2 A Season of Knives

by P. F. Chisholm

  ‘Hm? See Barnabus first.’

  Carey guessed Lowther would have put Barnabus into the worst prison in the Castle and so they fetched lanterns and the Castle Gaoler and went cautiously through the door that led past the wine cellar to the dungeon in the base of the Carlisle Keep. He wasn’t in the outer room, but in the one behind it, black as pitch and dank from the nearness of the Castle well. It was called the Lickingstone cell because if a prisoner was left there and no water brought for him, he could live by spending most of his time licking the moisture from the dampest part of the wall. Some men had survived a surprisingly long time that way, given that their tongues would swell and bleed from the rough stone. Families paid their fines faster if they knew their man was in that dungeon, Scrope had explained to Carey when he suggested the room be used for something else.

  Carey didn’t have the keys to the inner door, but he gave Dodd his helmet, pulled aside the Judas hole and called softly, ‘Barnabus. Wake up.’

  There were a couple of grunts and an adenoidal ‘Yes, sir.’

  Carey was silent for a moment as his lantern light hit Barnabus’s face. ‘Did Lowther do that to you?’

  A long liquid sniff. ‘Yes, sir. It’s a good one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Any particular reason, or was it just high spirits?’

  Another sniff. ‘Yes, sir. He wanted me to confess to killing Atkinson.’

  ‘And did you?’

  The sniff that followed was offended. ‘No, sir. I’m not that stupid. Even if I dun it, which I din’t, I’d never say I did, would I?’

  ‘Was that all he wanted from you?’

  ‘Er…no, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He wanted me to say you’d ordered it and forced me to do it, sir.’

  Carey nodded. He didn’t look surprised. Evidently he had thought along the same lines as Dodd.

  ‘I din’t admit that either, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Carey’s voice was dry.

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  There was an apologetic cough. ‘Well, you wasn’t ‘ere sir, so…’

  ‘You were at Madame Hetherington’s?’

  ‘Er…yessir.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘After I’d been in Bessie’s for a bit, I was there till this morning when the Castle gate opened and I come in. So I’d be here to serve you when you finished your patrol,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘Would Madame Hetherington testify that you were with her?’

  ‘I dunno, sir. She might.’ And then, complacently, ‘Maria will, though.’

  ‘Unfortunately a notorious French whore is not the best of alibi witnesses.’

  ‘Well, if I’d known I’d need one, I’d’ve got a better one, wouldn’t I, sir?’

  Carey treated that impudence with a measured pause that said he was making allowances, but would not make them indefinitely.

  ‘Did anybody else see you at Madame Hetherington’s?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir, that’d speak for me…Oh, bloody hell, it’s started again.’

  ‘Try pinching the bridge of your nose, see if that stops it.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. It’s broken.’

  Carey was silent for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t get you out yet, Barnabus,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the authority. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea anyway.’

  ‘I know that, sir. Lowther’s on the up and up, in’e?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘You’ll be able to sort it, though, won’t you, sir? I mean, the juries round here won’t be any more expensive than London ones, will they?’

  Eh? thought Dodd. Carey had winced.

  ‘Barnabus,’ he asked gently. ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’

  Barnabus’s voice was an outraged adenoidal whine. ‘Sir! You know me better’n that!’

  ‘I seem to recall a fight at the Cock tavern…’

  ‘That was different. I never done nuffing like this, sir, never, not that I haven’t ‘ad offers, mind, I just never would. ‘S stupid. There’s better ways of doing it than slittin’ ‘is throat in an alley. Besides, it’s wrong.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut. That’s all. Are you cold?’

  ‘Yes, sir, freezing. I bin in Clink afore now, of course, but this ain’t what I’m used to and Lowther’s bastards took me jerkin and doublet off lookin’ to see if I had a bloody knife, which they didn’t find, I might add.’

  ‘I’ll get my sister to bring you some clothes and food.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus gloomily.

