A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery

by P. F. Chisholm

  The young lawyer seemed to be choking on his words while behind him his clients looked at each other anxiously.

  “God’s truth,” said the judge wearily, “Get out of my court and go and redraft your pleadings, paying due attention to the cases of Bray v. Kirk and the matter of the Abbot of Litchfield v. Habakkuk. Adjourned.”

  The young lawyer scurried off, trembling. An older lawyer warily approached the bench, trailing his own clients. “Yes, Mr. Irvine, what is it now?” said the judge in a voice as devoid of welcome as a winter maypole.

  Dodd glanced at Enys to see how this was affecting him. To his surprise he saw Enys was smiling quietly and his brown eyes sparkling.

  “Disnae sound verra happy the day,” said Dodd, tilting his head at the judge who could be heard berating the unfortunate Mr. Irvine from the other side of the partition, his weary voice cutting through the hubbub like a knife.

  “Shh,” warned Enys, with his pocked finger on his pitted lips, “Mr. Justice Whitehead has very good hearing.”

  “Ay.”

  “Mind you, he may not be able to understand you for all that.”

  Dodd sniffed, offended. It was southerners who spoke funny, not him. Meanwhile Enys was listening to the judge’s comments with his head tilted as if listening to music. At one piece which seemed to be entirely in foreign, he chuckled quietly.

  “Whit language are they speakin’?” Dodd wanted to know.

  “Norman French,” said Enys. “Generally most cases are heard partly in English nowadays, but a great deal of the precedent is in Latin or French.”

  “Jesu. And what’s sae funny?”

  “His honour just made a rather learned pun.”

  “Ay?”

  Enys chuckled again in the aggravating way of someone enjoying a private joke. Carey had found a pillar he could lean languidly against and had crossed his arms while he surveyed the passing throngs through half-shut eyes.

  “D’ye think he’ll be on my side?”

  “Sergeant, his honour will find what is correct in law, you can be sure of that.”

  “Ay, but will he be on ma side?”

  “My father was wondering if a gift…?” said Carey delicately.

  Enys shook his head. “Asolutely not, sir…It would guarantee the opposite decision.”

  Carey looked surprised and worried. “Yes, but if we can’t buy him…”

  “If we could buy him, then so could Mr. Vice—it would become not a court case but an auction,” said Enys. “I had rather deal with someone that gives justice without fear or favour.”

  Carey’s eyebrows went up further. “I hadn’t thought that any judges did that.”

  “Remarkably, sir, there are a few. In fact, I am in some hopes that Mr. Vice might make the mistake that we will not.”

  Dodd was listening to the learned judge asking Mr. Irvine if he had ever heard of the relevant law and precedents to this case, and if he had, why had he quoted the wrong ones? Enys had an appreciative grin on his face.

  “He sounds a terror,” said Dodd.

  The bailiff gave mournful tongue with their names five minutes later as Irvine and his clients fled with their case adjourned until the lawyer could learn to read.

  With a spring in his step and an expression on his face that looked remarkably like Carey’s before he launched into some insane battle or gamble, Enys led the way into the little booth and bowed to the judge. Watching Carey out of the corner of his eye and seeing him uncover and bow, Dodd scrambled to do likewise, dropped his new beaver hat on the disgusting floor, and had to grovel to pick it up again before somebody stood on it.

  “Mr. Enys,” growled the judge, “I had heard you had thought better of the law and gone back to Cornwall?”

  “No, my lord,” said Enys surprised. “Who told you that?”

  “Evidently a fool,” snorted the judge. “Well?”

  Enys handed over the sheaf of pleadings and the warrant written in a fine clear secretary hand. The judge paused as he saw who was named as the Respondent and shot a piercing grey stare over his spectacles at Enys who stared straight back, not a muscle moving in his face. Not that you could have told if it had, thanks to the scarring, thought Dodd. That lawyer would be a nightmare opponent at primero.

  The judge turned to the warrant. Very briefly, something like the ghost of a smile hovered near his mouth.

  “You have started proceedings in the Old Bailey?”

  “Yes, your honour. Not wishing to waste any time, I briefed a solicitor to file the necessary criminal indictment about an hour ago. We are here because although the crimes were committed in the City, Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage is in fact resident at Chelsea which is for our purposes in the borough of Westminster.”

  Another small smile. The judge turned to Dodd. “Mr. Dodd…”

  Dodd coughed hard with nervousness, but he was not going to go down in the record as anything other than what he was and what he was came to more than a mere mister.

  “Sergeant Dodd, my lord,” said Dodd. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

  “You’re not a lawyer, surely?” said the judge, his brow wrinkling.

  Crushing his immediate impulse to challenge the man to a duel over the insult, Dodd coughed again.

  “Nay sir, Ah’m Land-Sergeant o’Gilsland, in Cumberland. On the Borders, sir.”

  The judge’s lips moved as he worked this out. “Really? My apologies. How do you come to be in London, then, Sergeant?”

  “Ah come with Sir Robert Carey, my lord.”

  The judge transferred his attention to Carey who stepped forward and swept him another Courtier’s bow.

  “Carey? Is my lord Baron Hunsdon involved in this matter, Sir Robert?”

