Eventually, Scrope wandered over to the virginals in the corner. He opened it and began plinking the notes gently, head cocked, listening for sourness, face dreamy. After a moment of struggle, he sat down and began playing.
‘My lord,’ said Carey tactfully, watching the spider-like hands move. ‘What can I do or say that might convince you to release Barnabus…’
‘My dear fellow, I know perfectly well that you didn’t have anything to do with Atkinson getting his throat slit; it isn’t your style at all.’
‘Lowther thinks different.’
‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Now isn’t that interesting?’
‘Interesting, my lord?’
‘Fascinating, in fact. At one time I was quite sure Lowther himself had done it, for some reason, or at any rate, paid somebody to do it. When he came to see me yesterday morning he was in such a rage and was so certain it was you, I was almost convinced he was simply overdoing things a bit.’
‘My lord,’ Carey interrupted. ‘Surely you see that whoever actually did the killing, it must have been Lowther who ordered it.’
‘Must have been?’
Scrope had stopped playing. Carey lifted up one finger. ‘Imprimis, he was the last man to see Atkinson the night before he was killed. He was at the Red Bull when Atkinson was paying Long George and his friends for beating up Andy Nixon.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was also, by the way, the man who sent Mick the Crow to Netherby with the information that not only was my Lady Widdrington on the road, but so was a large packtrain from Newcastle. Unfortunately, I’ve no way of proving it.’
‘How did he know about the packtrain?’ put in his sister. Carey looked at her.
‘You let it slip at the card party,’ he said, careful to keep accusation out of his voice. ‘Remember?’
Philadelphia flushed and fell silent.
‘Ah,’ said Scrope, trying to look wise. ‘You know you did have a little too much wine that evening, my dear. I have often said…’
‘No doubt Atkinson was threatening to tell Aglionby,’ Carey trampled on, hoping to distract the Scropes from a quarrel. ‘Perhaps he was no longer so useful since I’d sacked him from the Paymastership. Perhaps they quarrelled. And I’m not at all sure Lowther didn’t have a hand in Andy Nixon’s attempt to frame Barnabus and me for it. He wanted to get rid of me. A man like Lowther does it the indirect way…’
‘Mmm,’ said Scrope, unhappily. ‘But then there’s his offer to you.’
Carey paled and then flushed. ‘You mean his suggestion that if I took myself back to London, he would stop with Barnabus?’
‘Yes. Very unlike him.’ Scrope started playing at venture again, warming his hands up.
‘My lord?’
‘Sorry, got caught up in the music.’
There was a clattering as Hughie, John Ogle’s eldest son, cleared the dirty plates and Philadelphia followed him to supervise their scouring and locking away. Scrope’s long fingers were at home and at ease on the rosewood keys; they moved by themselves and gave expression to his thoughts in a tangled elaboration of a haunting tune Scrope had heard sung by one of the local headmen’s harpers.
‘Where was I?’
‘We were speaking about Lowther, my lord.’ The smooth voice was thinning with impatience.
‘Um…yes. You see, he’s not a man to let his prey escape. If all of this was some elaborate trap to catch you, he’d not rest until you were beheaded or at the horn.’
‘No doubt that is what he wants.’
‘Oh, no doubt at all. But offering you a way out and keeping hold of your servant…I’d almost say he genuinely thinks Barnabus is the killer and will settle for losing his chance of you, if he can have his way with Barnabus.’
‘Or he’s cleverer than you think him and offering me a way out is a trap as well, a means of getting me to admit my guilt by running away.’
Scrope looked sideways at him. That was the irritating thing about the Careys; sometimes they were sharper than they seemed.
‘Yes, that’s also a possibility. If so, then you must have disappointed him.’
Carey looked away and swallowed, still clearly furious at Lowther’s imputation that he was threatening little Mary Atkinson in order to maker her mother confess to the murder.
Scrope stopped playing, stood and started digging in the casket of sheet music.
‘I’m sorry, Robin, I don’t believe it. The whole thing is far too elaborate and complicated for Lowther. Oh, he’s capable of it, but if he’d been the man behind the killing Jemmy Atkinson would have wound up in your bed with his throat slit, not his own or Frank’s vennel or wherever it was. Lowther’s simply grabbing at an opportunity he sees to oust you. While I’m not at all surprised about the packtrain, I doubt very much he made that opportunity himself.’
Philadelphia had come back into the room and sat down quietly.
‘But that leaves only Mrs Atkinson as the murderer.’
‘Quite,’ said Scrope complacently. ‘I think she did it, just as she confessed.’
Carey held onto his temper.
‘My lord, I’m sorry, but I think she was lying to save Andy Nixon’s skin, just as Andy Nixon lied to save hers. I have to admit I think Lowther was right about that; cutting someone’s throat is not a woman’s means of murder. And Mrs Dodd has pointed out to me that doing the deed in her own bedchamber let her in for a great deal of work in washing the sheets.’
Philadelphia nodded vigorously.
‘Janet Dodd is talking good sense,’ she said. ‘And in any case, what on earth could Mrs Atkinson hope to gain by it?’
Scrope smiled at her kindly for her womanly obtuseness. ‘She wanted to marry Andy Nixon,’ he explained. ‘So of course she had to kill her husband.’
Philadelphia glared at him for some reason, then turned and picked up her workbag, delved in it, pulled out some blackwork and began stitching with short vicious movements.
‘Let’s make up a fairy tale,’ she said at large. ‘Let’s pretend, Robin, that you wanted to marry someone who was married to another man.’
Carey gave her a glare of warning but she wasn’t looking at him, she was squinting at a caterpillar made of black thread, which was eating a delicately worked quince.
‘Now let’s suppose that you and this other man’s wife plot together and you decide to solve your problems by killing the woman’s husband. Would you cut his throat?’
Carey harumphed. ‘What are you getting at, Philly?’ he asked in a strained voice.
‘Robin, I’m not accusing you of anything improper. I’m playing let’s pretend. Go on. Would you cut his throat?’
‘Probably not.’ Carey’s voice was wintry in the extreme.
‘Do you think Eli…the woman would cut her husband’s throat?’
‘Er…no.’
‘And why not?’
‘Well, obviously, you would want to make his death look like an accident so no one would be blamed. If his throat was cut people would look around for the murderer and unless his wife had an excellent alibi, they would think of her.’
‘She would be risking a charge of petty treason?’
‘Yes.’
‘And burning for it?’
‘Er…yes.’
‘So do you think Mrs Atkinson wanted to die at the stake?’
The question was actually intended for Scrope, although it was aimed at her brother. Neither man answered her.
‘I mean, burning to death is a very painful way to die,’ Philly continued thoughtfully as she elaborated on the caterpillar’s markings, ‘I’m not sure hanging, drawing and quartering is that much more painful. Think of the Book of Martyrs and Cranmer and Latymer burning for their faith under Queen Mary-half the point is that they faced a much worse death than just hanging or the axe. Isn’t it?’
‘I was intending to order the executioner to strangle Mrs Atkinson at the stake,’ said Scrope gently, ‘before the fire was lit.’
Philly didn’t look at him. ‘Well, she couldn’t know you would do that. Nobody bothers with witches, do they? Do you really think Mrs Atkinson is stupid enough to kill her husband by cutting his throat in bed, where the blood alone is likely to accuse her, never mind the corpse? I mean, there’s nothing much less accidental than a cut throat, is there?’