  Dodd trailed after him as Carey marched from the dungeon, rounded the side of the Keep and was pounced on by his sister. She had her cap on crooked, her ruff under one ear, and her damask apron sideways, with a bundle of Barnabus’s clothes under her arm. She took one look at her brother and said, ‘You’ve heard then, Robin.’

  ‘I have. How did you stop Lowther searching my office?’

  Her heart-shaped face became very forbidding. ‘Simon threw the key for your office in the fire and said you had it with you. I got there just after and when he wouldn’t go I drew my dagger on him and told him I’d stick him if he moved a step nearer, and he believed me.’

  Carey embraced her, but she pushed him off.

  ‘What are you going to do about it, Robin?’ she said. ‘Lowther’s out for your blood. He’s telling everyone that Barnabus did it and he’s half got Scrope believing you ordered him to.’

  ‘How? I wasn’t even here.’

  ‘Well, that hardly matters, does it? Anyway, Lowther found one of Barnabus’s knives and a glove of yours by the corpse.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t shout, Robin, and don’t grab me like that, you’re all wet and muddy.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Don’t swear. It doesn’t help. And I would get out of the Castle, if I were you. My lord might even have signed a warrant for your arrest by now.’

  Carey was staring at her as if unable to believe what he was hearing.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Philadelphia lowered her eyes demurely. ‘Lowther has a very carrying voice,’ she said.

  Carey smiled faintly at her tone. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Well, my sweet, if he does issue a warrant for me, block it any way you can.’

  Philly scowled ferociously. ‘I’ll steal it if I have to, silly man. Where are you going?’

  Carey chucked her under the chin. ‘If I don’t tell you, then you can tell the truth to your husband if he asks.’

  ‘I wish you’d take your jack off; it’s sodden.’

  ‘I haven’t got time.’

  ‘And you haven’t even got a hat…’

  Dodd gave Carey the morion he’d been carrying, which Carey put on.

  ‘Better?’

  Philly’s brow wrinkled. ‘No, you look tired.’

  ‘At least if I have to ride for the Debateable Land, I’ll be properly dressed,’ Carey said with a crooked smile.

  Philly swallowed very hard. ‘Do you really think it’ll be all right? I mean, the Queen’s an awfully long way away.’

  ‘Yes. God looks after me always, remember?’

  Philly snorted. ‘Hmf. He didn’t look after Jemmy Atkinson very well, did he?’

  ‘Philly, you’re being heretical. Anyway, Jemmy Atkinson was a bad corrupt man and I’m not.’ He kissed her bunched up forehead and tried unsuccessfully to straighten her cap which had been pinned on crooked. She batted him off and marched away across the courtyard.

  Dodd kept on at Carey’s heels as he lengthened his stride to pass through the Castle gate and down the covered way, his hands clasped behind his back and his head thrust forward.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  ‘Hm? You still there, Sergeant?’

  ‘Ay, sir.’
r />   ‘It might be better for you if you got back to the Castle.’

  Dodd considered this. ‘Nay, sir,’ he said. ‘If Lowther’s gonnae foul a bill against me, I’d rather it was in my absence.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  Dodd was surprised to hear Carey being so naive. ‘He reckons I’m one o’ yourn now.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’

  ‘Any road, I’ve always had a fancy to live in the Debateable Land.’

  ‘Have you? I haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no’ sae bad, sir. Skinabake Armstrong, that’s my brother-in-law, Janet’s half-brother…’

  ‘You’re related to Skinabake Armstrong?’

  ‘Oh ay, sir. Or Janet is.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Och, sir. If I told ye all the reivers I’m related to through Janet, we’d be all day about it. Besides, what difference does it make?’

  ‘Was that why you wouldn’t let me fight Wattie Graham at the ford?’

  ‘Ay, of course. I know Skinabake. He’d ha’ put a lance in yer back the minute ye was busy with Wattie. I know him, he’s no’ a very nice man. That’s why he likes it in the Debateable Land. He says he’d never live anywhere else, even if he wasnae at the horn in both countries.’

  ‘Lowther might not include you in his feud.’

