A Chorus of Innocents (16 page)

“I dreamed of him.”

Elizabeth tried not to sigh. “What did you dream?”

“I don't know. I just saw him in my dream and tried to run away.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“I couldn't hear it so I ran. And then I got stuck in a bog in the middle of the study.”

“Well Jimmy, perhaps he was trying to tell you it was all right and he wasn't angry? Did you think of that?” A tiny shake of the head. “Perhaps if he comes back he'll just say, ‘Jimmy, I loved yer singing at my funeral. Thanks lad.' Do you think?”

At last a tiny smile. “Mebbe.”

“Can you think of anything else they said, no matter how little? Can ye tell me from the start, what happened.”

“Well I wis milking the goats because I was late home from the minister and they were making a noise and carrying on and I was milking them and my dad sent Young Jock to me to say he had a job for me and Young Jock would finish the goats. So I run to my dad and he says I'm to go to the steward's copse and I'd find some horses there and I'm tae look after them till their owners come, which was two business friends of his and I done it before and so I…”

“Why were you late home?”

“Och, me and Archie were watching some slugs to see if they turn into birds but they didna and so we stamped on them. So I went to the copse and there were four nice horses there, wi' different brands on 'em, two one brand, two the other. I gave 'em some horse nuts my dad sent with me and gave 'em all a rub down and then I waited wi' them. And then the men come back and one was older, I remember that, didn't know them, I'd never seen 'em before in my life…”

“Would ye know them if you saw them again?”

Jimmy nodded slowly, his black circled eyes enormous. “Ay,” he said, “that'd help the minister to rest, wouldn't it? If he saw the murderers hang?”

“I'm certain it would,” said Elizabeth, still heretical.

“So they wis arguing about Bessie and which pie wis better and one was laughing and saying the little wifey wad remember him too and the other one…”

“Which was that? Who said that about Mrs Burn?”

“The younger one, with black hair, and the older one said, ay, ye were lucky again,”

“Again!”

“Ay, and then they said they'd be going and the younger one giv me a Scotch shilling…”

“Did you keep it?”

“No, I gave it to me dad and he said it was forged but he might get someone to take it.”

“And the men went away?”

“Ay, and I took the Graham horses all the way South to where they told me. Nice horses they were too, though one had thrown a shoe.”

“The men asked you to do that?”

“Ay, the older one, he said, the shilling is for you to take the horses down to the Border and not tell anyone, so I took 'em nearly all the way and give 'em to a horse trader named Tully.”

“One was grey and one was chestnut?”

“Ay missus, how did ye know?”

“I know those horses. They'd been ridden hard too?”

“Ay, and the hobbies wis fresh. So I took them all that way and come back and I got me bread and milk for the evening late and went to sleep with Young Jock and in the morning…” Jimmy shook his head and tears started leaking again. “In the morning Andy Hume came running to tell us the minister was killt and…and I didn't know what to do or nothing, missus, it was terrible, worse than when the Widdringtons raided the infield and took our four mares and a gelding. Andy said, they've killt him, they took the top of his heid off.”

“How did you know it was the strangers?”

“We saw them go in, didn't we? We saw them and never tried to stop them. I saw them too, when I come out of school and they went in and they was talking when they went.”

“How did the minister seem? Was he laughing, pleased to see them?”

“Not exactly, more serious and stern but he knew 'em.”

“What did they say?”

“The minister said, I'm not going out again. Spiny can wait.”

“‘I'm not going out again.'” Are you sure he said that?”

“Ay, I'm no' ganging out again, Spiny can wait. Then they was in the house and I didna think nothing of it.”

She took him through the tale again and it came out pretty much the same and there was the name she knew, or might know.

“Is there any reiver around here called Spiny?”

Jimmy frowned and thought. “Not that I know of, missus. I did wonder but it might be someone fra foreign parts like the West March or England.”

“Or Edinburgh?”

“Maybe.”

That name made it something different from a Border matter, that made it a Court matter. The Earl of Spynie was King James' current favourite and a bad man to cross for all his youth, although he was starting to lose his beauty already, and with it, his hold over the king. She had known him when he was plain Alexander Lindsay, laird of Crawford too, and hadn't liked him then for all his pretty ways and charming smiles.

What had Jamie Burn done for Lord Spynie? Or to Lord Spynie? If Spynie had had Jamie killed, it accounted for the way of it and for the fact that the men had had money to spend on horses and hadn't been interested in the contents of the plate cupboard.

And Jock Tait had known the men, had he? He might not have known what they planned, but he knew them. Jimmy was useless as a witness but Jock Tait was ideal, an adult male who hated the minister.

The problem was how to get hold of him and find out the names from him. Oh, and persuade him to be a witness.

