A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (24 page)

In the middle of the river, Lady Hunsdon leaned over and tapped him on the knee.

“Now then, Sergeant Dodd,” she said, and her eyes had a roguish twinkle in them which went some way to explaining why the bastard son of Henry VIII had married a West Country maiden with only a small dowry. “Let’s find out what that scallywag son of mine has been up to. Tell me everything you’ve been doing.”

Dodd coughed, thought hard and then decided that the unvarnished truth was easier to remember than any improvement of the story. He started at the beginning, went through the middle, and ended with Pickering. He left out his discussion with Carey the night before.

“Hmm,” said Lady Hunsdon. “Well then, let’s go and see that young lawyer, shall we?”

It was only a little way along the Thames bank to Temple steps where Trevasker hopped out first and handed the Lady up while Dodd helped make fast and jumped out onto the small boatlanding.

A group of lawyers in their sinister black robes were clattering down the steps and tried to get into the Hunsdon boat. Trevasker moved in front of them and growled that it was a private craft. One of them had the grace to bow in apology for the mistake to Lady Hunsdon while the others started bellowing “Oars!” None of the Thames boatmen seemed in a hurry to take them anywhere, probably because they were students at one of the Inns and law students were notoriously almost as bad as apprentices for not paying tips and being sick in the back of the boat on the way home.

Lady Hunsdon climbed the steps and then headed in the direction of the Temple. Dodd led the way to the ramshackle buildings where Enys had his chambers. Lady Hunsdon looked narrow-eyed at the steep uneven stairs and sat herself down on a nearby pile of flagstones.

“Ask Mr. Enys if he will come down to meet an old lady,” she said. “I doubt my poor old knees will take me to the top of that lot. Off you go Sergeant. Captain Trevasker shall bear me company.”

Dodd headed up the stairs. Halfway there he heard shouting and speeded up, taking them two at a time until he came out on to the landing where the pieces of Enys’s door were stacked in a corner, the new raw wood of its replacement wide open and two men standing facing each other in the still half-wrecked sitting room. There was a curtain across the gap to the second room.

One was Enys pale-faced and furious, the other was Shakespeare, hat off, bald head gleaming in the light from the small window, and a certain smug look on his face. They had obviously stopped their quarrel when they heard Dodd’s boots on the stairs.

Shakespeare peered out of the window and smiled. “I see my lady has come to see you as well,” he murmured. “I shall leave you to consider matters.”

With a bow to Dodd he left and trotted down to the courtyard, humming some ditty to himself. Dodd glared after him. If they had been on the Borders, he would have been certain the man was putting the bite on for protection…Mr. Ritchie Graham of Brackenhill is willing to protect your barn from burning while it has such a wonderful quantity of hay in it, but will need his expenses paying…That kind of thing. It was the expression on the face. That smugness. Dodd scowled. Having once felt sorry for Shakespeare for being a poet, he no longer did. The man was nothing but trouble.

“Sergeant,” said Enys, sounding tense again, “Can I help you?”

“That poet,” said Dodd, “what did he want?”

Enys paused, frowned, took breath, then let it out again and smiled cynically. “Nothing good, you may be sure. However, it is confidential.”

“Ay,” said Dodd, being rather tired of the word and the general atmosphere in London of people not telling other people things they needed to be told. “Milady Hunsdon wants tae know if ye’ll be kind enough to come down to her…”

“Of course,” said Enys, putting on his hat.

Down in the shade of an old almond tree perhaps planted by one of the Knights Templar, Lady Hunsdon looked Enys sharply up and down. “What did that poet want?”

Enys bowed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I am not at liberty…”

“He’s not one of your clients, is he?”

“Not exactly. However…”

“Well then, what’s he up to. I know he spies for somebody, probably Heneage.”

Enys blinked and tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise. Then there was another cynical smile pulling his face. “I cannot say I’m surprised, ma’am, but the matter is still confidential.”

“Indeed?” said Lady Hunsdon, very chilly. “When you change your mind you may speak to me about it. Now then. Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage. How far have you got with your case for Sergeant Dodd?”

Enys gave her the situation pretty much as Dodd had described it, only in legal-talk. Dodd might have been offended a month or two earlier, but he knew that this was simply the way Carey proceeded and no doubt he had learned it from someone.

“Attend upon me at Somerset House tomorrow,” milady ordered. “I shall have the steward make you a payment and I may have a little more work for you. My son tells me he was impressed by your abilities in court.”

Enys coloured at that, bowed to her.

“We shall see how you are at drafting. Do you have a clerk?”

“No milady, but I myself can write a fair Secretary or Italic, as needed.”

