A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (18 page)

Hughes put his cap back on again slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“I’d be very surprised, sir.” Something about his eyes said he wouldn’t.

“You never get substitutions?

“Never, sir, though I suppose it could happen.”

“What about the priest? Fr. Jackson?”

“What of him?” Now the eyes were wary although the mouth was innocent.

“It wasn’t a priest, in fact it was a friend of my mother’s called Richard Tregian.”

Hughes came to the gate of the garden and opened it. “Come inside, sir,” he said, with a bow. “Try some of my fruit wines.”

The main room of the cottage was clean and swept though bare. They sat at the small wooden table that had a bench beside it and one stool and Hughes bustled into the storeroom to bring out a pottery flagon with a powerful smell of raspberries. He poured them a measure into horn cups, then sat down on his stool and braced his hands on his knees.

“Mr. Topcliffe brought him on the day. I had not seen him before to weigh him and calculate the drop, but Mr. Topcliffe said it was no matter, he was to be dead before he was drawn and gave me a purse for it as well.”

“Did he speak?”

“No sir, he was in…er…no condition to speak, he had been given the manacles and then he had been waked for a while and could hardly hold his head up nor see straight.”

“Waked?” asked Carey.

Hughes studied the floor. “He had been stopped from sleeping for many days, sir. It sends a man mad and kills him quicker than starving. Topcliffe prefers…other methods, but waking is a speciality of Mr. Vice Chamberlain.”

Carey had a look of disgust on his face. “And what was the purpose of this waking?”

“Dunno sir, usually it’s to make him talk so they’ll let him sleep, but sometimes all they get is nonsense and vapours of the brain from the poisonous humours, sir.”

There was a penetrating silence.

“And it don’t show, sir,” Hughes added, still staring at the floor, “So the mob don’t get too sympathetic.” More silence. Dodd realised that Carey was using it as a weapon. “See, if it’s a Papist priest, I wouldn’t mind sir, not since they sent the Armada—I heard tell they tried again this summer too, sir, only God saved us again. But this…I was worried, see, sir, cos he didn’t look like a priest.”

Carey blinked. “How could you tell?”

Hughes looked up with enthusiasm for the first time. “Oh it’s remarkable what you can tell from a man’s body and his clothes, if you know what to look for. See, your papish priest is always doing some sort of penance, see, and it shows. Like most of them have knobbly knees, see, from kneeling at their prayers.”

Carey shook his head. “Could mean he’s a courtier, I’ve got knobbly knees myself from kneeling in the Queen’s presence and I’m no priest.”

“True, sir. But it all goes together, you see. Or if he’s been wearing a hair shirt, even if it’s been taken from him, he’s usually got a rash in the shape of a shirt on his body and often a lot of lice cos they don’t take them off at all, sir. Or if he’s been using the discipline—that’s a little scourge with wires on it—you’ve got the marks of that—sort of criss-crossing scratches as if he’s been rolling in a bramble bush, more on the shoulders ‘cos they’re easier to reach…”

Carey’s head had gone up, as had Dodd’s. They exchanged satisfied glances. Enys was staring at Hughes in some kind of mute horror.

“So you could see none of that on Richard Tregian?” asked Carey.

“No sir, nor he didn’t say nothing except gibberish, but still Mr. Topcliffe would have him gagged—in case he made some kind of Papist sermon which Topcliffe couldn’t allow, so he said.”

“What kind of gibberish, Mr. Hughes?” asked Enys.

“Ahh…Funny words like Trenever and Lanner and Kergilliak, couldn’t make head nor tale of them. Bedlam he was, far as I could tell. Slept like a baby while he was being dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn which is something you don’t often see and gave the mob a bit of a turn, too.”

Carey nodded.

“Course it’s not my place to ask the likes of Richard Topcliffe the wheres and whyfores but I…I was troubled, sir.”

“Why?”

