Behind Carey the marketplace was packed with people, talking excitedly, held back by their sons, brothers and husbands, stern-faced with office. An inquest was not precisely a trial, but it could be very much more than simply finding what a person had died of. Since the Assize judge and his armed escort would not be coming from Newcastle until Lammastide at the beginning of August, and as there were suspects in the case-too many, in fact-the Coroner had wide powers to establish the identity of the man or woman who actually went before the judge as the accused. At which point, of course, the thing was pretty much a foregone conclusion.
‘It is your duty, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Aglionby sonorously, ‘to decide how, when and why the deceased died and whether he died of natural or unnatural causes, by Act of God or by man’s design. To this end you are charged by Almighty God and Her most gracious Majesty the Queen…’
It’s still a bloody farce, Carey thought with disgust, looking at the two rows of assorted faces before him. Apart from Thomas Lowther there were Captain Carleton, his brother Lancelot and Captain Musgrave. He recognised another as Archibald Bell. One friend, eleven neutral or enemies. Their general hostility to Londoners was plain. His stomach tightened.
‘Does the jury wish to view the body?’ asked Aglionby and Thomas Lowther rose to answer him.
‘It willna be…’
Archibald Bell pulled on his gown from behind and whispered in his ear. Lowther coughed.
‘It seems it will be necessary,’ he finished.
The jury filed up the steps to the hall where Atkinson’s body, already smelling gamey, was laid out ready for them. They came back down, all of them impassive.
Aglionby asked Sir Richard Lowther to give evidence from the steps of the cross, since he had been called immediately and was the first gentleman to have seen the body. After swearing his oath loudly he gave evidence of where the body lay, in Frank’s vennel, on Tuesday morning, with great emphasis. He then added that he had immediately known who must have done the deed, to wit, one Barnabus Cooke, late of London town, footpad, currently pretending to serve Sir Robert Carey. He had hurried back to the Keep, found the said Cooke, and arrested him. Although he, Lowther, had besought the vile Cooke to confess his crime with eloquent words, he, the vile Cooke, had refused with many foul oaths, thereby compounding his offence. Seizing his moment, Carey stepped forward and bowed.
‘Your honour…’ he said hintingly to Aglionby. Scrope looked at him, puzzled. Aglionby smiled and tilted his head.
‘Yes, Sir Robert, please continue.’
‘Just a minute,’ snorted Sir Richard. ‘What’s he want?’
‘He is acting as amicus curiae.’ Aglionby told him repressively. ‘He will ask supplementary questions to aid the Crown.’ Scrope leaned over and whispered urgently, to which the Coroner replied with another smile and half-shut eyes.
Lowther snorted. He wasn’t sure what an amicus curiae might be-nor clearly was Scrope-but he couldn’t possibly admit to ignorance. Carey moved around so he was half-facing Lowther and sideways on to the crowd, and pitched his voice as if he were making a speech in a tournament with most of Whitehall Yard to reach.
‘Sir Richard,’ he said respectfully. ‘Who came to fetch you on Tuesday morning?’
Lowther’s face darkened. ‘Some clerk or other.’
‘Was it one Michael Kerr, factor to Mr James Pennycook?’
‘It might have been. Ay, it was. So?’
‘Your honour, I trust Mr Kerr is available to give evidence?’ Carey said to the Coroner. Aglionby rifled through the papers in front of him and found the list of witnesses.
‘Yes, Sir Robert. We can call him next, if you wish.’
‘If your honour pleases.’
Aglionby turned aside to whisper to his clerk who transmitted the whisper to one of the trained band. Carey looked at Lowther.
‘Sir Richard, can you describe what Frank’s vennel looked like when you came to see the body?’
Lowther snorted again and said contemptuously that it had had a body lying in it and a powerful lot of people looking on and one o’ the dogs being dragged off.
‘Was there blood?’
‘I dinna ken. There might have been.’
‘But was there in fact any blood?’
‘I dinna recall.’