Lady Hunsdon nodded and wiggled her fingers at him. “Off you go then, Mr. Enys. Oh by the way, are you any kin to the Enys twins from the farm near Penryn?”

Enys paused, breathed carefully. “Cousins, my lady,” he said. “There are only two of them but three in my family.”

“Hm. Interesting. I didn’t know that old Bryn Enys had a brother?”

“Perhaps second cousins?”

“Hm.”

Enys bowed and turned back to his chamber. “Sergeant, may I ask you something.” Dodd went with him up the stairs again. “I was wondering if you meant what you said about teaching me to fight?”

Dodd rubbed his chin. “Ay, I did. I dinna want tae be put to the trouble o’ finding another lawyer. And it’s a pity for a man to wear a sword and not know how to use it.”

Enys nodded and swallowed hard.

“Is it a duel,” Dodd asked nosily, unable to help himself. “Wi’ Shakespeare?”

“Er…no, only…Ah. I think you’re right. I mean about not knowing how to use my sword properly.”

“Ay. Where’s yer sword?” Enys picked it up out of the corner and handed it to Dodd. “And is yer wrist better?”

“A little sore still but…”

“Ay. Draw yer sword then.”

“But…um…surely we cannot practise in such a small space…”

“No, we’re no’ practising. I wantae see something.”

Enys obediently drew his sword from the scabbard with some effort and stood there holding it like the lump of iron it was.

“Ay, I thocht so,” said Dodd, holding Enys’s wrist and lifting his arm up to squint along the blade. “It’s too big for ye and too heavy. When would ye like a lesson? I cannae do it now for I’m attending on her ladyship.”

“Perhaps this afternoon? Should I buy a new sword?”

“Not wi’out me there or they’ll cheat ye again wi’ too much weapon for ye.” Of course, in London you could simply go to an armourer’s and buy a sword instead of having to get it made for you by a blacksmith. He kept forgetting how easy life was here.

Dodd tipped his hat to Enys and trotted down the stairs again to Lady Hunsdon who smiled at him.

“What did he want?” she asked as they set off again.

“Swordschooling fra me.”

“A very good idea. I’m sure you would be an excellent teacher, sergeant, if unorthodox.”

“Ay,” He might as well agree with the hinny, even though he didn’t know for sure what unorthodox meant.

“Try and find out what Shakespeare was about for me, will you?” added Lady Hunsdon. “I’m sure it’s important.”

“Ay milady.”

“Now then. About the documents that Robin has been keeping from me.”

Dodd said nothing. There was that roguish twinkle again. She tapped his knee as well. He suddenly realised where Carey got some of his more annoying habits. “Come along, Sergeant, the pair of you managed to raid Heneage’s house a few days ago and my son could no more keep his hands off any interesting bits of paper he found there than turn down the chance of bedding some willing, married, and halfway attractive Frenchwoman. Also you searched Richard Tregian’s room for me but didn’t tell me what you found there—quite understandable in the circumstances but no longer acceptable.” She smiled at him, dimples in her rosy cheeks.

Dodd leaned back on the seat and sighed, wishing for his pipe. “They’re in his room,” he said, deciding to save time. “I dinna think he had decoded them yet, but…”

“He might not tell you if he had.” She nodded.

The boat was heading back to Somerset House steps where they climbed out—Lady Hunsdon was lifted bodily up to the boatlanding by Captain Trevasker without noticeable strain, something that impressed Dodd.

He went with her back to the house and followed her up the stairs and along the main corridor into the chambers that Carey had been given, along with Hunsdon’s second valet to help with the perenniel labour of his clothes. Dodd felt awkward, snooping about in another man’s property, but Lady Hunsdon marched in and looked about her.

“At least he has grown out of dropping his clothes in heaps on the floor,” she said, “now he’s learned the cost of them.”

Dodd considered that it was hardly thrift that had cured Carey of dropping his clothes, much more likely it was vanity and the training that serving the Queen at court had given him.

She went over to the desk Carey had been using and looked at the pile of papers there. Her eyebrows went up. “Well well, are these the ones?”

Dodd recognised the copy of the paper he had found in Tregian’s rooms and the paper itself, still smelling faintly of oranges. Lady Hunsdon was frowning down at it.

“Ay,” said Dodd, wondering why Carey hadn’t hidden them. Presumably he hadn’t bothered to lock his door because he knew his mother would have the key but…He stole a look at Lady Hunsdon.