“’Cos I asked to see the warrant and it was for Fr. Jackson right enough but it didn’t look right.”

“Why not?”

“The ink, sir. The warrant was nicely done in Secretary hand, but the places where Fr. Jackson’s name went and the date, the ink was darker there, like they’d put it in later. They’re not supposed to do that. Each death warrant is for each person, it’s not respectful otherwise. You can’t just have a general warrant with spaces to fill in to hang anyone you fancy…”

“No, indeed. Is there anything else you can tell us about Richard Topcliffe?”

“I don’t like him, sir. Bring him to me when I’m working with a proper warrant for him and I won’t charge you a penny for the rope nor nothing for my services.”

“Do you often have cases like this?” Hughes paused, took breath to speak, paused again with reluctance.

“Not often, no sir,” he admitted. “Mr. Secretary Walsingham did it a couple of times, but this year…”

Carey was scratching the patch on his chin where his goatee beard was regrowing. “More?” he asked.

Hughes seemed to remember something and stopped suddenly, gulped. “Couldn’t say, sir,” he mumbled.

Dodd sipped his raspberry wine and was stunned. He had never tasted anything so delicious in his life. He drank a little more and then finished the cup. Perhaps Janet was right in her planting of fruit bushes. He wondered if the blackberry wine Janet made for her gossips to drink and which he had always disdained as fit only for weak women was anything like this wonderful stuff. He had to concentrate to pay attention to what was going on.

Carey leaned across to Hughes. “Mr. Hughes,” he said, “thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Would you mention to your brother in law that I appreciated his compliment and so did my father?”

Hughes nodded and stopped looking so frightened. “I’ll mention it. He…er…he was wondering if you would be interested in a primero game at Three Cranes in the Vintry on Thursday evenings—he had heard you were quite a player.”

Carey coughed modestly. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Hughes, Her Majesty and Sir Walter Raleigh regularly beat me hollow.”

Hughes’ gaze was steady. “Perhaps you should try your luck at the Three Cranes, sir.”

Carey smiled. “Perhaps I shall. Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”

***

Now nothing would do but that they must walk south to Westminster to the crypt by the palace to take another look at the mysterious corpse with no feet, to see as Carey said if his knees were knobbly or not. When they arrived they found the crypt empty and no sign of a corpse, embalmed or stinking. Carey was annoyed.

“She collected the body already?” he demanded. “That’s smart work.”

“Gentleman’s cousin, since the Board of Greencloth concluded killing by person or persons unknown. She collected him wiv a litter, sir, for immediate private burial,” said the churchwarden in charge of the crypt. “I have her name in the book here, sir.” He was pointedly not opening the pages and finally Carey got the point in question and handed over a penny. The name and address at the sign of the Crowing Cock were neatly written there, and the woman had made her mark as well.

They took a boat to the Bridge and walked to the street by London Wall where there was no house with the sign of the Crowing Cock and nor had any of the neighbours ever heard of a Mrs. Sophia Merry.

Sitting on a bench at yet another alehouse, drinking beer, Carey was scowling with thought. Enys had said nothing whatever the whole time but finally Carey noticed him again.

“Mr. Enys,” he said irritably, “have you no cases to attend to?”

“No sir,” said Enys humbly, “I told you. Mr. Heneage has seen to it my practice is almost extinct.”

“Why are you tagging along?”

“I might be of some assistance…”

Dodd snorted. “It’s allus better to let the women clear up after a raid on their own, otherwise they start sharpening their tongues on you for letting it happen.”

Enys coloured up. “I had no intention of…”

“Did I say it was ye? I was speaking in general.”

Enys steepled his fingers. “I will of course be on my way, as you are quite right, my sister has much to do. But I have been wondering about this matter.”

Carey lifted his brows forbiddingly. “Oh yes?”

“The gentleman from the river was…not unknown to me. I told you, I think, that my family were church Papists. We went to church when we had to but in our hearts…in my parents hearts we still considered ourselves Catholics.”