Monday 16th October 1592

Dodd was irritable. He had been looking for a tooth-drawer all morning, had found it was true that Mr Lugg didn't do teeth, had heard tell of a tooth-drawer in Scotland but the man was called Johnstone and he didn't like to risk it. He had heard from two sources, the undertaker and Thomas the Merchant, that there was someone lately over on the East March and one said the man's name was Ricker and the other that he was called Henry. It wasn't enough to go on, but the swelling on the Courtier's jaw was getting worse. He had wrapped a scarf round his face against the cold and he was looking distinctly peaky. And he was drunk as well.

The only thing Dodd could think of was to go and find Lady Widdrington. She seemed to have a good grasp of the East March, her husband was the Deputy Warden, and the tooth-drawer probably had needed to bribe him anyway.

He asked permission from Carey to ride to the East March on the grounds his wife wanted something from Berwick, and Carey had given it without much attention. He was at Bessie's playing cards on his own; he called it a fancy Italian name, and it was clearly his way of distracting himself. Dodd took his favourite horse, Whitesock, legally bought and his this time, with the Queen's brand now cancelled by another one, half-healed. He had a warrant from Scrope, who was happy to give Dodd some despatches as well so he could ride post.

He liked riding post. You could do a hundred miles in a day with luck, probably less going across the Border, and he'd have to be careful in some places, but he could be in Widdrington at the end of a long day and he planned to be. Also the Courtier's sarcastic temper was getting on his nerves and he wanted to be away from it.

Widdrington was quiet and peaceful in the evening when he clattered in on the last post-house's horse, which was blowing and making a fuss. He'd never been there before and eyed it carefully despite the dusk, in case Carey could get over his stupid scruples and they needed to make a rough wedding party.

There was the castle, not on a hill—the whole village was flat and the sea nearby, the road the most important part of it. It was rich, you could see, a village supplying grain and horse feed and food to Berwick.

The castle wasn't large, not much more than a sturdy manor house with a much older tower and a wall around it for the villagers to bring their stock into when raiders came. He came to the gate, showed his warrant and went on into the main yard to find a pretty young woman who was heavily pregnant and an elderly man receiving him with a couple of the broad young Widdringtons hanging around as well to see he behaved himself. He smiled at them, liked it that they bothered.

“Ma name's Sergeant Dodd. I've come tae see Lady Widdrington. Is she about?”

“Lady Widdrington isn't here, sir,” said the man. “She's north of the Border in Wendron.”

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the woman. “My name is Mrs Burn. I'm a friend of Lady Widdrington's.”

“Ach,” said Dodd, very annoyed. He had dismounted and the horse was pulling toward the stables after his fodder. Dodd had ridden hard for the last ten miles to be into Widdrington before dusk. He took the horse into the stables, was shown the feedbins and set up the horse with a nosebag and a bucket and started whisping him down with brisk strong strokes. “Where's Wendron then?”

“It's about forty miles from here, sir,” said Mrs Burn who had followed him. The steward had gone off somewhere else. “Would you like to stay here this night and start in the morning?”

Dodd thought about it. He could have kept going, though he'd need a different horse, but it was full dark now and the Moon not much use. He had to admit he was a bit tired after cantering and galloping for most of the day, and hungry as well since he'd eaten his bread and cheese in Haltwhistle on the Giant's Wall.

“Ay,” he said, “that's kind o' ye, missus. I could do wi' a bite to eat as well.”

“I think there's a pie and the cook's made a pottage and a stew, or there's bread and cheese and some apples too.”

That sounded more like it. “Thank 'ee kindly, missus, I appreciate it.”

“Oh, Sergeant Dodd, I've heard about you from Lady Widdrington. I'm very pleased to meet you at last and you can keep me company at dinner.”

He wasn't sure about that since he was no kind of gentleman and would have preferred the despatch rider's room at the inn and beer in the commonroom, but he supposed it would be rude to refuse.

He found Roger Widdrington, the younger son of Sir Henry, was also in the dining parlour, making himself pleasant, which was interesting. Dodd knew about his part in the disaster in Dumfries that summer. Mrs Burn sat beside him with a girl—who was clearly there to learn huswifery, and Mr Heron, the reeve, as well, so it was quite a supper party.

Roger Widdrington said grace and the great pie was on the table with some soused hog's cheese and the pottage and stew, so Dodd helped himself to the venison and rabbit pie and the pottage as well.

He asked eventually about the tooth-drawer, though he said it was Scrope who needed a tooth out, since he was in Widdrington, after all. Mrs Burn's face, which was rather sad in repose, lit up.

“Oh yes, Sergeant Dodd, there's a new man in the area. In fact he was planning to go over to the West March soon.”

“Ay? Do ye ken where he might be?”

