‘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.’
‘Of course, of course, my dear fellow,’ said Scrope, hugely relieved that he had escaped the whole interview without either blades or blood being drawn. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
***
Despite the sunlight, as soon as he had returned Thunder to the stables and told the head groom to fetch in the farrier for a new set of shoes, Carey conscientiously went to his office to work on the letters organising lodgings for the gentlemen coming in for the muster and the inquest. The simple act of riding Thunder had done a lot to relax him. Unfortunately, as soon as he re-entered the Queen Mary Tower his whole towering thundercloud of worries closed in on him again. Richard Bell was there waiting for him, with a list of people to write to and a couple of form letters to give him the style. It had not occurred to him, when he persuaded the Queen to let him come north, that he would spend so much of his time acting like one of her own blasted secretaries, but he darkly supposed she knew perfectly well and had found it funny. He was a third of the way through the letters when there was a knock on the door to the stairs.
‘Enter,’ he said automatically, hoping Simon Barnet might have come with the beer, as ordered at least an hour ago. Barnabus was still in the gaol and would stay there at least until the inquest.
He heard the feminine rustle of petticoats in the rushes and looked up to see Janet Dodd, magnificent in her new hat and red gown, followed by a doe-eyed copper-haired creature in a blue-green kirtle who seemed vaguely familiar. Both of them curtseyed to him but Janet Dodd then folded her arms and gazed at him steadily. He looked back with considerable wariness.
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Dodd?’ he asked, his courtesy a little strained.
‘Is it true what I hear about Kate Atkinson burning for killing of her husband?’
‘Aahh... Has the Sergeant told you?’
‘Nay, I’ve not seen him. I had word by my father that her husband was dead so I came in to help my old friend Kate. I heard it from her gossips. And why d’ye want to burn her?’
‘She murdered her husband.’
