Carey listened patiently while Simon falteringly repeated his list. ‘Simon,’ he said gently. ‘You weren’t paying attention. What would you do if I asked you to take a message for me? You’d forget it. You missed out cleaning my jack and morion, which is one of your jobs anyway.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Simon, still looking longingly at the rising sunlight outside.
‘Go through it again.’
Screwing up his face with the effort, Simon managed to repeat it correctly.
‘That’s better. Off you go then.’
He picked up his pen, wondered self-pityingly how much longer Richard Bell would take to find him a suitable clerk to be his secretary, and began writing his report.
He was halfway into his second paragraph when someone lumbered into the bedchamber and sneezed fruitily. He looked up in irritation. Long George was peering behind Carey’s bed curtains at the lymer bitch.
‘What the devil do you want?’ Carey snapped.
Long George leapt back guiltily and touched his forelock, wiped his streaming nose on his sleeve, then took his blue statute cap off his round head and plumped it back and forth in his hands.
‘Well?’ growled Carey, who hated being interrupted when he had settled down to paperwork—simply because he longed for an excuse to stop.
‘Er... see, sir,’ said Long George. ‘Only I heard ye arrested Andy Nixon yesterday for killing of Jemmy Atkinson.’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought I’d best tell ye what we were at on Sunday night, see,’ explained Long George.
‘And what was that?’
‘Ah... well, we give Andy Nixon the hiding of his life that very night round about midnight.’ Long George sneezed again, apologetically.
‘We?’
‘Ay, sir. Me, my brother Billy Little, Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon and Mick the Crow Salkeld. Y’see, Jemmy Atkinson paid my brother and his mates to gi’ him a beating and warn him away from Kate Atkinson, an’ I spotted them and joined in.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In the alley by his lodgings, St Alban’s vennel; ye ken, the wynd that’s a shortcut between Fisher Street and Scotch Street.’
‘Did he know who paid for the beating?’
Long George nodded and sniffed vigorously. ‘Ay, sir. Ill-Willit Daniel tellt him and he wis to stay away from Kate or he’d get worse.’
Carey put his pen down. ‘Well, that certainly is interesting, Long George. When did Jemmy Atkinson pay you off?’
‘Right after, sir, at the Red Bull.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Naebody but us. Lowther looked in for a couple of minutes, but he went off again.’
‘Lowther?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘What did he want?’
Long George shrugged and snortled again. ‘I dinna ken, sir.’
‘Did he quarrel with Atkinson?’
‘Nay, ’twas all smiles. He gave Mick the Crow a message.’
‘Hm.’
‘So ye see, sir, mightn’t that have made Andy Nixon want to take revenge on Atkinson?’
‘It might. Was that when he hurt his hand?’
‘Ay, I think I trod on it, sir, unintentionally.’
‘Of course.’
‘I thought I’d tell ye sir, in case there was a reward.’ Long George’s watery pink eyes peered at him hopefully.
Carey sighed. ‘Long George,’ he asked. ‘Do you realise you have just admitted to assault, battery and riot?’
Long George’s face with its inadequate frill of beard looked shifty. ‘Er... well, we were working for Mr Atkinson,’ he said.
‘It’s still against the law to beat people up.’
