‘Hmf. Is it right what Julia says, that his throat was cut in his bed before dawn on Monday?’
Carey’s eyes had suddenly gone intensely blue. ‘That’s when Mrs Atkinson confesses to having cut it.’
‘Och God, the silly bitch,’ said Janet disgustedly. ‘She’s saying she cut her own man’s throat in their own marriage bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did ye have Andy Nixon under lock and key when she told you it?’
Carey smiled a little oddly. ‘Yes, and in fact Andy had just finished telling us that it was him cut the man’s throat and Mrs Atkinson knew nothing about it. Unfortunately, my Lord Scrope believes Mrs Atkinson.’
‘And you?’ demanded Janet. ‘What do ye believe? Sir?’ she added belatedly.
‘Please, Mrs Dodd, be seated. And you too... er...’
‘Julia,’ simpered the girl, who had not in fact done her bodice up again. ‘Julia Coldale, sir.’
‘Julia.’ And what a lovely warm smile the Deputy had for a girl with copper curls tumbling down her back and her bodice half-open, to be sure, even though it was clear he had a lot on his mind. Janet’s own expression would have done credit to her husband.
There was only one joint stool in there which Carey was using to pile his completed letters upon. Janet removed them, put them carefully on the chest by the door and sat down. Julia perched herself at the other end of the chest, a little tilted forwards to make the best of herself.
‘Well, sir?’ Janet said. ‘Which do you believe?’
‘I don’t believe Andy Nixon did the killing because my man Long George Little has confessed to beating him up in an alley along with three other men that very night and furthermore the window would be far too small for him to get in by. I doubt I could get through it myself and I’m narrower built than he is.’
‘Just what I was going to say, sir,’ said Janet, lightening slightly. ‘And Kate?’
‘Mrs Atkinson?’ Carey looked stern. ‘She’s confessed to it.’ Privately he was worried by Lowther’s logic, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
‘And ye believe her?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Och God. Nobbut a man would believe she could do a thing like that,’ said Janet springing to her feet and advancing on Carey’s desk.
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t believe a woman incapable of murder.’
Janet planted her hands on the desk and leaned towards him.
‘Sir Robert,’ she said. ‘Have you ever washed a full set of sheets and blankets and bed-hangings?’
He was not amused at the suggestion, which he might have been under other circumstances.
‘No, Mrs Dodd,’ he said. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Then ye dinna ken what backache is.’
Carey rather thought he did know what backache was, having spent up to twelve hours on his feet waiting on the Queen in one of her moods, and he disliked Janet’s truculence, but he only lifted his eyebrows. This encouraged her.
‘It’s a full day’s work, is that, on top of all the other—or you’d have to hire a woman and risk her telling the world. Ye’d needs be fighting for yer life or gone Bedlam mad to cut anything’s throat in yer bedchamber.’
He looked away and then back at her. ‘I admit, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Ay,’ she said. ‘Now, I’ll not deny that a woman’s capable of murder, though it’s a harder thing for her against a man if he’s awake and in his right mind, ye ken.’
‘And besides being a crime, it’s an appalling and wicked sin,’ put in Carey.
‘Ay,’ agreed Janet unexpectedly. ‘It is. There’s rarely any need to murder your husband if ye’ve any men in your family at all.’
Carey coughed. It wasn’t what he had meant.
‘But...’ Janet was sticking her finger under his nose, which annoyed him. ‘But in your ain marriage bed so the blood gets all over the sheets and the blankets ye’ve woven, and the bed-hangings the price they are—no, never. In the jakes, perhaps, with a lance; or poison in his food; or get him drunk and put a pillow over his head... But cut his throat in the bedroom? It’s a man did that, because he wouldnae think of the washing after.’
She finished triumphantly, removed the offensive finger and folded her arms again.
‘Mrs Dodd,’ said Carey, allowing a little of his annoyance to show through in his voice. ‘Please be seated.’
She sat, not abashed.
‘Did you know Sir Richard Lowther thinks the same as you?’ Carey asked.
She was stunned. ‘Does he now?’
‘He does. Mainly because he prefers to believe my servant Barnabus did it.’ Or so he says, Carey thought, struck anew by an old suspicion.
‘Oh.’ Her thoughts were plain to be read on her face and typically she gave voice to them. ‘Ay, well then, I expect poor Kate’s a dead woman.’
Very few things annoyed Carey more about the whole business than everyone’s bland assumption that it mattered not at all who had actually done the murder, it only mattered who could be brought to hang for it. They assumed he was as little interested in justice as any of them, and would find the weakest victim he could to blame. At the moment it passed his capacity to think of words to persuade them that if he genuinely thought Barnabus had slit Atkinson’s throat, for whatever reason, he would hang the man himself. It was too outlandish a way of thinking for Borderers.
