2 A Season of Knives

by P. F. Chisholm

  The girl was gagging and whooping pitifully, still not able to stand. She must be an awful weight on his arm, thought Dodd, taking one considered step back. Leigh followed, facing him, his hand with the knife trembling dangerously.

  I wonder what the Deputy’s up to, Dodd thought to himself.

  ‘Where will ye go?’ he asked Leigh reasonably. ‘What will ye do? Ye’ll be at the horn for sure and could ye live in the Debateable Land?’

  ‘Other men have,’ said Leigh desperately. Julia slipped against him and he hefted her up again, sweat on his face.

  Dodd shook his head. ‘Fighting men,’ he said. ‘Wi’ all the respect in the world, sir, ye’re not a fighting man. Have ye a sword? Harness? A helmet? D’ye have horses? Can ye use a lance? My brother-in-law Skinabake Armstrong has his pick o’ men to join his gang, sir, and he’ll no’ take a Carlisle draper.’

  The knife was shaking hard now. ‘I can learn,’ croaked Leigh.

  ‘Ay, ye could,’ said Dodd, consideringly. Behind Leigh something white appeared at the little window. ‘But could ye learn fast enough? The prime raiding season starts in August, after Lammastide, and we’re well into July already, sir.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ye’d have a lot to learn, ye ken. Are ye in one of the Carlisle trained bands, or did ye pay another man to take your place? Ay, I see ye had a substitute—and why should ye no’, ye’re a busy man, a prosperous merchant, an’ there’s nae reason in the world why ye should waste yer time out on the race course playing about wi’ pikes and arquebuses and the like…’

  Carey barked his shoulders painfully, easing them through the window, then snagged his shirt on a piece of glass and had to free it. He caught the beam above the windowseat with the tips of his fingers and hefted himself through as quietly as he could, with his knife in his teeth and his tongue and lips as far back from its edge as he could grimace. He sucked his stomach in as far as it would go and prayed devoutly as he hauled his hips through past the points of the broken window panes. And then his knees were in, he could drop to the ground quietly, while Dodd droned impassively on about civic duties and Leigh’s own children. Carey was a head taller than Leigh. So with the back of John Leigh’s neck and his expensively furred brocade gown only a pace in front of him, Carey took his dagger lefthanded from his mouth, reached over the man’s shoulder to clamp Leigh’s wrist in his right hand and brought the hilt of the poignard down as hard as he could twice on the back of Leigh’s head.

  Leigh grunted and collapsed, dropping his knife as well. Julia Coldale fell too, then picked herself back up onto her hands and knees and was sick. She looked up at Carey, past his hairy calves and his bare knees and his now ragged white shirt to his face, made a soft croak and fainted.

  Dodd looked at him impassively and handed his sword back.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch in yer suit, shall I, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘If you would, Sergeant,’ said Carey.

  Thursday 6th July 1592, dawn

  Mrs Leigh met them on the stairs, her swollen body entirely blocking them. Dodd had tied John Leigh’s hands behind his back after the man had come mumbling and sobbing back to consciousness, and was pushing him down the steps ahead of him, his sword pressed against the man’s backbone, and the bloodstained shirt they had found in the roof tucked into his belt. Carey was carrying Julia Coldale who was still coughing and cawing like a jackdaw.

  ‘Wh…what are you doing with my husband?’ Mrs Leigh demanded. She was in her smock and dressing gown and her hair in its nighttime plait.

  ‘We’re arresting him, Mrs Leigh,’ said Dodd. ‘Would ye kindly move away?’

  ‘Wh…what for?’

  ‘Trying to kill Julia Coldale,’ came Carey’s voice from above. ‘He nearly succeeded as well.’

  ‘That little whore,’ sniffed Mrs Leigh. ‘My husband has nothing to do with the bitch.’

  That’s what you think, mistress, thought Dodd, who could think of one reason why a man would give a woman money. He didn’t say that, mainly because he didn’t want to bring on Mrs Leigh’s labour.

  ‘We only just stopped him throttling the life out of her,’ said Carey. ‘Please, Mrs Leigh, out of our way.’

