The day was overwhelmed with sheet and blanket washing and Mary was sent out to play with Susan Talyer which she didn’t want to do but went because her mother gave her another penny and they skipped and played at Queens and princesses and then Susan Talyer wanted to be the mam and have Mary as the child and Mary wanted to be the mam and when Susan Talyer pinched her she only tapped her a very little with her hand, hardly at all, and accidentally pulled a little of her hair and is wisnae fair…
‘When did you go to bed?’
She had eaten her bread and milk with the boys when they came back from school and then they had all gone up to bed though it was still light and they had seen Andy Nixon coming out the back wynd from Clover’s byre with a handcart with a whole lot of hay on it. And their mam had come in and told them a long story about Tam Lin and how the Queen of the Elves had taken him and Janet and gone to fetch him back—not Janet Dodd, another Janet—and how he changed into all different things by magic…Did the Deputy Warden know the Queen of the Elves too?
‘No,’ said Carey thoughtfully. ‘I’ve not met that Queen at all. Perhaps I will one day.’
‘Ye mustnae eat nothing they give ye in Elfland,’ said Mary seriously. ‘If ye do ye’ll be bound to serve for seven years and when ye come back all your kin will be dead and gone for they’ll be seven hundred years here.’
‘That’s good advice,’ said Carey.
‘Can I have my pennies now?’ said Mary and Carey handed them over. ‘I’ve got five pennies to my dowry,’ she said happily.
‘Mary Atkinson, what are you doing there?’ demanded the voice of Maggie Mulcaster. She was holding a very obstinate-looking cow by a halter and breathing hard. Carey unfolded himself to stand up, put his hat back on.
‘We were waiting for you, Mrs Mulcaster,’ he said mildly. ‘I was telling Mary about the Queen’s gowns.’
Maggie Mulcaster snorted and gave a mighty tug at the cow’s halter.
‘Give me five minutes and I’ll have this thrawn beast into our yard. You get on wi’ those peas, Mary; we’re eating them tonight.’
‘Ay, Aunt Maggie.’
‘Get on wi’ ye, Clover! Will ye get on…’
‘Er…Sergeant,’ said Carey with a meaningful look at the cow. Dodd sighed, slapped the beast’s bony hindquarters and helped Maggie Mulcaster drive her round by the wynd and shut her up in their own small byre for the night. There was just room for Clover and Maggie Mulcaster’s cow to stand in there.
‘I dinna like to leave kine on their own at all. You never know what might happen to them,’ she confided in him. ‘This one’s upset. Kate’s the only one can do anything with her.’ Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the last time she had seen him. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Have ye come to arrest me as well, Sergeant?’
‘Nay, Mrs Mulcaster,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It’s all some notion of the Deputy Warden’s, none o’ mine.’
‘Hmf.’
Very pointedly, Maggie Mulcaster did not invite them over the threshold, but stood stalwart in her doorway with her arms folded, and little Mary shaded by her skirts, while Carey asked her what she remembered of the Monday. There wasn’t much, a day like any other, in fact. It was the next day that stuck in her memory, she said heavily, what with Mr Atkinson found dead in Frank’s vennel in the morning and Kate arrested after. Carey thanked and left her and went to her next-door neighbour.
He painstaking asked each of them the same question. One had helped Julia and Kate Atkinson with washing the sheets from Mrs Atkinson’s miscarriage. She told of that only with much coaxing from Carey who was starting to look very puzzled indeed.
Mrs Leigh was at home, more enormous and lethargic than ever, and very pale. She pushed at wisps of her hair, shoving them back under her cap in such a way that they immediately came out again and whispered that she hadn’t been watching.
Carey started back to the Castle as Dodd’s stomach began growling for its dinner.
‘What’ll we do now sir?’ he asked, hoping to hear the name Bessie in the answer.
‘Hm? said Carey, still lost in thought. ‘Oh, I think we’ll talk to Andy Nixon now.’
Why not before we did all this prancing about the town and spending an hour prattling with little maids about pretty clothes, wondered Dodd. Aloud he said sadly, ‘Ay sir.’
