“At least we can afford to buy a new horse,” Janet said, after counting the money.
“Now there’s a novel idea,” said Henry Dodd, blinking into his leather beaker. “Buy a horse with money instead of me having to ride about the countryside at dead of night with your brothers…?”
Janet grinned at him. “I’ll keep it to meself if you will.”
Tuesday, 20th June, morning
The inquest, such as it was, took half an hour. Scrope sat in his capacity as Warden at the courtroom in the town hall; Bangtail came forward, identified himself as Cuthbert Graham, known as Bangtail, identified the corpse as his second cousin by marriage George Graham, known as Sweetmilk, youngest son of John Graham of the Peartree. Dodd explained of his own knowing that the man had been shot in the back by person or persons unknown and Scrope adjourned the case to the next Warden’s Day.
A black-haired ill-favoured man at the back of the court came forward to claim the body, and took a long hard stare at Dodd as he passed by. Dodd thought it was Francis Graham of Moat, one of Sweetmilk’s cousins, and his nearest available relative that wasn’t outlawed and at risk of arrest in England.
By the time the clouds had cleared and the sun shone down for the first time in a week, Carey, Dodd and all six of his men were out on the road to Longtown ford where the Esk began spreading itself like a blowzy wife on the way to Rockcliffe Marsh and the Solway Firth.
At the ford Carey stopped and looked around.
“This is where you met Jock?”
“Ay,” said Dodd, not relishing the moment, “they had us neatly.”
Carey said nothing but chirruped to his horse, let him find his own way down into the water and splashed across and up the muddy bank. The rest of them followed. Unseasonable rain had washed away most of the traces, but there were still a few old prints in sheltered spots.
When Dodd gestured wordlessly at Sweetmilk’s bushes Carey stopped, leaned on his crupper and looked all around him. A gust of wind nearly took his hat off, but he rammed it down again and slid from the saddle.
“Tell me the tale, Sergeant.”
Dodd told it and Carey followed his movements exactly, then beckoned for Bessie’s Andrew and Bangtail to follow him into the gorse. Bangtail rolled his eyeballs but obeyed: it was remarkable how gold could sweeten a man’s disposition. After a struggle with his worst nature, Sergeant Dodd also dismounted and followed them. The springy branch which had caught Bessie’s Andrew nearly took his cap off and he swore.
“Wait a minute, Sergeant,” said Carey, examining the branch as if it was the first he’d ever seen. “No,” he said, disappointed. “Pity.”
In the centre was a flattened place and some broken branches.
“Tell me what you saw.”
Bessie’s Andrew looked bewildered.
“I saw a corpse, sir.”
“Yes, but how did you see it? How was it lying?”
The lad swallowed. “The crows had pecked it.”
Carey was patient with him. “I know, but which way was it lying? Was it on its back, or…”
“On his side.”
“Which side?”
“God, I don’t know, right side I think.”
“Then the right cheek was to the ground.”
“Ay.”
“Was it stiff?”
“Stiff as a board, sir.”
“Well, how did you get it on a horse to bring it back then?”
“Sir?”
“If the body was stiff, how did you put it over a horse? Did you have to break him…”
“Och no sir, nothing like that.”
“Then how…”
“It was bent over already,” snapped Dodd. “Like this.” He showed the mad Courtier and the mad Courtier grinned like a Bedlamite.
“Would you say he’d been brought here on a horse?”
“Well, of course, he was, sir,” said Dodd. “I told ye, I followed the tracks of two nags from the ford…”
“But he was dead when he was put on the horse and then brought here; not, for instance, alive when he came and dead when his killer left him?”
What was the man driving at? “Ay sir. I’d say so, the tracks of one of the horses didn’t look like a beast was being ridden, more a beast burdened.”
“Excellent. So he was killed somewhere else and dumped here, on an old battlefield in the hope that after a few months anyone who came on the bones would think they died fifty years ago.”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Dodd who couldn’t see any point in this expedition at all. “There weren’t any traces of blood or suchlike around about here either.”
Carey nodded. “What did he have on him?”
Bessie’s Andrew blushed. Dodd saw it and hoped Carey wouldn’t. Unfortunately he did.
“So what did you take off him, Bessie’s Andrew?” Carey asked ominously.
“Nothing sir, I…”
Carey folded his arms and waited. Dodd was glaring at Storey who looked terrified.
“Well, nothing much, sir…”
“What did you take off him?” Carey didn’t raise his voice.
Bessie’s Andrew muttered something.
“Speak up, boy,” growled Dodd.
“He…er…he had a ring.”
“A ring?” Carey’s eyebrows were very sarcastic. Dodd wondered if it was the eyebrows that broke Bessie’s Andrew’s spirit.
“Well, he had three rings, gold and silver and one with a little ruby in it,” stammered the boy in a rush, “and he had a purse with some Scots silver in it, about five shillings worth and he had a dagger with a good hilt…”
“By God,” said Bangtail admiringly, “that was quick work picking him clean, lad.”
Bessie’s Andrew stared at the ground miserably. “And that’s all, sir.”
“All?”
Dodd was impressed for the first time. Bessie’s Andrew’s face twisted. “He had a good jewel on his cap. No more, I swear it.”
Carey reached out and patted Storey’s shoulder comfortingly.
“The Papists say that confession makes a man’s soul easier in his body. Don’t you feel better?”
“No sir. Me mam’ll kill me.”
“Why?”
“I only gave her the rings sir, but I took a liking to the jewel and the dagger and the silver…”
“Of course you did,” said Carey softly. “Now, Storey, look at me. Do I look like a man of my word?”
“Ay sir.”
“Then you believe me if I swear on my honour that if you ever rob a corpse while you’re in my service, I will personally flog you.”
Bessie’s Andrew went white. His large Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as he nodded.
“And,” Carey continued, “if there’s a second offence, I will hang you. For March treason. Do you understand?”
Bessie’s Andrew squeaked something.
“What?”
“Y-yes sir.”
“Which applies to any man in my service whatsoever,” said Carey, glaring at Bangtail and then at Dodd. “You’ll see the men know that.”
“Yes sir,” said Dodd. “When did you want to flog him?”
“It depends if he’s told the truth this time and if he hands over what he took.”
Bessie’s Andrew’s face was the colour of mildewed parchment. “But my mother…”
“Blame it on me.” Carey was inflexible.
“Och God…”
“You can bring me what you took after we get back. I might be merciful this time, since you were not, after all, in my service when you stole Sweetmilk’s jewels.”
Carey seemed to dismiss the wretched Bessie’s Andrew from his mind completely. He was pulling at the branches near where the corpse had lain, turning them about. One of the spines stabbed him through the leather of his glove and he cursed.
“What are you looking for, sir?” asked Bangtail. “More gold?”
“That or bits of cloth. Anything that shouldn’t be in a gorse bush.”
They all looked. It was Bessie’s Andrew who found the only thing that Carey found interesting, which was a long shining thread of gold. Carey put it away in his belt pouch and they searched fruitlessly for a little while before struggling back out of the bushes again to find the men also wandering about, checking hopefully for plunder from the old battlefield. There was none of course, the field had been picked clean for fifty years by crows and men. And nobody had bothered to set a watch, which caused Carey to lecture them again.