  She did move back into the doorway of the shop. Jock Burn was standing there as well, licking his lips. As he went past, John Leigh looked desperately at his wife.

  ‘Matilda,’ he whispered. ‘Do something.’

  She looked away.

  They had a full escort of small boys and dogs by the time they got back to Carlisle Castle and Carey was beginning to puff and blow a bit with Julia’s weight. She had managed to stop whooping by then, so he put her down and she leant very prettily on his arm, trying to give him the occasional trustful smile. Oddly enough he didn’t smile back.

  They were running out of space for prisoners; there was only the Lickingstone cell left apart from the hole under the Gaoler’s floorboards which was reached with a ladder. In the end they decided the hole was the least bad of the two.

  ‘Chain him,’ said Carey.

  ‘But sir…’ Dodd protested. ‘He didnae actually kill her.’

  ‘Only by the Grace of God,’ said Carey coldly. ‘And besides, haven’t you worked out why? Chain him.’

  ‘Ay sir.’

  John Leigh sat down on the bench in the Gaoler’s room with his head bowed while Dodd locked his feet together in the leg irons. When he had climbed down awkwardly, and the ladder pulled up again, Carey looked at Dodd.

  ‘Fetch at least four men from the barracks and go and arrest Jock Burn. If you can’t find him, tell the men on the City gates that they’re on no account to let him out. And have the Crier give his name at the marketplace.’

  ‘Ay sir,’ said Dodd, wondering what on earth he was at but not inclined to argue with the expression on Carey’s face.

  Philadelphia had already taken Julia Coldale up to her stillroom, given her a dose of something unpleasant and painted her usual infusion of comfrey on the terrible bruises around her neck.

  By the time her brother arrived looking grim and followed by a puzzled Richard Bell, Philadelphia had decided she should be put to bed.

  ‘I have to speak to her first,’ said Carey. ‘I must know…’

  Philadelphia drew him aside and whispered fiercely at him. ‘The poor girl can hardly breathe, let alone speak; you can talk to her tomorrow…’

  ‘It must be today,’ said Carey implacably. ‘Unless Scrope can get the inquest adjourned.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with…?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out.’

  He gently put her aside and went to stand over Julia who had started weeping quietly into her apron.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will you talk to me now?’

  ‘Ay,’ she whispered.

  It took an inordinately long time for her to croak out the story: Bell had no trouble writing down what she said and when she finished, she made her mark with a shaking hand. Philadelphia was less sorry for her by that time, as she signed her own name in witness to the mark with Carey himself. She agreed with her brother to bring the girl down to the inquest in her own litter.

  By that time the jury for the inquest were assembling at the town hall and Scrope was putting on his black velvet court gown and his gold chain of office, while the prisoners were fetched out of their various cells. Carey sprinted up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower to his own chamber to change his clothes to his good black velvet suit and found Simon Barnet asleep and snorting on the truckle bed.

  Finally ready, Carey ran down the stairs again to join the tail end of the inquest procession, with his hat in his hand. Ahead, guarded by Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon and Lowther’s men, were all of the prisoners, including John Leigh: Barnabus shambled along looking frowsty and bad-tempered, Kate Atkinson walked with her head bowed and Andy was having trouble with his leg irons. It was a slow march. Dodd fell in behind him at the Keep gate with his four men and no prisoner.

  ‘No sign of him?’
Carey asked.

  ‘Nay sir,’ said Dodd mournfully. ‘We were too late. He must have run as soon as we left. I did the rest of what ye said.’

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ muttered Carey. ‘Why the hell didn’t I think of it?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Dodd was comforting. ‘Ye couldnae arrest Jock Burn as well as his master wi’ only the two of us and a half-dead maid to carry; Jock would ha’ made mincemeat of us.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And ye’ve caught the master good and proper, sir.’

  ‘Have you got the shirt?’

  ‘Ay sir, but no’ the knife. I’ll send Bangtail for it; he’s a fast runner.’

  Bangtail sprinted off from the end of the procession. Carey saw Janet Dodd among the crowd at the entrance to the town hall, a very formidable sight in red, black and brocade, surrounded by many of Kate Atkinson’s gossips, likewise dressed in their Sunday best. There was no sign of Mrs Leigh, which was hardly to be wondered at.