“Yes. Minister Burn and I know him quite well. He's not like the usual run of barber surgeons. He's interested in reading and books and he's supposed to be very good at drawing teeth too. He's called Mr Simon Anricks and he's all the way from London.”

“Fancy that,” said Dodd, reaching for more hog's cheese since it was very good. He took some more bread too, since that was manchet. You had to admit that lords and ladies saw themselves well for food. “Is he a spy? The last tooth-drawer but one in the Middle March got caught with a mirror with letters fra the Pope behind it.”

Mrs Burn laughed. “I don't know. Perhaps he is, you'll have to ask him. Now I think about it, he's probably in Wendron now with Lady Widdrington because…because…”

And just like that she turned to crying. Dodd sat back in astonishment and watched.

“Her husband was killed a week ago,” Roger Widdrington explained quietly. He didn't do much about it, just let the woman greet into a handkerchief. “Two men walked into his house and cut his head off.”

“Och, that's bad,” said Dodd, sympathetically. “It wasna even on a raid? I'm sorry for yer trouble, missus.”

She nodded at him as she tried to get a hold of herself.

“We'd like to find out who the men are, obviously,” said Widdrington pompously. “I'm waiting for another despatch from my elder brother who is with Lady Widdrington.”

Dodd nodded. It was cheeky, that's what it was. And it would be difficult to find them too, because they could just ride away and nobody any the wiser. Or at any rate, nobody any the wiser who would tell on them.

“Mrs Burn was there at the time too,” said Widdrington, “that's why she's so distressed.”

“Ay?” said Dodd. “That's shocking.” He supposed she couldn't be expected to do anything about it since she was clearly not a Border woman. Her accent was a little strange, something like Scottish, something like English from the West March, something guttural. The woman got awkwardly to her feet and curtseyed to Widdrington, left the room still crying, followed anxiously by the girl.

Dodd, Widdrington and the steward ate most of what was left of the hog's cheese and the pottage, though the pie was a giant and they left three quarters of it for the morning. They talked about drainage ditches and they talked about hobbies and who was raiding whom in the Middle March and the West March. Dodd brought them up to date with the Maxwells and the Johnstones, who were only raiding sheep and cattle at the moment, feints to see where the weaknesses were.

At last Dodd was shown to a little room next to the stables that was full of the comforting scent of horses and a bed with a tester as well, and so he got to undress, which he wouldn't at the inn.

Tuesday 17th October 1592

He was up as early as he could manage the next morning, two hours before dawn, feeling cold and miserable as usual. When he went to the kitchen in the hope of pillaging some more of the pie, he found it unlocked and a candle lit and Mrs Burn sitting there alone, waiting for him, while the kitchen boy snored on his pallet with his blankets round his ears.

“Sergeant Dodd,” she said, “I'm so sorry I had to leave the dinner table last night, but it comes on me sometimes and I can't stop crying. I loved Jamie Burn, no matter what he was before and it…I can't help it.”

Poor woman, Dodd thought, that's worse is that, if you loved your husband as well. His mam had loved his dad and she'd gone from being a big plump happy woman to a sad skinny one in a matter of months after he'd been killed. What would he feel if Janet was dead, now?

It was the first time he'd thought of it, strangely, and just the thought made his stomach squinch up under his ribs and his bowels go to water. Jesu, he thought, I'd be a lost man. He shook his head and deliberately crushed the thought. Janet would have to outlive him, that was all.

“Ay,” he said inadequately, “Eh…Ah wis wondering if there's any pie…?”

She smiled at him. “It's a good one, isn't it? I've got some breakfast and lunch here, ready packed, and I'm hoping you'll do me a favour for it.”

“Ay missus,” he said cautiously, sitting down facing her.

“It's all right,” she said, “I won't ask you to kill my husband's murderers for me, unless you happen to come upon them and have a rope ready…”

He smiled. “Ay missus, I can promise that…”

“I just want to send a letter to Mr Anricks. He was such a good friend to Jamie, I want him to know that I think Jamie left him something in his will and a few other things.”

She had a letter from her bodice, quite a thick packet. Dodd hesitated and then took it. He'd already given the despatches from Scrope to Roger Widdrington who would pass them to his father; he might as well take this.

He put it inside his doublet, inside his buff leather jerkin that he wore because it wasn't exactly business and you went quicker if you didn't wear a jack.

“If you could give that to Mr Anricks personally,” she said, “I'd be very grateful.”

Maybe she was having an affair with the tooth-drawer, Dodd speculated. She was a pretty woman or she would be if she didn't have such black circles round her eyes.

“Ay missus,” he said. She smiled at him then and gave him two neatly wrapped packages which he carried into the stableyard where he found a sleepy young boy holding a nice-looking hobby for him, already tacked up.

He was off a couple of minutes later, taking the hobby at a brisk walk and then to a trot for half a mile before he put his heels in and went to a canter.