“Hm.” She went to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and stirred the ashes. There was a mixture of charred wood, the remains of one of the withered oranges that cost outrageous prices in the street until the new crop arrived from Spain nearer Christmas. Also there was a lot of feathery bits of burnt paper. She bent and picked up a charred fragment and peered at it closely.

“Sergeant, my eyes are not what they were. Can you make this out?”

Dodd came over and looked at the burnt paper—there were letters on it in Carey’s handwriting but that was all he could see.

“Ah canna read it, but it’s Sir Robert’s hand right enough.”

“I thought so.” Lady Hunsdon glared at the fragment, then went to the chest in the corner where Carey kept some of his books and started sorting through them.

Dodd checked the desk and found a pile of books, including two bibles, poetry, a romance, and a prayerbook. He also found a cancelled pawn ticket which he quietly picked up and put in his beltpouch.

Lady Hunsdon sighed, closed the chest, and sat on it.

“I think Robin has managed to decode the two letters,” she said. “But I don’t understand why he burnt his translations yet kept the coded copies. Damn it. I shall have to ask him when he comes back from hawking this evening, although no doubt he will be very full of himself. Walsingham trained him well when he was in Scotland.”

Dodd was thinking about going out into the courtyard and filling his pipe since he hadn’t had one today yet when he realised Lady Hunsdon was looking at him beadily again.

“I wonder what that big-headed sodomite has been up to all this time,” she said. “Shakespeare says he’s quite happy, writing a play and drinking our cellars dry. Would you go and see him, Sergeant?”

At least with Marlowe he could get a pipe of tobacco. Dodd stood up in something of an unseemly hurry and Lady Hunsdon followed him out of the room, bending to lock it with one of the keys she was wearing on her belt. When in her husband’s house, it seemed, she was the lady of the house and no other. Emilia Bassano seemed to have moved permanently to the household of the Earl of Southampton which was tactful of her. Although it left unsettled a number of problems, including the question of who was the father of her unborn babe.

Dodd bowed to milady and then went to the back of the huge house, where the second floor guest chambers overlooked the courtyard. Sitting by the door to one of the lesser rooms was one of Hunsdon’s servingmen who gave Dodd a cautious look and forebore to stand up.

“I’ve come tae speak tae Marlowe,” Dodd explained.

The servingman waved at the door. “He’s got it locked from the inside,” he said. “My lord says he can go out any time he likes but I have to go with him. So far he hasn’t.”

Dodd went to the door and knocked on it.

“Go away,” came a slurred voice.

He knocked again. Not loudly, he just kept knocking. There was an explosion of swearing and the sound of a chair being pushed back, then a bolt being shot. Marlowe’s unshaven face looked round the door, eyes frighteningly bloodshot and a reek of tobacco and booze blending into a fog around him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said ungraciously. “What do you want?”

“I want tae speak to ye, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd as politely as he could. “Can we share a pipe o’ tobacco?”

“No we can’t because I’ve bloody run out and that boy hasn’t come back yet.”

“Ah could go and buy ye some?”

Marlowe grunted.

“Or ye could come wi’ me and…”

“Look,” said Marlowe through his stained teeth, “I’m busy, understand? I’m writing a play that will never be performed and it’s the best play I’ve ever written. I don’t care what you want to talk to me about and I don’t care what Sir Robert wants but if you’ll fetch me a pouch of Nunez’s New Spanish mix, I’ll be grateful.”

Dodd shook his head regretfully at the insanity of writers, along with the servingman, and trotted off down the stairs. The gateman opened for him with a smile and he headed for Fleet Street where the tobacconist was in his shiny new shop with printed papers and ballads of the wildmen of New Spain. That was where you went if you wanted gold or silver, over the sea to the New World, everyone knew that. Not marshy Cornwall.

On impulse, once he had the tobacco he went into the pawnbroker’s at the end of Fleet Bridge where an old skinny man in a skullcap and long foreign-looking robe sat reading a book back to front.

“Ah,” said Dodd, not sure how to start, “are ye the master here?”

The foreigner unfolded himself and came to the counter where he smiled. “Senhor Gomes,” he said with a bow and a strong sound of foreign in his voice. “At your service, senhor.”

“Ay,” said Dodd, pulling out the cancelled ticket. “D’ye ken…Ah, do you recall if Sir Robert Carey redeemed anything here today?”

Senhor Gomes took the ticket. He smiled at once. “Ah, milord Robert, of course, senhor. He said you might enquire. He has repaid his loan on his court suit, the doublet with lilies and pearls upon velvet, and a cloak he had pawned before.”

“When did he do this?”

“Yesterday, very late. He woke me up to do it, he said it was very urgent.”