  Thursday 6th July 1592, 11 a.m.

  Edward Aglionby looked impressive in his budge-trimmed green velvet gown, black damask doublet and hose and tall hat. He stood on the steps of the hall as the Castle procession arrived and greeted Scrope with suitable respect.

  ‘My lord,’ he said in a carrying voice. ‘There’s nae room in the hall for all the folk that must be seen and examined and all the folk that wish to attend and so I have decided to hear the inquest at the market cross.’

  ‘An excellent idea, Mr Aglionby,’ beamed Scrope, who had been secretly dreading the heat and smell of a small town hall filled full of people in summer. ‘Please dispose your inquest as you wish.’

  Carey looked about him, wondering if Aglionby had considered security for the inquest. He needn’t have worried. The Mayor and Corporation had called out the City trained bands and all three hundred of them stood around the cross, controlling the crowds, capped in steel, bearing halberds and billhooks and delighted to get such prime viewing positions.

  Running his eye critically over them for the first time, Carey decided he liked the look of them. They were clean and so were their weapons and while they didn’t stand to attention, they were orderly, paying attention and not one was picking his nose.

  A large table had been taken out of the hall and set up by the cross. Aglionby sat himself down behind it in the Mayor’s large carved chair, and indicated that Scrope should sit at his right at one end as a courtesy. The jury lined up on benches to his right. As they filed in Carey growled at the sight of them, for there at the front was Thomas Lowther, Sir Richard’s brother. Sir Richard himself was of course present to give evidence, his heavy face only prevented from grinning with satisfaction by invincible dignity.

  The Chancellor of the Cathedral came in solemn procession, bearing the large Bible from his lectern. Each of the twelve gentlemen of the jury stepped forward to swear that he would truly judge of the matter before him, so help him God.

  Behind Carey the marketplace was packed with people, talking excitedly, held back by their sons, brothers and husbands, stern-faced with office. An inquest was not precisely a trial, but it could be very much more than simply finding what a person had died of. Since the Assize judge and his armed escort would not be coming from Newcastle until Lammastide at the beginning of August, and as there were suspects in the case—too many, in fact—the Coroner had wide powers to establish the identity of the man or woman who actually went before the judge as the accused. At which point, of course, the thing was pretty much a foregone conclusion.

  ‘It is your duty, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Aglionby sonorously, ‘to decide how, when and why the deceased died and whether he died of natural or unnatural causes, by Act of God or by man’s design. To this end you are charged by Almighty God and Her most gracious Majesty the Queen…’

  It’s still a bloody farce, Carey thought with disgust, looking at the two rows of assorted faces before him. Apart from Thomas Lowther there were Captain Carleton, his brother Lancelot and Captain Musgrave. He recognised another as Archibald Bell. One friend, eleven neutral or enemies. Their general hostility to Londoners was plain. His stomach tightened.

  ‘Does the jury wish to view the body?’ asked Aglionby and Thomas Lowther rose to answer him.

  ‘It willna be…’

  Archibald Bell pulled on his gown from behind and whispered in his ear. Lowther coughed.

  ‘It seems it will be necessary,’ he finished.

  The jury filed up the steps to the hall where Atkinson’s body, already smelling gamey, was laid out ready for them. They came back down, all of them impassive.

  Aglionby asked Sir Richard Lowther to give evidence from the steps of the cross, since he had been called immediately and was the first gentleman to have seen the body. After swearing his oath loudly he gave evidence of where the body lay, in Frank’s vennel, on Tuesday morning, with great emphasis. He then added that he had immediately known who must have done the deed, to wit, one Barnabus Cooke, late of London town, footpad, currently pretending to serve Sir Robert Carey. He had hurried back to the Keep, found the said Cooke, and arrested him. Although he, Lowther, had besought the vile Cooke to confess his crime with eloquent words, he, the vile Cooke, had refused with many foul oaths, thereby compounding his offence. Seizing his moment, Carey stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Your honour…’ he said hintingly to Aglionby. Scrope looked at him, puzzled. Aglionby smiled and tilted his head.

