‘Where was this?’
‘In the alley by his lodgings, St. Alban’s vennel; ye ken, the wynd that’s a shortcut between Fisher street and Scotch street.’
‘Did he know who paid for the beating?’
Long George nodded and sniffed vigorously. ‘Ay, sir. Ill-Willit Daniel tellt him and he wis to stay away from Kate or he’d get worse.’
Carey put his pen down. ‘Well, that certainly is interesting, Long George. When did Jemmy Atkinson pay you off?’
‘Right after, sir, at the Red Bull.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Naebody but us. Lowther looked in for a couple of minutes, but he went off again.’
‘Lowther?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘What did he want?’
Long George shrugged and snortled again. ‘I dinna ken, sir.’
‘Did he quarrel with Atkinson?’
‘Nay, ’twas all smiles. He gave Mick the Crow a message.’
‘Hm.’
‘So ye see, sir, mightn’t that have made Andy Nixon want to take revenge on Atkinson?’
‘It might. Was that when he hurt his hand?’
‘Ay, I think I trod on it, sir, unintentionally.’
‘Of course.’
‘I thought I’d tell ye sir, in case there was a reward.’ Long George’s watery pink eyes peered at him hopefully.
Carey sighed. ‘Long George,’ he asked. ‘Do you realise you have just admitted to assault, battery and riot?’
Long George’s face with its inadequate frill of beard looked shifty. ‘Er…well, we were working for Mr Atkinson,’ he said.
‘It’s still against the law to beat people up.’
This was a novel idea to Long George. ‘Oh,’ he said, and thought. ‘I wouldna like to speak to it in a court of law, sir, if y’see what I…’
‘Never mind. Thank you for coming, Long George. It’s useful information.’
Long George nodded, glanced fascinated at the bitch and her puppies who were suckling enthusiastically, crammed his hat back over his ears and clattered down the stairs, sneezing as he went.
Carey stood and peered out of the slit window down into the yard. There was Long George greeting Bangtail and Archie-Give-It-Them who were waiting for him. And yes, as expected, Bangtail was clearly settling a bet with Archie.
Shaking his head, Carey returned to the duties which he really hated and dipped his pen again.
By the time he had finished the report Simon Barnet had come back with the kennelman and two bowls for the bitch’s food and water.
The kennelman’s face was bright red with emotion. ‘I wis looking for her all night,’ he said, his broad hand on the lymer dog’s head. ‘How did ye come by her, sir?’
‘She followed me up here and pupped while I was out on patrol. She can stay there for the moment until she’s ready to move down to the kennels again. Had a bit of trouble with the last one but we sorted it out.’
‘Ay,’ said the kennelman gently rubbing the bitch’s ears. ‘Ye’re a stupid woman, Buttercup, and no mistake.’ He nodded confidingly to Carey. ‘She allus pups in somewhere strange. Last time it were the bakery and the time afore that she were in the tackroom. And there’s a beautiful big pupping kennel all ready strawed for her, but she’s a liking for luxury, this old girl…’
They set out the bowls for her on the rushes and she drank long and deep before jumping onto the bed and flopping herself down by her squirming blind little pups again. They squeaked and latched on greedily.
‘I’ll tell my lord she’s turned up,’ the kennelman said. ‘He wis right worried about her. She’s a good bitch and her pups are fine hunters.’
‘Do you think he’d give me the big one?’ Carey asked.
‘Why not, sir? I’ll ask him.’
Carey picked up the report and decided he could do some more letters later. He also took up a purse fat with money from his winnings of the Sunday and decanted some coins into his belt-pouch. The rest he put back in his heavy locked chest.
‘I’ll leave her in your capable hands,’ he said to the kennelman. ‘You can draw the curtains when you’ve finished so she isn’t disturbed.’
Carey took Simon Barnet with him to see Andy Nixon in the dungeons, by which time Dodd had finally woken and appeared, scratching and yawning and foul-tempered for some reason. It passed Carey’s understanding how anyone could oversleep past dawn unless they were ill or injured. They all went under the Keep steps and through the ironbound door.
Carey lifted Simon Barnet up to look through the Judas hole in the dungeon door. The boy stared gravely for a while until his eyes had adjusted to the small light from the lantern in his hands and nodded.
‘Ay.’
‘Is that the man that wanted my glove?’ Carey asked, putting him down again.
‘Ay, it’s him, sir.’
‘When? What time of day did he come to you?’
‘Afternoon, sir, on Monday.’
‘You’re sure? I may want you to testify and swear on the Bible that it’s him. Can you do that?’
‘Ay. My word on it,’ said Simon with dignity.
They went to check on Barnabus in the lower of the two gatehouse cells, looking through the barred window.
‘At least Scrope had him moved,’ Carey muttered.
‘Is that you, sir?’ came Barnabus’s forlorn voice from inside. The effects of Lowther’s persuasions the day before had flowered to a glorious purple riot across much of Barnabus’s ugly little ferret face. The rest of it was worryingly sickly. Carey frowned.
‘I don’t like the look of you, Barnabus. Are you all right?’
‘Don’t feel very well, to tell you the truth, sir.’
Carey turned to Simon Barnet. ‘Go and fetch my Lady Scrope and some food for your uncle,’ he said. When the boy had gone, he called on William Barker the Gaoler on the other side of the Gatehouse. Carpenters refitting the place for the Scropes passed by him on the stairs with their bags of tools. Barker took him across unwillingly and let him into Barnabus’s cell.
It smelled bad, and the floor was slimy although Barnabus had been careful to do his business as near to the drain as he could get. Carey frowned.
‘Who chained you?’ he demanded.
Barnabus looked dolefully at the chain from his ankles to the wall.
‘Sir Richard Lowther.’
‘I might have guessed. When did he do it?’
‘Yesterday, after they moved me from the ‘ole.’
Just after I had that argument with him, Carey thought, biting down hard on his anger; damn him. Barnabus was sitting on the wooden bench bolted to the wall which was the only other furniture of the cell, with his arms wrapped around his body.
‘I’m working on getting you out but you must tell me everything you can. For a start, can you think of any reason why Andy Nixon might hate you enough to try and get you hanged for a murder he did?’
‘I dunno, sir. Never met him.’
‘All right, what about Sunday night.’
‘Sunday night, sir?’
‘Yes. Where were you at midnight on Sunday when you should have been lighting me home?’
‘Oh well…er…’ Barnabus looked shifty.
‘How did you manage to get so stinking drunk you passed out by the gate until morning?’
‘I…er…’
‘You didn’t rob someone, did you?’
Barnabus coughed and looked very shifty. Carey stared at him until he shrugged. ‘In a manner of speaking, sir.’
‘All right, what happened?’
‘Well, I was coming back to you when I tripped on a…well, somebody who’d bin in a fight and got the worst of it, I’d say.’
‘Where?’
‘Down the alley between Scotch street and Fisher street.’
‘And so you robbed him?’
‘No, sir. First I helped him in his door, then I robbed him.’
Carey put his hands to his head. ‘Barnabus, I have told you about footpadding…’
‘I didn’t footpad ‘im, sir; ‘e was already done over. I just…’
‘You just bloody robbed a man who was lying there helpless. For God’s sake, Barnabus, where’s your Christian charity?’