A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (10 page)

“What religion are you, Sergeant?”

Dodd blinked a little at this although Carey had prepared him for it. “My lord …eh…I am a good English Protestant and attend church whenever my duties at Carlisle permit it.” Dodd had practised saying this. It wasn’t strictly true—like most English Borderers, Dodd worshipped where and how he was told to and concentrated on avoiding the attention of a God who was so terrifyingly unpredictable. It was only powerful Scottish lords like the Maxwell who could afford to go in for actual religions such as being a Catholic.

“No dealings with Papist priests?”

“No, my lord,” Dodd said, then ventured, “I might have arrested one once, a couple of years back. For horse-theft.” He had never been quite sure whether the man had been a priest or a spy or indeed, both. Lowther had been doing a favour for Sir John Forster.

Carey coughed, Enys blinked, and the judge looked down at the papers for a moment.

“I see, thank you, Sergeant.” The judge was rereading the papers in front of him. He snorted.

More silence. Dodd stole a glance at Enys to see if he was going to say anything, but he wasn’t. He was watching the judge carefully.

“On the face of the case and on the facts here presented to me, Mr. Enys, we have here a quite shocking incident. Ergo…” The words degenerated to foreign again.

Enys’s face split in a delighted grin.

“You may take two of the Court bailiffs when you go to execute the warrant, Mr. Enys.”

Enys bowed low. “Your lordship is most kind, thank you.”

The judge scribbled a note on the warrant and passed the pleadings to his clerk who was looking alarmed. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Enys,” said the judge in a chilly tone of voice. “You have been admirably succinct.”

A flush went up Enys’s neck as he bowed again, muttered more thanks and then led the way out of the court. As he threaded at speed through the shouting crowds, Carey called,

“And now?”

“Time to arrest him.”

Wednesday 13th September 1592, late morning

The Court bailiffs were two stolid looking men who took the warrant and went down to the Westminster steps where two of Hunsdon’s boats were waiting. The second was low in the water with the weight of some large and ugly Borderers. Among them Dodd recognised jacks from the Chisholms and the Fenwicks which reminded him that Hunsdon was also the East March Warden. The Berwick tones were now pleasantly familiar to him, mingled with the rounded sounds of the incomprehensible Cornish who made up the other half of the party in the first boat.

Dodd, Carey, Enys, and the bailiffs got in the first boat and they headed upriver, past leafier banks, straining against the flow, to the oak spinneys of Chelsea where Heneage maintained his secluded house on the river frontage.

Dodd’s heart started beating harder as they came near. He looked about him to spy out the approaches to what he couldn’t help thinking of as Heneage’s Tower. There was a boatlanding and a clear path heading up through market gardens and orchards. Not bad cover, no walls to speak of, no sign of watchers on the approaches. He jumped onto the boatlanding with the rest of the men, loosening his sword, then felt Carey touch his elbow and draw him aside.

Some of the men went round the back of the house while the bailiffs strode up to the main door, surrounded by the largest of Hunsdon’s men.

“You and I stay out of this,” said Carey to Dodd.

“Ay sir. I wantae see his face when…”

“You’ll see it but from a distance. I don’t want any risk of a counter-suit if you whack him on the nose. And you’re definitely not allowed to kill him.”

“I know that,” said Dodd with dignity. “This isnae a bloodfeud yet. But…”

“No. It’s bad enough that I lost temper and hit him myself after I found you. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”

“Och sir,” moaned Dodd rebelliously. It was typical of Carey that he let some bunch of Berwickmen have all the fun.

The bailiff was speaking to Heneage’s steward whose expression was one of astonishment and horror. Not only, explained the bailiff, was there a warrant for Mr. Heneage’s arrest, there was also a warrant to search the house for him if he didn’t come out, which warrant they were minded to execute immediately.

The steward was objecting that Mr. Vice Chamberlain was not there, had gone out, had never been there and…The bailiffs shouldered past him, followed by Mr. Enys, who was wearing an oddly fixed and intent expression.