“What do you consider yourself now?”

“A good obedient subject of the Queen who worships where I am told,” said Enys without a tremor. “I have no interest in the ambitions of any Bishop of Rome nor Spanish king to take this land under the colour of a crusade, except to do whatever I can to stop it.”

Carey nodded approvingly. “And the man from the river?”

“I don’t recall his name. I saw him a few years ago when he first came to Cornwall as a stranger and he was a man of many accomplishments. He was an alchemist and metal assayer and a mining engineer. He could devise wind pumps to take the water out of the tin workings that went deep. He was strong for the Catholic faith and I am not surprised if he was indeed a priest although I am surprised he should end in London for he said he hated the place.” Carey waited but Enys spread his hands. “That’s all I know, sir.”

“The words that Tregian was babbling are place-names in Cornwall aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. None of them are in the tin-mining areas though as far as I know.”

“Could there be gold there?”

Enys shrugged. “I…doubt it. They say gold breeds out of tin in some places so perhaps there is. I know there is gold in some places in Cornwall though never very much, not as much as in Wales or Ireland.”

“Would this metal assayer be able to tell if there was gold?”

“Oh yes, sir, he could, and he knew how to take the gold out of the ore as well.”

“Ah hah!” Carey looked pleased with himself.

“In the meantime, sirs, please excuse me. Sergeant Dodd has touched my conscience, I should not leave all to my sister who has no gossips in London to help her.”

He rose, finished his beer, bowed to both of them, and walked away. Carey grinned at Dodd.

“Christ, I thought he’d never go. Now then, let’s take a look at St Paul’s.”

Expecting Carey to spend the rest of the afternoon parading up and down Paul’s Walk with other overdressed, overbred, underworked Court ninnies, Dodd was surprised and suspicious when Carey went to the Churchwarden’s office instead and asked to see a register of churches in London both old and new. He studied it carefully for so long that Dodd got bored and began peering at the Cathedral treasure chest and wondering if it was full and if it was, would it be hard to get the lid off? It certainly looked securely locked and the iron strapping looked strong as well. Which argued that there was some good plate inside. It didn’t move when he accidentally toed it with his boot.

They did go into the cathedral, but Carey went to the serving-man’s pillar where the men who wanted work stood about near their notices pinned on the stone arch. He went straight up to the largest of them and asked him a question, only to receive a firm shake of the head. He asked all of them, all seemed to say no, and Carey rejoined Dodd looking irritated.

“Blast it,” he said, “word’s gone round obviously. None of them want to work for me.”

Dodd thought it showed there was some sense amongst the servingmen of London.

“Or at least, none of them want to work for me in Carlisle,” Carey amended, proving that Londoners were idiots.

Carey was now hurrying out of the main door and heading north across the city. Dodd hurried after him and noted that despite the rebuff of the servingmen, Carey was wearing an expression as smug as a bridegroom. On general principles, he loosened his sword.

They came to a very small lane not far from London Wall. It was one of the poorer places and was full of houses that seemed to have been patched together from pieces of something larger, some of them still clinging to the foundations made of large granite blocks.

People were passing up and down the street, and occasionally one of them would turn seemingly on impulse and head down an alleyway. Carey watched for a while and then headed for the alleyway himself. On the corner a crowing cockerel was chalked on the wall.

Dodd followed him full of forboding. The alleyway seemed to end, but in one corner were steps leading down and a boy sitting there. Carey smiled at him, spoke for a moment, and then beckoned Dodd to go down the steps with him.

It was a small crypt with an arched ceiling and thick plain pillars. At one end was a table laid with linens and six black candles about the coffin and a large number of people were standing about, talking quietly. In an alcove was a worn chipped figure of a man fighting what looked like a bull—perhaps some Papistical saint? Carey looked about him and took his hat off, so Dodd did the same.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Carey said quietly to him. “I was expecting something quieter.”