so long in semi-darkness, with his battered round brimmed hat crushed in his hands, his bruised ferret-face with its collection of pockmarks and scars making him look an ugly sight even to Carey, who was used to him. The thin film of moisture on his skin didn’t help either.

The Coroner looked at the unsavoury little man impassively.

‘Barnabus Cooke,’ he said after Barnabus had whinged out his oath with his hand on the cathedral Bible. ‘Remember you are on oath and at risk of sending your immortal soul to hell if you lie.’

‘Yes, yer honour.’

‘Did you kill Mr James Atkinson?’

‘No, yer honour. I didn’t.’

‘Why does such an important gentleman as Sir Richard Lowther think you did?’

‘I dunno, yer honour. Only I didn’t.’

‘Where were you on Monday night?’

Barnabus’s eyes darted from side to side, making him look even shiftier.

‘Well, see, yer honour, I was at Bessie’s first, because my master was out wiv a patrol. Then I... I went to a house I know. Perhaps one of the girls lifted my knife while I was there. I never went nowhere near Frank’s vennel.’ Barnabus paused and then smiled slyly. ‘’Course it’s funny in a way and serves me right,’ he volunteered, while Carey winced inwardly. ‘I’ve been teaching the girls to do tricks with dice and such, and I expect one of them used ’er lessons on me.’

Half of the people in the marketplace knew exactly where Barnabus had been on Monday night. The other half learnt it from them within a few seconds. They hissed and muttered at each other at the news that Madam Hetherington’s girls had been taking lessons in cheating at dice. Carey fought not to laugh. That would teach Madam Hetherington not to betray her customers.