“Ay, sir,” said Hughie, when Carey caught up with him, “I came to find ye because I minded me of something. The hand of the man that gave me the flagon back…it was…Ah…ye ken, his fingernails wis long and he had rough ends tae his fingers.”
Carey paused, his heart lifting. Hughie was screwing up his eyes and frowning and Carey knew that the very little light from the torches on the college gates was still bothering him.
“Hughie, well done!” he said, clapping the man’s shoulder, “That’s wonderful because I think I may be following the villain. Come with me.”
They went into the White Horse where the musician was just setting down the house lap harp and being applauded. There was a flicker over his face which could have been fear. As far as Carey could tell he had a square handsome old face, grey beard and hair, a solid-looking, dependable man, not at all what you might expect a musician to look like. He didn’t even have a drunkard’s red nose. Perhaps he and Hughie could lay hands on the man?
Then he heard a quiet cough behind him, turned and found Sir Robert Cecil sitting in a corner booth. Cecil lifted his quart to Carey.
“Sir Robert,” said Burghley’s second son, “I’m glad to see you up and about again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Carey warily.
“May I get you anything?”
In the corner of his eye, he could see the greybeard musician moving toward the back of the alehouse. Under his breath he said to Hughie, “Is that him?” Hughie made the indeterminate Scotch sound “Iphm” which probably meant he wasn’t sure. “Go after him, keep him in sight,” Carey hissed. “Do it quietly.”
“Ay sir,” said Hughie with a shy smile, and went over to the bar.
Cecil had already beckoned the potboy. Carey certainly couldn’t ignore a Privy Counsellor in favour of an old musician, so why not? He had run out of money again, having come out with only a shilling in his purse. “Thank you, sir, I’ll have brandywine.”
At Cecil’s gesture, he sat down in the booth facing the youngest member of the Privy Council. Meanwhile Hughie had carried his jack of ale straight over to the musician, tapped him on the shoulder and asked him in a harsh slurred voice how you set about playing a harp, it was something he’d always wanted to do. The greybeard paused and then warily let Hughie sit next to him and started showing him how to tune the instrument.
“Ye have to do that, eh?” said Hughie, after a big gulp of ale. “Why?”
“No sign of Sergeant Dodd yet?” Cecil asked while the musician stared at the lad and clearly struggled to find words to explain something so obvious. Carey shook his head.
“My father’s gone south again to try and find him.”
Cecil smiled. “I wanted to tell you that I found a distraught innkeeper at the post inn that had its roof burnt off on Saturday night. He had been suspicious of Dodd because he was, of course, riding one of the Queen’s horses but didn’t present his warrant to get half-price booze.”
“Ah.”
“By his account, he locked Dodd into his room, and put one of his men on guard, planning to alert the authorities in Oxford.” Carey winced slightly. “Yes, indeed. The mysterious fire started in the wall between Dodd’s and the next chamber. However when I had my pursuivant find and question the merchant in that room, a Mr. Thomas Jenks, he insisted that Dodd was clearly a man of worship and no horsethief, had very kindly helped him carry out his strongbox when his two pages had run away, helped his young groom in the stable to get the beasts out, refused any reward and behaved very gentlemanlike all round. Mr. Jenks last saw Dodd make an impressive flying leap onto the back of his horse and chase a bolted nag out of the inn gates.”
Carey laughed outright. Sir Robert Cecil smiled. “And then, I’m afraid, the trail goes cold again. Nobody between the London inn and Oxford has seen hide nor hair of him-they would have noticed him because he would have been riding without a saddle, of course.”
Hughie and the musician were getting along famously. Hughie had the harp on his lap and was clumsily twanging the strings. He started a song, some Scotch caterwaul about corbies which was Scotch for crows and no crow could have made a less musical noise than Hughie when he sang. Even Cecil winced at it and glanced at the barman, while the musician closed his eyes in pain. Something niggled Carey about Hughie then. What was it?
Hughie was looking soulful. “Oahh,” he said, “I’ve allus wanted to be a musician. I love tae sing. What would lessons cost?”
The potboy sniggered while the musician stoutly explained that a shilling an hour was the minimum possible amount.
Sir Robert Cecil was speaking again. “I even had my people check further south and on the Great North Road in case he decided to go home without visiting you in Oxford but again, no traces.”
Carey lifted his silver cup to Cecil. “I’m indebted to you, Mr. Secretary,” he said formally, wondering why Cecil was being so pleasant to him and what he wanted in exchange. “Thank you for taking such trouble over it.”
“Not at all,” Cecil was genial, “I feel a sense of responsibility for Sergeant Dodd’s troubles. I realise now I should have warned him not to…er…reive any of Heneage’s horses that had the Queen’s brand on them, but I’m afraid it never crossed my mind.”
Carey nodded. “Why should it, Sir Robert? Only someone who had to deal with Borderers regularly would know what they’re like with good horseflesh.” Should he mention to Cecil the musician he had been following, who so liked the Spanish air? No. Perhaps not. After all, Cecil’s father had suddenly become a major suspect in Amy Dudley’s murder again. And goddamn it, both Hughie and the musician had gone. They must have left the place by the back door to the jakes while Carey’s attention was on Cecil.
“Her Majesty is in a terrible temper. If she were not the Queen, I would go so far as to call it a foul mood.” Cecil paused. The pause was a polite opening for Carey to tell Cecil what he had been up to.
Carey continued to say nothing. It wasn’t easy to do in the face of Cecil’s tilted face, his grotesquely curved back disguised by the clever cut of his doublet and gown. Cecil shifted on the bench and winced slightly.
“I understand you brought something back from Cumnor Place today,” said Cecil. Of course Cecil had spies everywhere, just as his father did. It was part of the game of Court politics.
“Quite so, Mr. Secretary,” Carey said evenly, “I did. I believe it was the murder weapon. A crossbow.”
Cecil raised his eyebrows as if this was new to him. “Did you find Lady Dudley’s damaged headtire?” Of course he would have read all the paperwork by now and seen what Carey had seen.
“No, Mr. Secretary, I didn’t.”
Cecil nodded. He hadn’t expected Carey to find it, he was making a point. There was a long silence again. “I may be able to help you in your quest,” Cecil said slowly, “I am not without…resources of my own.”
Carey thought very carefully about this. There was more to it than simple information exchanged for assistance. Carey was the Earl of Essex’s man and of all the great men at Court, it was well known that Essex and Sir Robert Cecil hated each other. At least, Essex despised Cecil whom he occasionally teased about his hunchback. Cecil, it was obvious to everyone except Essex, virulently hated the Earl.
On the other hand, Cecil was as loyal to the Queen as his father and did, indeed, have resources of his own. Although it was Essex who had hurried to take over Walsingham’s intelligence networks when Sir Francis died in 1590, Cecil was where the pursuivants and intelligencers went when they got tired of dealing with Heneage. He was even more close-mouthed than his father so it was impossible to know how much information he had access to, but Carey’s guess was that he would be a lot better at the work than Essex was, who tended to boast. And Cecil had been behind the subtle coney-catching lay of the Cornish lands, Carey was certain of it.