It will be, thought Carey; when I indict him for ordering Atkinson’s murder, it will. Aloud he said, ‘No. But straws show which way the wind blows.’
It was obvious. Lowther needed money and would have got it as his cut from the packtrain profits. Also he would be undermining Carey in the City of Carlisle with the implication that commerce wasn’t safe under his rule. Why had he let Carey take his patrol out? Simple greed, perhaps, coupled with the hope that if Carey came on Skinabake with Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon behind him, that was Carey out of his way for ever. And Atkinson was killed to keep him quiet about it.
‘Mm,’ said Aglionby again.
‘Mr Mayor,’ Carey said, making for the door. ‘I simply must get back to the Castle or my sister will skin me alive. It’s arranged for tomorrow?’
‘Ay,’ said Aglionby. ‘You can be amicus curiae for the inquest, no bother. Good evening to you, Deputy.’
WEDNESDAY, 5TH JULY 1592, EARLY EVENING
It was a quiet little supper party, with only Philadelphia, Scrope and Carey himself, eating his way voraciously through five covers of meat and a number of summer sallets, sharp with herbs and nasturtium flowers. Philadelphia forgave him for being so late and exerted herself to keep the conversation going; she was worried by Carey’s rather remote politeness. She even asked Carey’s advice about her son who was away south at school and perpetually in trouble, but with typical masculine obtuseness all he would say was that she should worry more if the boy didn’t get into scrapes now and then.
Eventually, Scrope wandered over to the virginal in the corner. He opened it and began plinking the notes gently, head cocked, listening for sourness, face dreamy. After a moment of struggle, he sat down and began playing.
‘My lord,’ said Carey tactfully, watching the spider-like hands move. ‘What can I do or say that might convince you to release Barnabus...’
‘My dear fellow, I know perfectly well that you didn’t have anything to do with Atkinson getting his throat slit; it isn’t your style at all.’
‘Lowther thinks different.’
‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Now isn’t that interesting?’
‘Interesting, my lord?’
‘Fascinating, in fact. At one time I was quite sure Lowther himself had done it, for some reason, or at any rate, paid somebody to do it. When he came to see me yesterday morning he was in such a rage and was so certain it was you, I was almost convinced he was simply overdoing things a bit.’
‘My lord,’ Carey interrupted. ‘Surely you see that whoever actually did the killing, it must have been Lowther who ordered it.’
‘Must have been?’
Scrope had stopped playing. Carey lifted up one finger. ‘Imprimis, he was the last man to see Atkinson the night before he was killed. He was at the Red Bull when Atkinson was paying Long George and his friends for beating up Andy Nixon.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was also, by the way, the man who sent Mick the Crow to Netherby with the information that not only was my Lady Widdrington on the road, but so was a large packtrain from Newcastle. Unfortunately, I’ve no way of proving it.’
‘How did he know about the packtrain?’ put in his sister. Carey looked at her.
‘You let it slip at the card party,’ he said, careful to keep accusation out of his voice. ‘Remember?’
Philadelphia flushed and fell silent.
‘Ah,’ said Scrope, trying to look wise. ‘You know you did have a little too much wine that evening, my dear. I have often said...’
‘No doubt Atkinson was threatening to tell Aglionby,’ Carey trampled on, hoping to distract the Scropes from a quarrel. ‘Perhaps he was no longer so useful since I’d sacked him from the Paymastership. Perhaps they quarrelled. And I’m not at all sure Lowther didn’t have a hand in Andy Nixon’s attempt to frame Barnabus and me for it. He wanted to get rid of me. A man like Lowther does it the indirect way...’
‘Mmm,’ said Scrope, unhappily. ‘But then there’s his offer to you.’
Carey paled and then flushed. ‘You mean his suggestion that if I took myself back to London, he would stop with Barnabus?’
‘Yes. Very unlike him.’ Scrope started playing at venture again, warming his hands up.
‘My lord?’
‘Sorry, got caught up in the music.’
There was a clattering as Hughie, John Ogle’s eldest son, cleared the dirty plates and Philadelphia followed him to supervise their scouring and locking away. Scrope’s long fingers were at home and at ease on the rosewood keys; they moved by themselves and gave expression to his thoughts in a tangled elaboration of a haunting tune Scrope had heard sung by one of the local headmen’s harpers.
‘Where was I?’
‘We were speaking about Lowther, my lord.’ The smooth voice was thinning with impatience.
‘Um... yes. You see, he’s not a man to let his prey escape. If all of this was some elaborate trap to catch you, he’d not rest until you were beheaded or at the horn.’
‘No doubt that is what he wants.’
‘Oh, no doubt at all. But offering you a way out and keeping hold of your servant... I’d almost say he genuinely thinks Barnabus is the killer and will settle for losing his chance of you, if he can have his way with Barnabus.’
‘Or he’s cleverer than you think him and offering me a way out is a trap as well, a means of getting me to admit my guilt by running away.’
Scrope looked sideways at him. That was the irritating thing about the Careys; sometimes they were sharper than they seemed.
‘Yes, that’s also a possibility. If so, then you must have disappointed him.’
Carey looked away and swallowed, still clearly furious at Lowther’s imputation that he was threatening little Mary Atkinson in order to maker her mother confess to the murder.
Scrope stopped playing, stood and started digging in the casket of sheet music.