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert, please continue.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ snorted Sir Richard. ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘He is acting as amicus curiae.’ Aglionby told him repressively. ‘He will ask supplementary questions to aid the Crown.’ Scrope leaned over and whispered urgently, to which the Coroner replied with another smile and half-shut eyes.

  Lowther snorted. He wasn’t sure what an amicus curiae might be—nor clearly was Scrope—but he couldn’t possibly admit to ignorance. Carey moved around so he was half-facing Lowther and sideways on to the crowd, and pitched his voice as if he were making a speech in a tournament with most of Whitehall Yard to reach.

  ‘Sir Richard,’ he said respectfully. ‘Who came to fetch you on Tuesday morning?’

  Lowther’s face darkened. ‘Some clerk or other.’

  ‘Was it one Michael Kerr, factor to Mr James Pennycook?’

  ‘It might have been. Ay, it was. So?’

  ‘Your honour, I trust Mr Kerr is available to give evidence?’ Carey said to the Coroner. Aglionby rifled through the papers in front of him and found the list of witnesses.

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert. We can call him next, if you wish.’

  ‘If your honour pleases.’

  Aglionby turned aside to whisper to his clerk who transmitted the whisper to one of the trained band. Carey looked at Lowther.

  ‘Sir Richard, can you describe what Frank’s vennel looked like when you came to see the body?’

  Lowther snorted again and said contemptuously that it had had a body lying in it and a powerful lot of people looking on and one o’ the dogs being dragged off.

  ‘Was there blood?’

  ‘I dinna ken. There might have been.’

  ‘But was there in fact any blood?’

  ‘I dinna recall.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else unusual in the alley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Er…Sir Richard, what made you think that Barnabus Cooke had killed Mr Atkinson?’ put in Scrope helpfully. Dammit, thought Carey, whose side are you on? Aglionby let him get away with it.

  ‘Oh, ay. I found Barnabus’s knife and one of Carey’s gloves on the body,’ said Lowther, looking slightly embarrassed.

  Carey smiled kindly at him. ‘Where were these incriminating items?’ he asked.

  Lowther coughed. ‘Laid on top o’ the body.’

  Now isn’t that interesting, Carey thought. I did you an injustice, Tom Scrope.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard,’ he said, elaborately obtuse. ‘I don’t qu
ite understand. Exactly how were they placed?’

  ‘Well, the corpse was on its back, and the knife lay on its chest and the glove by it.’

  Carey paused to let this picture sink in. ‘Someone had carefully put them there, in other words,’ he said.

  ‘I dinna ken.’

  ‘Well, they could hardly have dropped so neatly by accident, could they?’

  Lowther shrugged. Carey waited a moment to see if he would say anything else, then continued.

  ‘Now when you found my servant Barnabus Cooke, where was he?’

  ‘In yer chambers.’

  ‘At the Keep?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘What did he say when you accused him?’

  ‘I didnae understand because he spake braid London,’ said Lowther.

  Probably just as well, thought Carey. ‘Did he say anything you understood?’

  ‘He lied.’

  ‘What did he actually say?’

  ‘He said he didnae do it. But he…’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I arrested him.’

  ‘Barnabus, stand forward,’ Carey said and Barnabus took a step out of the group of accused. ‘Is this the man you arrested?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Tell me, how did his face come to be so battered?’

  Lowther shrugged and wouldn’t answer. There was a certain amount of muttering among the public, none of whom were naive.

  ‘Who else was in my chambers?’

  Lowther shrugged again. ‘A boy,’ he said.

  ‘In fact, Simon Barnet, Cooke’s nephew.’

  ‘If you say so, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Is it true that you tried to get into my office and Barnet prevented you, so you beat him as well?’

  ‘Nay. He was insolent.’

  ‘Did Lady Scrope then come and order you out of my chambers which you were preparing to search?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Did you in fact, threaten her as well?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Lowther. ‘She threatened me.’

  Scrope blinked gravely at Lowther. ‘You hadn’t mentioned this, Sir Richard,’ he said reproachfully, which was why Carey had brought it up. Lowther cleared his throat and Aglionby put out a repressive hand. Scrope subsided.