‘Did you notice anything else unusual in the alley?’
‘No.’
‘Er…Sir Richard, what made you think that Barnabus Cooke had killed Mr Atkinson?’ put in Scrope helpfully. Dammit, thought Carey, whose side are you on? Aglionby let him get away with it.
‘Oh, ay. I found Barnabus’s knife and one of Carey’s gloves on the body,’ said Lowther, looking slightly embarrassed.
Carey smiled kindly at him. ‘Where were these incriminating items?’ he asked.
Lowther coughed. ‘Laid on top o’ the body.’
Now isn’t that interesting, Carey thought. I did you an injustice, Tom Scrope.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard,’ he said, elaborately obtuse. ‘I don’t quite understand. Exactly how were they placed?’
‘Well, the corpse was on its back, and the knife lay on its chest and the glove by it.’
Carey paused to let this picture sink in. ‘Someone had carefully put them there, in other words,’ he said.
‘I dinna ken.’
‘Well, they could hardly have dropped so neatly by accident, could they?’
Lowther shrugged. Carey waited a moment to see if he would say anything else, then continued.
‘Now when you found my servant Barnabus Cooke, where was he?’
‘In yer chambers.’
‘At the Keep?’
‘Ay.’
‘What did he say when you accused him?’
‘I didnae understand because he spake braid London,’ said Lowther.
Probably just as well, thought Carey. ‘Did he say anything you understood?’
‘He lied.’
‘What did he actually say?’
‘He said he didnae do it. But he…’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I arrested him.’
‘Barnabus, stand forward,’ Carey said and Barnabus took a step out of the group of accused. ‘Is this the man you arrested?’
‘Ay.’
‘Tell me, how did his face come to be so battered?’
Lowther shrugged and wouldn’t answer. There was a certain amount of muttering among the public, none of whom were naive.
‘Who else was in my chambers?’
Lowther shrugged again. ‘A boy,’ he said.
‘In fact, Simon Barnet, Cooke’s nephew.’
‘If you say so, Sir Robert.’
‘Is it true that you tried to get into my office and Barnet prevented you, so you beat him as well?’
‘Nay. He was insolent.’
‘Did Lady Scrope then come and order you out of my chambers which you were preparing to search?’
‘Ay.’
‘Did you in fact, threaten her as well?’
‘Nay,’ said Lowther. ‘She threatened me.’
Scrope blinked gravely at Lowther. ‘You hadn’t mentioned this, Sir Richard,’ he said reproachfully, which was why Carey had brought it up. Lowther cleared his throat and Aglionby put out a repressive hand. Scrope subsided.
‘Now, Sir Richard,’ said Carey. ‘Apart from a knife and a glove laid carefully on the corpse, did you have any other reason at all for accusing Barnabus Cooke?’
‘The man’s throat was cut. Yon’s a footpad’s trick.’
‘Is there no other man in Carlisle who can use a knife?’ Carey asked, rhetorically.
‘It’s a footpad’s trick,’ repeated Lowther doggedly.
‘So you actually had no other evidence or reason for thinking that Barnabus Cooke had killed Atkinson?’
Go on, thought Carey, I dare you; I dare you to say you thought I’d told him to do it. For a moment he was sure Lowther would say it, but in fact he did not, he simply stood there with his arms folded and a sour expression on his face.
‘Thank you, Sir Richard.’
Carey made a gesture of dismissal and the Coroner nodded that Lowther could go.
Michael Kerr was ready to be examined next. He gave his evidence in a mutter that the jury had to strain to hear. He had happened to go through Frank’s vennel that morning. No, he had not been sent. Yes, he did know he was on oath. No, he had not been sent, well, he had wondered if there was anything to find there. He couldn’t remember why. Yes, he knew the dead man. Yes, he was Mr James Pennycook’s factor and son-in-law. Yes, he understood Mr Pennycook had left town. He had gone to join the Scottish King’s Court, he believed. No, he didn’t know anything about anything else.