There was a sound of shouting and feet thundering on stairs. Carey’s face clouded. “Hang on,” he said, “that’s not right.”

He headed for the door and brushed past the still protesting steward, followed by Dodd who was pleased to be in at the kill.

The house was expensively oak panelled and diamond-paned, there was an extremely fine cupboard with its carved doors shut, and the steps going down to the cellar truly reeked.

The bailiffs had fanned out and were checking all the doors. Enys had hurried down the stairs and into the arched cellar where there were a few barrels of wine and a central pillar. Barred windows level with the courtyard paving let in some light. Bolted to the pillar about eight foot off the ground was a pair of iron manacles. Somebody had dug a pit in the earth underneath them which was soiled with turds. The manacles were darkened and rusty with blood.

Carey paused, took a deep breath and then went forward to where Enys was opening both of the smaller doors that gave onto two further cellars that were tiny, damp, and had not been cleaned since last there were prisoners there. However they were otherwise empty and Enys turned away, the shadows making his face hard to read, though Dodd could have sworn he saw a glint of something on the man’s face.

“Who were you looking for?” Carey said quietly, his hand on Enys’s narrow shoulder.

“No one…” Enys looked down. “My brother. I heard…I was afraid…Heneage might have taken him.”

“So you used me and my father…”

“No sir,” said Enys, looking straight at him. “It’s clear that Heneage was warned to be away from here by someone, probably the clerk of the court. But we had to make the attempt to begin the case.”

Carey nodded. “And? Is Cecil involved in this? Raleigh?”

Enys shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, sir, only I had to try. My brother has been missing for over two weeks. We should leave immediately so we can…”

Carey took his hand away from his sword. “Oh not so fast,” he drawled. “I think we should check more carefully for Mr. Vice. Now we’re here.”

Starting at the top of the house, moving from one room to the other while the Cornishmen stood around the steward and the couple of valets busied themselves with the horses in the stables, Carey searched the place methodically. In one room that had a writing desk and a number of books in it, he found a pile of papers newly ciphered which he swept into a convenient post bag. In a chest he found another stack of rolled parchment, one of which he opened. He whistled.

“Mother would be interested by these,” he said. “It seems our Mr. Vice has been busy buying lands in Cornwall—look.”

Dodd looked, squinted, and sighed because the damned thing was not only in a cramped secretary hand but was clearly in some form of foreign.

“You can see it’s a deed—see the word ‘Dedo’ which means I give, and that says ‘Comitatis Cornwallensis’—which means Cornwall. We’ll just borrow this one, I think.” Carey dropped it in the bag.

There was a book on the desk, much thumbed, which Carey looked at and which turned out to be Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.

Dodd had been attending to the cupboard with the carved doors. Eventually the lock broke and he opened it. There was a nice haul of silver.

“Jesu, Sergeant, put that back,” Carey said behind him, “we’re not here for the man’s insight.”

Dodd was puzzled. “Are we no’? I thocht that was what we were about. Can I no’ nip out that fine gelding in the stables then, the one wi’ the white sock?”

Carey grinned. “We’re not raiding the man, we’re searching his house for evidence of wrongdoing and I’m certainly not losing my reputation for the sake of a second-rate collection of silver plate and one nag with the spavins. The man has no taste at all.” Dodd scowled. Who cared what the silver plate looked like since it was going to be melted down? And the gelding certainly did not have the spavins and was in fact a very nice piece of horseflesh, as Dodd knew, and probably Carey did as well.

At the foot of the stairs Enys was anxiously waiting for them. “I had no intention of taking Mr. Vice Chamberlain’s papers…” he began.

“Of course not,” said Carey breezily. “We came to arrest Heneage but in the course of our search for him we came upon some papers which might possibly relate to treason and which my Lord Chamberlain, as his superior, would naturally wish to know about. We’ll give them back as soon as we can find Heneage himself.”