“Ay?” Dodd was puzzled. Why would Carey need his court clothes urgently to go hawking. In any case, he had left for Finsbury Fields wearing his hunting gear, the forest green and nut-brown doublet and hose that was now a little ill-fitting, or so he complained proudly. “Did he pawn anything else?”

“No, Senhor. Forgive me, but can you tell me your wife’s full name?”

“What?”

“Your wife? Her full name?”

Dodd’s eyes narrowed and his neck prickled. Once again he caught the scent of deception and intrigue where nobody can be trusted simply by their face. And why on earth would Carey want his Court clothes. “Janet Armstrong,” he said with a gulp.

Senhor Gomes reached under the counter and brought out a letter addressed to Sergeant Dodd and sealed with Carey’s carved emerald ring—the Swan Rampant again. Dodd broke the seal, opened the letter and read a short note: “Sergeant, I have decided to go to Court to discuss recent events with my liege Her Majesty the Queen. Please reassure my parents if necessary. Use my funds as you see fit to solve the problem. I will look forward to seeing you in Oxford or at Court if the Queen decides to move.” The letter was signed with Carey’s full signature.

Pure rage practically lifted Dodd from the ground. He could feel his neck going purple and his teeth grinding. The bastard. The ill-begotten limp-cocked, selfish popinjay of a…

Senhor Gomes was backing away from the counter and quietly reaching down for a veney stick behind him. Dodd folded the paper, his fingers clumsy with the urge to throttle the man for betraying him and leaving him in the complicated, confusing pit of iniquity that was London. Unfortunately, Carey was not immediately available so he stuffed the letter in his belt-pouch. Then he stood for a full minute, fists quivering, breathing hard through his teeth until he had calmed down enough to talk and act like a normal man.

“Ay,” he said. “Is that all?”

“Yes, senhor.”

Dodd walked out of the shop and stared up at the awning unseeingly. God damn it. God damn it to hell. On a thought he turned back. “Er…Thank you, Senhor Gomes,” he said. The old foreigner was again reading his book back to front and raised his hand slightly in acknowledgement. Poor old man, not knowing which way round you read a book. Even Dodd knew that.

He hurried up the street, keeping a weather-eye out for attacks as always, and came to Somerset House without a single person claiming him as their cousin. It must have been true what Pickering had said, that he had ordered his people not to try anything with Dodd.

Marlowe opened his door a crack and reached for the pouch, but Dodd held it out of reach and scowled at him meaningfully. Marlowe scowled back, his hand dropping to where his sword would have been if he had been wearing it. Dodd dropped his hand to where his own sword actually was and showed his teeth in as pleasant a smile as he could muster. In the temper he was in, he was half-hoping that Marlowe would try something on with him so he could have the satisfaction of beating somebody up.

Marlowe cursed and opened the door so Dodd could come in. He almost fell over a tangled heap of shirts by the door and then had to wade through screwed up papers, bits of pen, drifts of hazelnut shells and mounds of apple cores, and several books lying on the rush mats face down. The bed looked as if a pack of bears had played there and the desk was piled high with paper and more pens. The place reeked of aqua vitae, beer, wine, and pipe smoke, and someone who has been cooped up indoors for too long. At least there were no old turds in the fireplace, although the jordan under the bed badly needed emptying.

Marlowe was standing by the flickering fire with his arms folded across his embroidered waistcoat. He had his doublet off, presumably lost somewhere in the junk on the floor—no, for a wonder it was hanging on a peg—and his shirtsleeves rolled up and stained with ink. There were bags under his red eyes big enough to hide a pig in and his voice was hoarse with smoking.

“Well?” he demanded. “What’s so important that you’re bothering me with it?”

“Have ye been in here all this time?” asked Dodd, tucking the tobacco into his sleeve again.

From the contempt on Marlowe’s face it was obvious he thought this was a very stupid question. “Yes, of course I have. Where else would I be? I’m writing a play.”

“What’s it about?”

“Edward II, a King of England who loved boys and was not ashamed to show it,” snapped Marlowe.

“Like the Scottish king?”

Something in Marlowe’s face softened slightly. “Perhaps.”

“Ay,” said Dodd. “And what happened to him?”

“First his favourite and minion Piers Gaveston was murdered by his lords as happened in Scotland with the Duke of Albany. Then the King was murdered at the orders of the Earl of Mortimer. It is said, by a red-hot poker up the arse.”

“Ay,” said Dodd after a moment’s assessment to see if the poet was joking. It seemed he wasn’t. “Verra…poetic.”

Marlowe frowned. “It depends on your definition of poetic. Do you mean appropriate?”