Wednesday 5th July 1592, early afternoon
That was all the conversation they had as they walked back up to the Castle, while Dodd reflected that Carey wasn’t deliberately keeping him from his meat; it was simply he was too caught up in thinking to remember food. At this rate Dodd would be reduced to eating garrison rations in the Keep hall simply to keep body and soul together.
Carey was frowning as he knocked on Barker’s door.
‘You know, up until I talked to the child I was quite certain what had happened,’ he told Dodd quietly. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Ay, but ye willna put too much faith in what a little maid would say?’ protested Dodd.
Barker unlocked the Keep door and led them into the passage full of the cool pungent smell of wine and then the throat-scraping stink of old piss from the dungeons.
‘I don’t think she was lying and there were a number of things she said which don’t fit.’ Carey opened the Judas hole for Andy Nixon’s cell and saw he was lying perched uncomfortably on the narrow stone ledge.
‘Well, she got them mixed up,’ said Dodd. ‘She’s only small. Ye canna call her as a witness in any case.’
‘Of course not.’
Their voices woke Andy Nixon, and he turned and sat up with a clank.
‘Is that ye, Deputy?’
‘It is.’
‘I want tae confess.’
Carey’s mood lightened at once although he was astonished. He had been wondering how to persuade the man. ‘Excellent. Can you wait until I get witnesses and a clerk?’
‘Willna make no odds, will it?’
At last they assembled in Scrope’s council chamber, with Scrope behind his desk and Richard Bell taking notes behind him. Just as Andy Nixon was brought shuffling in, Sir Richard Lowther arrived with his usual foul-weather face. There was quite a crowd in there, including Dodd and Archie-Give-It-Them who were guarding the white-faced Nixon. Carey told Scrope briskly how he had discovered the name of the man who wanted his glove, gone after him and arrested him.
‘What have you to say for yourself?’ asked Scrope gravely.
Andy Nixon took a deep breath. ‘That I killed Jemmy Atkinson. His missus didnae ken a thing about it until the deed was done.’
Lowther snorted disbelievingly.
‘Then what did you do?’
‘We hid the body under the bed. I’d asked a…friend what we should do, and he said, best thing was to dump it in an alley. So after nightfall we got it in a handcart covered wi’ hay and that’s what we did.’
‘Explain to me about Barnabus’s knife and my glove,’ put in Carey.
‘Ay, well,’ Andy Nixon coughed and continued staring at the floor. ‘My…er friend said it wasnae enough to dump the corpse, somebody had to take the blame, and it might as well be ye, sir, since ye hadnae kin here and ye were a gentleman so ye wouldnae swing for it but only go back to London, which would suit Mr Pe…my friend. So he arranged for your man’s knife to be got at the bawdy house.’
‘My glove?’
‘Ay. Well, I thought it weren’t enough to catch ye. so I thought I could get something of yourn to add to it, see, and I went by myself and found out which boy was your servant and then bet him he couldnae get me one o’ your gloves, and he give it me, and then I put it with Jemmy’s body as well. It was me own idea.’
Overegging the pudding, Carey thought; just as well for me you did that, you young fool.
Nixon looked contemplative. ‘I’ll hang for that glove, will I not?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘Tell me how you did the murder?’
‘What’s the point, sir? It’s done now.’
‘The poin
t is that I want to know.’
Lowther tutted and rolled his eyes and Carey noticed that Long George had come up to the council chamber and was standing at the back, sniffling self-importantly. What’s happened now, he wondered.
‘Ay well, the murder, sir.’ Nixon thought for a while. ‘He were killed in bed, in his sleep, sir. I…er…I climbed up from the street and got in at the window, and then I…er…I cut his throat.’
Carey’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you climb up from the street?’
‘On the Leighs’ shop awning and the scaffolding and then onto the eaves. And then back again when I’d done it.’
‘And when was the murder done?’
‘About dawn on Monday.’
There was a concerted gasp, though of course that had to be right. Scrope interrupted fussily.
‘Wait a minute. Are you telling us that Jemmy Atkinson was killed early on Monday morning, not on Monday night?’
‘Ay sir, of course. We hid the body through the day, first under the bed and then in Clover’s byre and then I put it on a handcart and I…’
‘Quite so, quite so. But his throat was slit on Monday morning.’
