‘Er...?’ began Thomas the Merchant.
It was tempting to throw the ledger in the greasy skinny man’s face and march out, but Carey saw a better way of continuing to call his own tune. He shut the ledger and tapped it.
‘I want information, Mr Hetherington, much more than I want money. And it’s not my way to enter into this kind of... business arrangement.’ His servant made a desperate little whimper. ‘And so, I’ll thank you to tell me all you know about the horse that Janet Dodd bought, the one that came from Jock of the Peartree’s stable. To begin with.’
‘Er...’ Thomas the Merchant was staring wildly at Carey as if at a chimaera, which indeed Robert Carey was, thought Barnabus bitterly, being the only man ever at Court capable of turning down a bribe.
Carey leaned over him threateningly. Thomas the Merchant made a feeble swipe for his ledger, but Carey skimmed it across the room to Barnabus who scrambled and caught it.
‘Now then,’ said Carey with his hand suggestively on the hilt of his sword, ‘let’s hear the tale.’
Thomas the Merchant sat down on his high stool again and blinked at the fine set of plate he displayed every day on the chest in his room.
‘A cadger brought the horse to me,’ he admitted at last, ‘and I refused him because I had... er... seen him before, ridden by Sweetmilk. I wanted no trouble with the Grahams...’
‘I thought they were clients of yours.’
‘Sir!’ protested Thomas. ‘The accusation was found clean six months ago and...’
‘Never mind. When did you see the horse being ridden by Sweetmilk?’
‘Oh. Er... on Saturday.’
‘Where?’
‘Where what? Oh, ay sir, he was riding out the gate on the nag.’
‘Who with?’
Thomas the Merchant was sweating, gazing sincerely into Carey’s eyes. ‘Alone.’
‘And when was the horse offered to you?’
‘On Sunday. Naturally I refused to do business on the Sabbath.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Carey drily. ‘But you were suspicious?’
Thomas the Merchant smiled. ‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘It was a coincidence. I wanted nothing to do with any criminal proceedings.’
‘Of course.’
Carey moved to the door, motioned his servant to give him the precious ledger and walked out of the door—simply took it in his hand and walked out of the door. Thomas the Merchant was appalled at such high-handedness.
‘Sir, sir,’ he protested, rushing after him, ‘my ledger, I must have it...’
‘No, no, Mr Hetherington,’ said Carey, with a smile and a familiar patting of the calfskin binding, ‘I’m taking your ledger as a pledge for your good behaviour, as my hostage, Mr Hetherington.’
‘But...’
The rat-faced servant barred his passage.
‘I wouldn’t if I was you, sir,’ said Barnabus, sympathetically. ‘I know, he’s a little high-handed at times. It comes of being so closely related to Her Majesty, you know. His father is her half-brother, or so they say.’
Thomas wasn’t interested in Carey’s ancestry.
‘My ledger... What shall I do...’
‘Amazing how memory can serve you, sir, if you let it. I’d bet good money that if you sat down and rewrote it, you’d end up with exactly the same ledger.’
‘But...’
‘Also, I might as well warn you, Sir Robert is wary of taking regular money, but he might be persuaded to accept a gift.’ The servant grinned widely, showing a very black set of teeth. ‘I can usually convince him if I set my mind to it.’
This Thomas understood. He nodded sadly. ‘But my ledger...’
‘Well, you’ve lost it for the moment, sir, you might as well...’
Carey poked his head back round the door.
‘I forgot to ask. What was the name of the pedlar you didn’t buy the horse from?’
‘Daniel Swanders.’
Carey’s face lit up.
‘Splendid. At least that’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No sir.’