  ‘Only if I turned Queen’s evidence and swore ye ordered Barnabus to dae it, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Well, let’s see what we can do to prove I didn’t order it and Barnabus didn’t do it.’

  ‘Ye didnae, did ye, sir?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, he wasnae what ye could call a good armoury clerk and Scrope wouldnae let ye sack him, if ye see…’

  Carey had stopped and he was an odd greyish colour. ‘If you think I’m stupid enough to set my own servant on to cut someone’s throat for me…’

  ‘I wouldna hold it against ye, sir. I’ve known others do the like.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lowther for one.’

  ‘When?’

  Dodd shrugged. ‘When somebody didna pay him blackrent and give him cheek when he went round to collect. He had some of the Grahams drop by and kill the man. It’s no’ so unusual, ye ken.’

  Carey took one of those deep breaths that signalled he was holding on to his anger. Then he laughed and carried on walking.

  ‘Christ’s guts, Dodd, I’m a bloody innocent in this place. Will you believe me if I give ye my word that, aside from a couple of hangings, I never killed nobody in my life without it was me holding the weapon?’

  Dodd nodded gravely, noting with interest how Carey’s voice had changed to pure Berwick.

  ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘I know ye’re a man of your word, Courtier. Ye’re a bloody hen’s tooth in Carlisle and no mistake.’

  Tuesday 4th July 1592, late morning

  The hen’s tooth had several lines of inquiry in mind and was in a fever of impatience to follow all of them. Carey knew he had to be able to present an alternative theory to Scrope. After some thought, he sent Dodd to Bessie’s to find out what he could of Barnabus’s movements the night before, while he himself went to the two-storey house by the market that had belonged to Atkinson.

  He knocked at the door, poked his head round it into the ground floor living room. She was surrounded by her gossips: one was making bread and milk for the children by the fire, while two others held her hands and talked in low voices.

  ‘What d’ye want, Deputy?’ demanded the largest of Mrs Atkinson’s gossips, looming up before him.

  ‘I want to find out who cut Mr Atkinson’s throat,’ said Carey, politely taking off his morion and putting it on a bench as he came in. His head was crammed against the ceiling beams even without it on.

  ‘Oh, ay?’ said another, a middle-aged woman with a withered hand. ‘From what I heard, ye should be asking yerself the question.’

  Carey looked at her in silence for a while, without anger. He had spent much of the night before with Dodd riding about Gilsland, calling individually on the local Bell and Musgrave headmen. They had mustered two hours before dawn in order to catch Wattie when he crossed the Irthing. Perhaps he had slept for two hours in total. His thinking was slower than usual, that was all, but the women read threat into his lack of reaction. They all fell silent as well and the one who had spoken shrank back.

  ‘Who are you, goodwife?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Mrs Maggie Mulcaster, Mrs Atkinson’s sister,’ she said stoutly.

  ‘Well, you heard wrong, Mrs Mulcaster,’ he said mildly. ‘Who did you hear it from?’

  ‘Lowther,’ she admitted.

  ‘You should know better than to trust a man that kills anyone who won’t pay him blackrent.’

  The women muttered between each other and Mrs Atkinson stood up, curtseyed and wiped her hands in her apron.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ she asked, civilly enough.

  ‘My condolences for your loss, Mrs Atkinson. Will you be good enough to tell me when you last saw your husband?’

  She wiped her hands in her apron again. ‘I…I saw him yesterday morning. He went out about the middle of the morning, to deal with some business, he said, and that’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t come home last night?’

  She looked studiously at the fresh rushes on the floor. ‘He often stays out all night. I didn’t think anything of it, and then the man came to…to tell me this morning.’

  A well-built girl, fresh-faced and cheerful with red hair streaming down her back, came in carrying a large empty basket.

  ‘I’ve put them back out again, mistress, but them sheets will take all week to dry with the way the sky…Oh.’

  The girl looked at Carey and her mouth dropped open.

  ‘It’s all right, Julia,’ said Mrs Atkinson. ‘Go and see after Mary and the boys.’

