WEDNESDAY, 21ST JUNE, LATE AFTERNOON
‘I refuse to believe that streams can chase you round the countryside,’ she said.
‘On my honour they did,’ said Robin, picking up a date stuffed with marzipan and nibbling it, ‘and what’s more the hills followed us too, so the ones we struggled up on the way north turned themselves round and we had to struggle up them again on the way back south.’ He winced slightly, put the date down and ate a piece of cheese instead.
‘Did you find you were being adopted by a herd of brambles and gorse bushes as well?’ asked young Henry Widdrington. ‘When I go out on a hot trod, I’d swear they follow me as lovingly as if I was their mother. Then when I fall off my horse one of them rushes forward bravely to break my fall.’
Listening to the laughter, Philadelphia felt a little wistful. She loved giving dinner parties and the pity of it was, there were so few people she could invite in Carlisle; most of them were dull merchants or tedious coarse creatures like Thomas Carleton who would keep beginning tales of conquests at Madam Hetherington’s and then remember where he was and fall silent at the best bit. It was a pity she had no pretty well-bred girl she could bring in to make up the numbers for Henry Widdrington, but she was used to there being an oversupply of men. After all, very few ladies would want to live in the West March and those that were bred to it were poor dinner party material. London was so much more fun. Somehow her husband’s 3,700 pounds per annum from his estates wasn’t the compensation her father had told her it would be.
‘And all this on account of one horse stolen from the Grahams?’ asked Elizabeth Widdrington.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Robin, ‘I think it was a long-planned raid for remounts and where they’re planning to go with them, I wish I knew.’
They had sat down at 2.30, fashionably late, and when Lord Scrope had said grace, her guests had flatteringly spent most of the first twenty minutes eating and occasionally asking each other to pass the salt. She was particularly fond of the salt cellar, being newly inherited from the old lord, a massive silver bowl with ancient figures in armour on it and some elaborate crosses, but she would have to check on the kitchen supplies of salt to see what had happened there.
Elizabeth Widdrington caught her eye questioningly and she nodded with a smile that she should broach their expedition of the morning.
‘Did you know that Janet Dodd bought the horse from that little priest, Reverend Turnbull?’ asked Elizabeth casually.
‘Damn,’ said Carey. ‘I’m sorry, Philly,’ he added at his sister’s automatic frown, ‘I meant to go and question the man about where he got the nag but it clean slipped my mind and I expect he’s halfway to Berwick by now...’
‘We went and asked him a few questions,’ offered Elizabeth. ‘And yes, he was on his way, but he very kindly stayed for us and told us what we wanted to know.’
Robert’s face lit up. ‘You talked to him?’
‘Wasn’t that a little dangerous?’ asked Henry Widdrington with a frown.
‘Oh never fear, Henry, I went with Lady Scrope and Mrs Dodd,’ Elizabeth said, hiding a smile at her stepson’s concern. ‘He was very helpful.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ murmured Robert, ‘poor man. I would have been.’
‘He told us he’d bought the horse from a pedlar called Swanders and...’
‘Good God!’ said Robert. ‘Sorry Philly, are you saying that Daniel Swanders is in Carlisle now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Elizabeth took a French biscuit and broke it in half. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes, yes I do. He’s a Berwick man though, deals in anything small and portable or that has four legs and can walk. My brother almost hanged him once for bringing in of Scots raiders only he got enough respectable men to swear for him and got away with it.’
‘How did he do that?’ asked Henry naïvely.
‘He bribed them, Henry,’ said his stepmother. ‘Most of them do that can.’
‘The thing was, Janet was surprised that he didn’t go straight to Thomas the Merchant to sell such a good animal since Thomas has been our agent to find decent horseflesh and would know we’d want him,’ added Philadelphia.
‘Good point,’ said Carey, ‘and why didn’t he?’
‘We went to speak to Thomas the Merchant as well,’ said Elizabeth, biting elegantly into her half biscuit, ‘and I’m certain he lied in his teeth to us.’
‘Did he now?’ said Robert with an answering smile. ‘That was bad of him.’
‘I do object to it,’ Elizabeth agreed.
God help Thomas the Merchant for offending Elizabeth Widdrington, Philadelphia thought at the look in Carey’s eyes.
‘What he said was that he didn’t know what we were talking about and he’d been cleared of the accusation that he collects blackrent for the Grahams,’ added Elizabeth, finishing the biscuit and brushing her fingers. ‘He gave me the impression that he was a mite too big for his boots as well.’
‘Hm.’
‘It’s only important because the Grahams think it important,’ said Philly, resisting the impulse to shake her obtuse husband, ‘and because it was apparently the horse that Sweetmilk was riding when he was murdered.’
‘Which makes me even more interested to know why Swanders happened to have it,’ said Carey.
‘Yes,’ said Scrope, standing up and wandering restlessly to the virginal kept under cover in the corner of the room, ‘but why does anyone care that Sweetmilk was murdered? Apart from the hangman, that is?’
‘Well, my lord,’ said Carey with a patience Philly hadn’t seen in him before, ‘firstly the Grahams seem to believe that it was Sergeant Dodd did the killing because he had the horse, or his wife did. Secondly because of the way the killing was done.’
‘Shot wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. But from behind.’
‘Best way to do it, I’ve always thought, especially dealing with a Graham.’
Carey coughed. ‘Well, my lord, I’d agree, except that I had a chance to look at the body and the back was black with powder burns and further, the body wasn’t robbed.’
Scrope began to press the keys gently, listening for sour notes. He found one and began hunting for the tuning key.
‘Is that important?’
