‘Ay sir.’ She looked down at herself and frowned.
‘But Mrs Atkinson, your sheets were soaked and so was the mattress, and the rushes. How did you keep the blood off your clothes?’
She shut her eyes. ‘I... I was careful, sir.’
Carey stood and stared at her for a moment, mainly with exasperation.
‘But...’
‘Ye may as well ask,’ muttered Lowther in general to the tapestries.
‘I think we’ve had enough of this,’ said Scrope. ‘Take the woman back to the cells, Sergeant. You’d better chain her, I suppose.’
‘Ay sir,’ said Dodd stolidly, not looking at Kate. He jerked his head towards the door at her and she went in front of him with her hands clasped rigidly together at her waist, as if they were already manacled.
WEDNESDAY, 5TH JULY 1592, AFTERNOON
Janet Dodd née Armstrong had ridden into Carlisle all the way from Gilsland that morning, on an errand of assistance. The previous day her father had sent her youngest half-brother with a message for her about the twenty horses from King James’s stables that they were looking after for Will the Tod, who was hiding them for some of their disreputable relatives. That had caused her enough trouble, to scatter the horses among their friends the Pringles and Bells. He had added the information that Jemmy Atkinson had been killed, because he knew she and Kate had been friends when Janet was in service with the old Lord Scrope years before. And so once she was sure the Deputy Warden would not be able to find the horses and, if he did, he wouldn’t connect them with herself and the Sergeant, she saddled Dodd’s old hobby Shilling and brought her half-brother Cuddy Armstrong on Samson their new workhorse with her to Carlisle. To make the ride worthwhile she took some good spring cheeses, a basket of eggs, a basket of gooseberries and another of wild strawberries to sell to Lady Scrope and while she rode she thought of the price of hay and how much they might get for their surplus if she sold direct to the Deputy instead of going through Hetherington or Pennycook as a middleman. Her baskets would have cost her four pence toll at the City gate if she hadn’t been married to a garrison man. Bringing in vittles on the Queen’s prerogative was one of Dodd’s few worthwhile perks.
The first thing she knew about the further disaster of Kate’s arrest was when she arrived at the Atkinsons’ house to find it locked and empty. A couple of workmen on the scaffolding around the Leighs’ roof called down to her that she should try the Leighs’ door and they’d do their best to be of service too—with much winking and leering.
She was about to shout something suitable back at them when she saw a tight knot of women in their aprons gathered opposite, talking vigorously. Maggie Mulcaster with the withered arm called her over.
She was enfolded into a whitewater of talk and speculation and disapproval and after a quarter of an hour had the full tale as known to the local women. It passed belief that her own husband could have been so cloddish as to arrest Kate Atkinson for murdering her husband. You expected idiocy from a gentleman, but she had honestly thought Henry would have more sense. She was about to say this when she spotted Julia Coldale, Kate Atkinson’s cousin and maidservant, standing at the back of the group, looking as knowing and superior as any sixteen-year-old maid can. She took Julia aside and cross-examined her and fifteen minutes later she mentally took her apron off, rolled up her sleeves and prepared for battle.
‘Hush now,’ she said to the girl. ‘We’ll go and see the Deputy Warden.’ Julia flinched back in alarm. ‘For goodness’ sake, ye goose, he willna bite you. Under all his finery, he’s only a man.’
‘Ay,’ said Julia doubtfully.
And an uncommonly nicely made one at that, thought Janet, who had greatly enjoyed watching him in his shirt and fighting hose on top of her own haycart. By God, if Dodd got himself killed in a raid one of these days, leaving her a widow...
Get a grip on yourself, ye silly cow, she told herself sternly; this will not save Kate from burning.
‘And that’s a foul piece of slander too,’ she snapped, having caught the tail end of a sneer from Mrs Leigh.
‘Why?’ demanded Mrs Leigh, one hand at her back and another at the prow of her belly. ‘It is God’s judgment on her. You may have lower standards, Goodwife Dodd, but she’s a dirty bitch for keeping a fancyman as far as I’m concerned.’
Janet considered whether slapping her would bring on the wean and decided it might. ‘Ay,’ she said caustically. ‘I’m sorry to find ye sae full of jealousy and so short of charity, Goodwife. All this virtue wouldnae have aught to do with your lawsuit over her house, now would it?’
‘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.