  ‘Oh, she’s well enough,’ said Julia putting the basket down and picking up the empty pewter mugs. ‘She’s rolling dough for me in the scullery and the boys are feeding Clover.’

  ‘Did you want to know anything else, sir?’ demanded Mrs Mulcaster.

  ‘Has anyone here seen Mr Atkinson since yesterday morning?’

  They all looked at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘Can you tell me which undertaker…’

  There was a spasm in Mrs Atkinson’s face, but she controlled herself.

  ‘Fenwick,’ she said shortly, naming the most expensive undertaker in Carlisle, and then stood there waiting.

  Carey sighed. He hadn’t expected to be very welcome. ‘Thank you for your help, goodwives,’ he said, picked up his morion and went out. The buzz of talk followed him out as he instantly became the prime subject of conversation.

  ***

  Mr Fenwick was one of the most prosperous traders in Carlisle, with a large house on English street facing the gardens where the old Greyfriars monastery had been. He had a long yard out the back where he kept two different hearses, grew funeral flowers and ran a joinery business on the side for when business was slack. It seldom was. He himself was a large comfortably plump man, balding under his velvet hat, who wore black brocades of impressive richness and had a deep pleasant voice.

  ‘Well, Sir Robert,’ he said thoughtfully, after Carey had been seated in his sitting room and brought wine to drink. ‘I hadn’t expected to see ye. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to see Mr Atkinson’s body.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was a pause while Mr Fenwick’s chins dropped onto his snowy ruff and he clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  Carey at first wasn’t sure why. It had been an instinctive feeling that he should look at the corpse he was being accused of making. He wasn’t sure how to deal with Fenwick either and in the end decided on honesty.

  ‘You know how I’m placed here,’ he said, ‘My servant is falsely accused of killing the man and I am wrongly under suspicion for ordering h
im to do it. I am trying to understand what actually happened.’

  ‘How will viewing the corpse help you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Fenwick. I don’t even know if it will. I haven’t got a warrant with me, I am simply asking this as a favour.’

  Fenwick had soft brown eyes which suddenly looked very shrewd.

  ‘We are in the midst of preparing him for his funeral,’ he said. ‘If you are willing…’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fenwick stood and motioned Carey to follow him. There was a shed in the brightly blossoming garden where bodies could be laid out if there were not room for them at home or while they were waiting for an inquest. Atkinson lay there in his shirt and hose, while a slender woman sewed the gaping wound on his neck with white thread. Carey was not particularly squeamish but he looked away from that: it was ugly the way the needle pulled and tugged at the edges of flesh and no blood came.

  ‘Where did you bring him from?’ Carey asked. ‘Where was he killed.’

  ‘He was found,’ said Fenwick carefully, ‘in Frank’s vennel, off Botchergate.’

  ‘Found?’ Carey lifted his eyebrows. Fenwick hesitated.

  ‘There wasna hardly any blood about,’ he said. ‘In fact, there was none; my litter was hardly marked. He had his clothes on but not his boots. It was…’ Fenwick stopped suddenly.

  Carey turned to him urgently. ‘Please, Mr Fenwick,’ he said. ‘I know you must be experienced in these things. If anything struck you as odd about Mr Atkinson, please will you tell me?’

  Fenwick hesitated again, searching Carey’s face. Whatever it was he found there, he nodded and led the way quietly back to his sitting room.

  ‘Well, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘The whole thing was odd and no mistake. The distribution of blood for one…None in the alley. None on the outside of his clothes, but his shirt soaked with it. No boots to his feet, but his feet not broken to take them off. I have collected men’s mortal remains in many different circumstances and, yes, these were odd.’

  ‘Are you saying that Atkinson was not killed where he lay?’

  ‘It is not my place to say such things,’ Fenwick remarked heavily. ‘I can only speak of what I saw. I saw too little blood in the alley…’

  ‘Yes, but it rained,’ Carey objected. ‘Couldn’t the blood have been washed away?’