‘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.’
‘Ahah,’ said Carey, one suspicion confirmed.
She looked at the floor as the silence settled around her. Carey had stopped his pacing and was now staring at her with his arms folded and his eyes like chips of ice.
‘Are ye satisfied wi’ this, Sir Robert?’ asked Lowther sarcastically.
‘At least it’s possible,’ he said levelly in return. ‘Which Andy Nixon’s tale is not.’
Kate Atkinson looked up at that name and then returned to examining the toes of her boots.
‘You are a very wicked woman,’ said Scrope gravely. ‘You have committed a most serious and terrible crime.’
‘Ay sir, I know,’ muttered Mrs Atkinson.
‘Your husband is your rightful lord, according to the Holy Bible and all civilised laws. To murder your husband is more than murder, it is treason.’
‘Ay sir, I know.’ Tears were falling down Mrs Atkinson’s face.
‘Why did you commit this evil deed, Mrs Atkinson?’ Carey asked her gently.
She stared at him wildly, with the tears still welling. ‘Sir?’
‘Did he treat you badly? How was he worse than other husbands?’
‘Well, he wasna, sir. He beat me sometimes but no worse than any other man.’
‘Why did you do it, then? You must have known what could happen.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Robin,’ warbled Scrope. ‘I expect she did it so she could marry her lover. She’s only a woman, she probably didn’t think what would happen to her.’
Mrs Atkinson had bright colour in her cheeks and she took breath to speak, but then let it out and stared at the floor again.
‘Ay sir.’
‘Is that why?’ Carey pursued. ‘So you could marry Andy Nixon?’
‘Ay sir.’
Lowther let out a long derisory snort but held his peace.
‘What were you wearing that morning?’
‘Sir?’
‘Sir Robert,’ said Scrope. ‘What is the point of all this?’
‘Bear with me, my lord.’
‘Oh, very well. But get on with it. I haven’t had dinner yet.’
‘What were you wearing that day, Mrs Atkinson?’
‘What I always wear, except Sundays, sir. My black bodice and my blue kirtle and petticoat and my apron.’ She was puzzled at that.
‘What you wore when I came to speak to you yesterday.’
‘Ay sir.’
‘What you’re wearing now, in fact?’