He led the way out of the door and along the path to the boat-landing. To the steward he gave a shilling to pay for the damage to the cupboard and to convey his compliments to Mr. Vice Chamberlain—he was sure they would meet soon.

***

It seemed a very long row back to Somerset House steps, even though Dodd wasn’t rowing and the current was helping the men sweating at the oars in the warm afternoon sun. Enys remained silent, staring into space, and Dodd had nothing much to say either. Carey watched Enys for a while before remarking, seemingly at venture, “Have you truly seen nothing of your brother for more than two weeks?”

Enys turned his gargoyle’s face to Carey’s. “Nothing. And he would be back by now. He…he was concerned in something dangerous connected with Heneage, something to do with land, but that’s all I know.”

Carey handed over the deed he had taken. “Is it real?”

Enys squinted his eyes, read the deed, and nodded. “Yes, quite in order, a few hides of farmland near Helston. In Cornwall they call them ‘wheals.’”

“Are these anything to do with the cases you withdrew from?”

Enys shook his head. “Not this piece of land, no. Were there other deeds there?”

“Plenty of them.”

Enys smiled bitterly. “It’s a popular game. Arrest a man for non-payment of recusancy fines, offer to release him in exchange for some land sold at a very low price, and then release or don’t release him, depending how much land you think his family have left. There is nothing, alas, illegal about it.”

“But you find it dishonourable?”

Enys shrugged.

“Are you a Papist?” Carey demanded, voice harsh with suspicion.

“No sir,” Enys said with a sigh, “but my family were church-Papists and I find it hard to cheat their friends and neighbours.”

“Are they still Papists?”

“No sir, all of them are buried in good Protestant graves. My brother is my only living relative apart from my sister.”

“Was?”

Enys lifted his hands, palms up. “What else can I think?”

Dodd nudged Carey’s foot with his boot. “D’ye think…?”

Carey sighed. “We can but try.”

***

The men were very happy to stop off at Westminster steps and have ale and bread and cheese bought for them for their labours. Carey, Dodd, and Enys hurried to the crypt of the little chapel by the court.

The undertakers had been and the smell was less appalling since the entrails had been taken out and the cavity packed with salt and saltpetre. Now the corpse was wrapped in a cerecloth. Carey lit the candles with a spill from the watchlight.

Enys swallowed hard, took a deep breath. He had his hands clasped together at his waist as he went forward and Dodd peeled the waxed cloth from the dead man’s face. He looked intently for a few moments and then let his breath puff out in a sigh of relief.

“This is not my brother, sir,” said Enys. “Poor soul.” His gaze travelled down the body and he made a jerky movement with his right hand, then looked down.

Dodd grunted and put the waxed cloth back as carefully as he could. There was a sound behind him and he saw a small, fragile, very pregnant girl coming down the steps being carefully helped by a large man wearing a buff coat. With them was one of Hunsdon’s liverymen.

“Yerss,” said the large man to the liveryman, “it’s Briscoe, Timothy Briscoe. And this is my wife, Ellie.”

Carey stepped back from the corpse and so did Dodd. Enys was already in the shadows.

“Only she ‘eard about a corpse being found wiv a bit of ‘is finger missing,” Briscoe continued, “and she was scared it was ‘er big bruvver who she ‘asn’t seen for years and so I brung ‘er so she wouldn’t worry ‘erself and upset the baby.”

Dodd thought that if anything was likely to bring the baby on, it was the sight and smell of a corpse that had been in water for a while. The girl was shaking like a leaf and gripping tight to Briscoe’s arm. He looked a dangerous bruiser but his square face was full of concern and the girl crept close to the corpse and peered at the man’s left hand. There was a gasp and a gulp.

“Ellie, my love,” Briscoe rumbled. “You mustn’t…

“I’ve got to know,” trembled Ellie. Carey stepped forward and lifted the cerecloth from the man’s face. He was watching the girl carefully. She stood on tiptoe and stared, gulped again and again, and the tears started flowing down her face.