‘I said, did he?’
‘Yes, he did. I’m still not speaking to him. Stupid man, pretending he had an ague, I hate him. And I hate you too, for worrying us like that.’
Carey drew back the curtains again and climbed out of bed to pull on his boots, saying, ‘You’re allowed to hate your brother but you’re not supposed to hate your husband, Philly.’
‘Well, don’t give me some romantic nonsense about learning to love him, either. In any case, that’s not what I married him for.’
‘Of course not,’ said Carey, ‘you’re not a peasant. But you are supposed to respect and obey him, Philly.’
‘Pah!’ She tossed her head and her curly black hair partially escaped from its white cap and fell down her neck. ‘I’ve brought some people to see you and first you’re going to have a surgeon.’
‘Oh no, Philly, I don’t need a surgeon...’
She ignored him and led the man in, a stocky, thickset thug called Mr Little, with hair growing luxuriantly out of his nostrils and up his arms, who prodded and grunted, strapped Carey’s ribs, declared that neither his skull nor his nose were cracked, but his cheekbone probably was, which Carey knew already, and let him eight ounces of blood from his left arm to balance up his humours. He offered to put in a clyster to guard against infection and was offended when Carey told him curtly to go and ask Barnabus for his fee.
‘Bloody surgeons,’ he muttered, as he carefully pulled on his shirt and doublet again. He took a quick look down his hose at the damage there, winced at the sight and wondered if he’d ever be the man he was. God knew, the ride back to Carlisle had been Hell, Purgatory and the Spanish Inquisition rolled into one, and every step he took was a punishment. He simply hadn’t had the courage to let the surgeon examine his balls.
Somebody else knocked on the door. Damn it, the place was like the Queen’s antechamber in Westminster, with all the bloody traffic in it.
‘What the hell do you want?’ he roared, then coughed when his ribs caught him.
Lady Widdrington marched in, trailing an unwilling but resplendently dressed Thomas the Merchant Hetherington. Behind her, obviously primed, Barnabus shut the door and no doubt stationed himself outside to repel interruptions and, naturally, cram his ear against the panelling.
When she first married her elderly crook of a husband, Elizabeth Widdrington had not known the meaning of the word ‘tact’. He had taught it to her, with the aid of his belt, on several occasions. When her rage had subsided she had decided to learn subtlety and dissimulation, no matter how hard it came to her, since it seemed that was what God wanted.
She still wanted to fold him into her arms and kiss his poor face, but she knew how that would drive him away. So she put one hand out to touch his arm and said, ‘Thank God you’re alive, Sir Robert.’
He looked at the floor. She had, after all, tried to dissuade him. No doubt he was waiting for her to tell him she’d told him so.
‘Thank you,’ he managed to say.
‘Are you still interested in Sweetmilk?’
Carey looked up. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do you still want to know who killed him? If you’ve found out already, I won’t waste any more of your time. But if you haven’t, Thomas the Merchant has a tale he’d like to tell you.’
Good, that distracted him, he’d always liked puzzles and challenges. There went that silly eyebrow of his, ridiculous the effect it had on her.
Carey led the way through to the room he used as an office and sat down behind his desk.
‘Well?’ he said to Thomas the Merchant, pointedly not offering a seat.
Thomas the Merchant harrumphed, clasped his hands under his belly.
‘Early on the Saturday,’ he began, harrumphed again.
‘Yes.’
‘Jock Hepburn and Mary Graham came to me wanting rings. They were handfasting one another in secret.’ Thomas looked distasteful at this evidence of sin, seemed to consider commenting on it, but changed his mind at Carey’s expression. He went on quickly in his resentful drone. ‘While they were here, Sweetmilk came in wanting horses and caught them. He was verra put out. He called Jock Hepburn a bastard that had dishonoured his sister, and Hepburn struck him on his face, so he threw down his glove. Hepburn picked it up, but Mary Graham was clinging to Sweetmilk and begging him not to kill her man. He only threw her down and walked out with Hepburn.’
Carey’s good eye was narrowed with interest. ‘How were they armed?’
‘They werena clad for business. Sweetmilk had his best jack and nae lance and Hepburn was very fine in a French brocade, three pounds the ell, I’d say, and a jack as well, but foreign make. Nice rings too.’
‘I know,’ said Carey. ‘Their arms?’
Thomas the Merchant pulled the corners of his mouth down in thought. ‘Swords, daggers, the usual.’
‘Who had a gun?’
‘Neither of them.’
‘Did you look out into the street?’
‘I did. Hepburn and Sweetmilk were riding down tae the gate together, with Mary chasing after them on her pony still crying to Sweetmilk not to do it.’
‘She didn’t think Hepburn would win?’
Thomas smiled broadly. ‘Och, no, he’s a bonny man, but Sweetmilk had the experience. I was betting on him meself.’
‘Think hard, Mr Hetherington. Did any man there have a firearm?’
‘Nay, neither of them had more than swords.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hetherington. I want you to make a proper statement for Richard Bell to take down and I’ll be calling you as a witness against Hepburn at the next Warden’s Day.’
‘Sir...’