‘Ay sir. Dawn or thereabouts.’
‘Hmf.’ said Lowther, ‘Why should we believe you?’
Nixon shrugged. ‘It’s when he died, sir. I dinna ken how to prove it to ye.’
‘After you climbed the awning and got through the upstairs window?’ Carey asked again with a frown.
Nixon nodded. Scrope tutted. ‘What is the point of repeating it, Sir Robert?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Carey admitted. ‘I’d like…’
‘Well then, don’t interfere. Very well, Nixon, you can go back down to the cells for the moment and we’ll consider what to do with you.’
Dodd and Archie marched him out and Long George came forward to whisper urgently in Carey’s ear.
‘One moment, my lord,’ he said. ‘Apparently the woman wishes to confess as well.’
Scrope looked pleased. The whole thing was turning out very neatly. With luck his wife would stop giving him trouble over the way he was treating her brother, as if that could be helped.
Her brother, however, was being aggravating, shaking his head and pacing up and down.
‘That’s not right, that can’t be right,’ he was saying.
‘What on earth is troubling you, Robin?’ Scrope demanded. ‘Nixon has just exonerated Barnabus Cooke for you.’
Carey blinked at him as if he’d forgotten all about Barnabus.
‘But, my lord,’ he said in a voice tight with frustration. ‘What Andy Nixon has told us makes no sense at all. I have the testimony of his landlady that she was with him from the dark before dawn until the sun was up.’
‘Perhaps he mistook the time.’
‘Hardly likely, my lord, if he’s confessing. And it’s hard to make a mistake about something like dawn. Noon perhaps, but not dawn. And in any case, I can’t see Andy Nixon climbing any awning or scaffolding to get to a high window, not with his hand the way it still is. He was badly beaten up on Sunday night and his hand trodden on. I doubt he could do it now.’
Lowther was staring at Carey from under his bushy eyebrows, as if at some two-headed wild man of the New World. Carey ignored him and carried on pacing until Kate Atkinson was brought up from the prison by Dodd and Archie. She stood staring round at them and Carey saw she was ghostly white and shaking.
‘Tell us what you want, Mrs Atkinson,’ said Scrope.
‘I…I want to confess to k…killing my husband.’
‘In the name of God,’ growled Lowther. ‘This is a bloody farce.’
‘Just a minute, Sir Richard,’ said Carey. ‘Are you getting this down, Mr Bell?’
‘Ay sir.’
‘Mrs Atkinson, tell us how you killed your husband?’
‘I crept upstairs after I’d given the children their porridge, and he was still asleep, so I took a knife and I…I cut his throat like a pig’s.’
‘While he was in bed on the Monday morning?’
‘Ay sir. And then I sent for Andy Nixon…’
‘Your lover,’ put in Lowther contemptuously.
‘My friend,’ said Mrs Atkinson firmly. ‘I sent Mary for him and when she brought him, he said he would ask Mr Pennycook, who he works for, what to do.’
‘Ahah,’ said Carey, one suspicion confirmed.
‘Yes sir. Mr Pennycook was busy at the Castle, sir, about the renewal of the victualling contracts and when he came back he was very upset. He told Andy and me to hide the body and pretend nothing had happened, so we put m…my husband under the bed while he finished his business wi’ you, sir. I had to wash the sheets, though, or the blood would have set in them, so I told my gossips I’d miscarried of a wean in the night, to explain it, you see. When he came back again, he lent Andy his old handcart and when it was dark, we took the cart and Andy p…put Mr Atkinson’s body on it, and he left it in Frank’s vennel. Mr Pennycook sent his clerk Michael Kerr with your servant’s knife as well as the cart and Andy had gone and gotten your glove and so that’s how we left him, sir.’
She looked at the floor as the silence settled around her. Carey had stopped his pacing and was now staring at her with his arms folded and his eyes like chips of ice.
‘Are ye satisfied wi’ this, Sir Robert?’ asked Lowther sarcastically.
‘At least it’s possible,’ he said levelly in return. ‘Which Andy Nixon’s tale is not.’
Kate Atkinson looked up at that name and then returned to examining the toes of her boots.
‘You are a very wicked woman,’ said Scrope gravely. ‘You have committed a most serious and terrible crime.’
