‘My lord,’ he said in a carrying voice. ‘There’s nae room in the hall for all the folk that must be seen and examined and all the folk that wish to attend and so I have decided to hear the inquest at the market cross.’
‘An excellent idea, Mr Aglionby,’ beamed Scrope, who had been secretly dreading the heat and smell of a small town hall full of people in summer. ‘Please dispose your inquest as you wish.’
Carey looked about him, wondering if Aglionby had considered security for the inquest. He needn’t have worried. The Mayor and Corporation had called out the City trained bands and all three hundred of them stood around the cross, controlling the crowds, capped in steel, bearing halberds and billhooks and delighted to get such prime viewing positions.
Running his eye critically over them for the first time, Carey decided he liked the look of them. They were clean and so were their weapons and while they didn’t stand to attention, they were orderly, paying attention and not one was picking his nose.
The Chancellor of the Cathedral came in solemn procession, bearing the large Bible from his lectern. Each of the twelve gentlemen of the jury stepped forward to swear that he would truly judge of the matter before him, so help him God.
Behind Carey the marketplace was packed with people, talking excitedly, held back by their sons, brothers and husbands, stern-faced with office. An inquest was not precisely a trial, but it could be very much more than simply finding what a person had died of. Since the Assize judge and his armed escort would not be coming from Newcastle until Lammastide at the beginning of August, and as there were suspects in the case—too many, in fact—the Coroner had wide powers to establish the identity of the man or woman who actually went before the judge as the accused. At which point, of course, the thing was pretty much a foregone conclusion.
‘It is your duty, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Aglionby sonorously, ‘to decide how, when and why the deceased died and whether he died of natural or unnatural causes, by Act of God or by man’s design. To this end you are charged by Almighty God and Her most gracious Majesty the Queen...’
It’s still a bloody farce, Carey thought with disgust, looking at the two rows of assorted faces before him. Apart from Thomas Lowther there were Captain Carleton, his brother Lancelot and Captain Musgrave. He recognised another as Archibald Bell. One friend, eleven neutral or enemies. Their general hostility to Londoners was plain. His stomach tightened.
‘Does the jury wish to view the body?’ asked Aglionby and Thomas Lowther rose to answer him.
‘It willna be...’
Archibald Bell pulled on his gown from behind and whispered in his ear. Lowther coughed.
‘It seems it will be necessary,’ he finished.
The jury filed up the steps to the hall where Atkinson’s body, already smelling gamey, was laid out ready for them. They came back down, all of them impassive.
Aglionby asked Sir Richard Lowther to give evidence from the steps of the cross, since he had been called immediately and was the first gentleman to have seen the body. After swearing his oath loudly he gave evidence of where the body lay, in Frank’s vennel, on Tuesday morning, with great emphasis. He then added that he had immediately known who must have done the deed, to wit, one Barnabus Cooke, late of London town, footpad, currently pretending to serve Sir Robert Carey. He had hurried back to the Keep, found the said Cooke, and arrested him. Although he, Lowther, had besought the vile Cooke to confess his crime with eloquent words, he, the vile Cooke, had refused with many foul oaths, thereby compounding his offence. Seizing his moment, Carey stepped forward and bowed.
‘Your honour...’ he said hintingly to Aglionby. Scrope looked at him, puzzled. Aglionby smiled and tilted his head.
‘Yes, Sir Robert, please continue.’
‘Just a minute,’ snorted Sir Richard. ‘What’s he want?’
‘He is acting as amicus curiae,’ Aglionby told him repressively. ‘He will ask supplementary questions to aid the Crown.’ Scrope leaned over and whispered urgently, to which the Coroner replied with another smile and half-shut eyes.
‘Sir Richard,’ he said respectfully. ‘Who came to fetch you on Tuesday morning?’
Lowther’s face darkened. ‘Some clerk or other.’
‘Was it one Michael Kerr, factor to Mr James Pennycook?’
‘It might have been. Ay, it was. So?’
‘Your honour, I trust Mr Kerr is available to give evidence?’ Carey said to the Coroner. Aglionby rifled through the papers in front of him and found the list of witnesses.
‘Yes, Sir Robert. We can call him next, if you wish.’
‘If your honour pleases.’
Aglionby turned aside to whisper to his clerk who transmitted the whisper to one of the trained band. Carey looked at Lowther.
‘Sir Richard, can you describe what Frank’s vennel looked like when you came to see the body?’
Lowther snorted again and said contemptuously that it had had a body lying in it and a powerful lot of people looking on and one o’ the dogs being dragged off.
‘Was there blood?’
‘I dinna ken. There might have been.’
‘But was there in fact any blood?’
‘I dinna recall.’
‘Did you notice anything else unusual in the alley?’
‘No.’
‘Er... Sir Richard, what made you think that Barnabus Cooke had killed Mr Atkinson?’ put in Scrope helpfully. Dammit, thought Carey, whose side are you on? Aglionby let him get away with it.
‘Oh, ay. I found Barnabus’s knife and one of Carey’s gloves on the body,’ said Lowther, looking slightly embarrassed.
Carey smiled kindly at him. ‘Where were these incriminating items?’ he asked.
Lowther coughed. ‘Laid on top o’ the body.’
Now isn’t that interesting, Carey thought. I did you an injustice, Tom Scrope.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard,’ he said, elaborately obtuse. ‘I don’t quite understand. Exactly how were they placed?’
