‘The little clerk,’ grunted Carleton. ‘Ye could threaten him, I suppose.’
Bell was quite a scrawny specimen, but he was also tall and gangling rather than small. However, Barnabus had noticed that fighting men invariably referred to clerks as ‘little’.
Carey shook his head. ‘That would send him straight to Lowther or Scrope. Can he be bought?’
‘I dinna ken,’ said Dodd, ‘nobody’s tried.’
‘Are you joking?’ demanded Carey, clearly shocked. ‘Are you seriously telling me that nobody’s even tried bribing him for the dispatches?’
Dodd shook his head. ‘I suppose we wouldn’t know if they had, but if he’s been bribed he’s very canny about it, his gown’s ten years old at least.’
‘He’ll have had livery for the funeral, though?’
Carleton shook his head as well. ‘He’s not been invited into the procession.’
‘Why not? He served the old Lord Scrope for years?’
Dodd and Carleton exchanged embarrassed glances. It seemed that Richard Bell had been left out.
‘Well,’ said Carleton, shifting in the chair, ‘ye hardly ever notice him, he’s that quiet, I suppose they forgot.’
Carey was genuinely appalled. ‘Well, that’s simply not good enough. Where would he be now, do you think?’
‘Scrope’s office,’ suggested Carleton.
‘I’ll go and talk to him, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.’
Dodd and Carleton took their leave. Carey picked up his hat and headed for the door, then turned to Barnabus.
‘I’ve an errand for you, Barnabus.’
‘Yes sir?’
‘I want you to go down to Madam Hetherington’s and find Daniel Swanders. Tell him I lost his pack and wouldn’t advise him to go to Netherby to get it back for a while until things have cooled down there. If he doesn’t mind the risk, he might try in a month or so. In the meantime, here’s three pounds English for him to buy new stocks and the five shillings I made while I was doing his job with the ladies at Netherby.’
‘What about his clothes, sir?’
‘Oh Lord, I think Goodwife Biltock burned those. He’d better keep the suit he’s got on: he’ll get a much better class of customer with it.’
‘Sir...’ Barnabus, who had had his eye on that suit for Simon when he finished growing, since it was entirely the wrong size and shape for himself, was very aggrieved. ‘It’s worth more than the pack by itself.’
‘Considerably more,’ agreed Carey.
‘You’ll only have three left.’
‘Don’t fuss,’ snapped Carey, ‘I can get something made up in wool when Scrope pays me. Now go and do as I say, and get back here before the gate shuts.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus, sadly.
‘I’ll see to the walnut stain myself. I suppose the hair colour will just have to grow out.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus, ‘unless you want to go blond.’ Carey gave him the piercing blue stare that told him he was pushing it. He added hurriedly, ‘If you let me cut your hair short, it’ll be quicker.’
‘In the morning.’
They went down the stairs together and Carey hurried over to the keep.
SATURDAY, 24TH JUNE, EVENING
Carey found Richard Bell still standing at his high desk, his pen dipping in the ink bottle and whispering across the paper in front of him in the hypnotic dance of a clerk, with a triple candlestick beside him to light his way through the thickets of letters.
Carey stood and waited quietly until Bell carefully cleaned his pen on a rag, put it down and stretched and rubbed his fingers with a sigh. He caught sight of Carey and blinked at him.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didna see ye.’
Bell was as thin as a portrait of Death and yet didn’t look unhealthy or consumptive: it seemed natural to him. His shoulders were a little rounded, his eyes blinked against the flicker of the candles. He and Scrope made a matched pair, in fact, although Scrope was better built and looked stronger and might even run to fat in a few years.
‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘Mr Bell, I heard something that astonished me a moment ago, and I hope you can clarify it for me.’
‘Yes sir?’
‘I heard that you were not to be a part of the funeral procession.’
Bell said nothing and looked at the floor. Carey stepped a little closer.
‘Is it true?’ Bell nodded. ‘Did you refuse a place...?’