‘Ay sir, I know,’ muttered Mrs Atkinson.
‘Your husband is your rightful lord, according to the Holy Bible and all civilized laws. To murder your husband is more than murder, it is treason.’
‘Ay sir, I know.’ Tears were falling down Mrs Atkinson’s face.
‘Why did you commit this evil deed, Mrs Atkinson?’ Carey asked her gently.
She stared at him wildly, with the tears still welling. ‘Sir?’
‘Did he treat you badly? How was he worse than other husbands?’
‘Well, he wasna, sir. He beat me sometimes but no worse than any other man.’
‘Why did you do it, then? You must have known what could happen.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Robin,’ warbled Scrope. ‘I expect she did it so she could marry her lover. She’s only a woman, she probably didn’t think what would happen to her.’
Mrs Atkinson had bright colour in her cheeks and she took breath to speak, but then let it out and stared at the floor again.
‘Ay sir.’
‘Is that why?’ Carey pursued. ‘So you could marry Andy Nixon?’
‘Ay sir.’
Lowther let out a long derisory snort but held his peace.
‘What were you wearing that morning?’
‘Sir?’
‘Sir Robert,’ said Scrope. ‘What is the point of all this?’
‘Bear with me, my lord.’
‘Oh, very well. But get on with it. I haven’t had dinner yet.’
‘What were you wearing that day, Mrs Atkinson?’
‘What I always wear, except Sundays, sir. My black bodice and my blue kirtle and petticoat and my apron.’ She was puzzled at that.
‘What you wore when I came to speak to you yesterday.’
‘Ay sir.’
‘What you’re wearing now, in fact?’
‘Ay sir.’ She looked down at herself and frowned.
‘But Mrs Atkinson, your sheets were soaked and so was the mattress, and the rushes. How did you keep the blood off your clothes?’
She shut her eyes. ‘I…I was careful, sir.’
Carey stood and stared at her for a moment, mainly with exasperation.
‘But…’
‘Ye may well ask,’ muttered Lowther in general to the tapestries.
&nbs
p; ‘I think we’ve had enough of this,’ said Scrope. ‘Take the woman back to the cells, Sergeant. You’d better chain her, I suppose.’
‘Ay sir,’ said Dodd stolidly, not looking at Kate. He jerked his head towards the door at her and she went in front of him with her hands clasped rigidly together at her waist, as if they were already manacled.
Wednesday 5th July 1592, afternoon
Janet Dodd née Armstrong had ridden into Carlisle all the way from Gilsland that morning, on an errand of assistance. The previous day her father had sent her youngest half-brother with a message for her about the twenty horses from King James’s stables that they were looking after for Will the Tod, who was hiding them for some of their disreputable relatives. That had caused her enough trouble, to scatter the horses among their friends the Pringles and Bells. He had added the information that Jemmy Atkinson had been killed, because he knew she and Kate had been friends when Janet was in service with the old Lord Scrope years before. And so once she was sure the Deputy Warden would not be able to find the horses and, if he did, he wouldn’t connect them with herself and the Sergeant, she saddled Dodd’s old hobby Shilling and brought her half-brother Cuddy Armstrong on Samson their new workhorse with her to Carlisle. To make the ride worthwhile she took some good spring cheeses, a basket of eggs, a basket of gooseberries and another of wild strawberries to sell to Lady Scrope and while she rode she thought of the price of hay and how much they might get for their surplus if she sold direct to the Deputy instead of going through Hetherington or Pennycook as a middleman. Her baskets would have cost her four pence toll at the City gate if she hadn’t been married to a garrison man. Bringing in vittles on the Queen’s prerogative was one of Dodd’s few worthwhile perks.
The first thing she knew about the further disaster of Kate’s arrest was when she arrived at the Atkinson’s house to find it locked and empty. A couple of workmen on the scaffolding around the Leighs’ roof called down to her that she should try the Leighs’ door and they’d do their best to be of service too—with much winking and leering.
She was about to shout something suitable back at them when she saw a tight knot of women in their aprons gathered opposite, talking vigorously. Maggie Mulcaster with the withered arm called her over.
2 A Season of Knives Page 20