  “Yes, your honour,” explained Carey with a face so open and innocent, Dodd felt the judge was bound to get suspicious. “My most worshipful father is outraged that Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage should have falsely imprisoned and assaulted Sergeant Dodd who serves under me in the Carlisle Castle Guard where I am Deputy Warden under my Lord Warden of the West March. My father is very kindly helping Sergeant Dodd seek redress for his injuries and the insult.”

  Even Carey shifted slightly under the impact of the judge’s skewering glare and silence. “Is this a matter of Court faction, Sir Robert?” he asked at last.

  “No your honour, of course not. It is a matter of seeking justice for an abhorrent and illegal assault and…”

  “Yes, yes, Sir Robert, thank you,” sniffed Judge Whitehead. “Mr. Enys, I suppose you had better open these pleadings.”

  This Enys did with verve and in detail, not seeming to need to shout to be heard quite clearly in the court, quoting various laws in parliament against which Heneage had offended and various legal precedents establishing the same. More than half of what he said was in Norman French but Carey, who spoke French, whispered a translation for Dodd. Enys came to the end and Dodd was surprised to find he had understood most of what had been said that wasn’t actually in foreign.

  “Sergeant Dodd,” said Judge Whitehead, “are those the facts as Mr. Enys has related them? You were arrested in error instead of Sir Robert on a warrant of debt and not believed as to your true identity. You were shortly after removed from the Fleet by Mr. Heneage who was fully aware that you were not in fact Sir Robert Carey since he complained of it. You were then falsely imprisoned by him in his coach and interrogated by him therein, during which time he himself as well as his servants and agents laid violent hands upon you?”

  “Ay, my lord.” Dodd felt himself flushing with anger, enraged again at being beaten like a boy or a peasant of no account and not able to fight back.

  “Mr. Heneage produced no warrant and did not accuse you of any crime?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What religion are you, Sergeant?”

  Dodd blinked a little at this although Carey had prepared him for it. “My lord …eh…I am a good English Protestant and attend church whenever my duties at Carlisle perm
it it.” Dodd had practised saying this. It wasn’t strictly true—like most English Borderers, Dodd worshipped where and how he was told to and concentrated on avoiding the attention of a God who was so terrifyingly unpredictable. It was only powerful Scottish lords like the Maxwell who could afford to go in for actual religions such as being a Catholic.

  “No dealings with Papist priests?”

  “No, my lord,” Dodd said, then ventured, “I might have arrested one once, a couple of years back. For horse-theft.” He had never been quite sure whether the man had been a priest or a spy or indeed, both. Lowther had been doing a favour for Sir John Forster.

  Carey coughed, Enys blinked, and the judge looked down at the papers for a moment.

  “I see, thank you, Sergeant.” The judge was rereading the papers in front of him. He snorted.

  More silence. Dodd stole a glance at Enys to see if he was going to say anything, but he wasn’t. He was watching the judge carefully.

  “On the face of the case and on the facts here presented to me, Mr. Enys, we have here a quite shocking incident. Ergo…” The words degenerated to foreign again.

  Enys’s face split in a delighted grin.

  “You may take two of the Court bailiffs when you go to execute the warrant, Mr. Enys.”

  Enys bowed low. “Your lordship is most kind, thank you.”

  The judge scribbled a note on the warrant and passed the pleadings to his clerk who was looking alarmed. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Enys,” said the judge in a chilly tone of voice. “You have been admirably succinct.”

  A flush went up Enys’s neck as he bowed again, muttered more thanks and then led the way out of the court. As he threaded at speed through the shouting crowds, Carey called,

  “And now?”

  “Time to arrest him.”

  Wednesday 13th September 1592, late morning

  The Court bailiffs were two stolid looking men who took the warrant and went down to the Westminster steps where two of Hunsdon’s boats were waiting. The second was low in the water with the weight of some large and ugly Borderers. Among them Dodd recognised jacks from the Chisholms and the Fenwicks which reminded him that Hunsdon was also the East March Warden. The Berwick tones were now pleasantly familiar to him, mingled with the rounded sounds of the incomprehensible Cornish who made up the other half of the party in the first boat.

  Dodd, Carey, Enys, and the bailiffs got in the first boat and they headed upriver, past leafier banks, straining against the flow, to the oak spinneys of Chelsea where Heneage maintained his secluded house on the river frontage.

  Dodd’s heart started beating harder as they came near. He looked about him to spy out the approaches to what he couldn’t help thinking of as Heneage’s Tower. There was a boatlanding and a clear path heading up through market gardens and orchards. Not bad cover, no walls to speak of, no sign of watchers on the approaches. He jumped onto the boatlanding with the rest of the men, loosening his sword, then felt Carey touch his elbow and draw him aside.

  Some of the men went round the back of the house while the bailiffs strode up to the main door, surrounded by the largest of Hunsdon’s men.

  “You and I stay out of this,” said Carey to Dodd.

  “Ay sir. I wantae see his face when…”

  “You’ll see it but from a distance. I don’t want any risk of a counter-suit if you whack him on the nose. And you’re definitely not allowed to kill him.”

  “I know that,” said Dodd with dignity. “This isnae a bloodfeud yet. But…”

  “No. It’s bad enough that I lost temper and hit him myself after I found you. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”

  “Och sir,” moaned Dodd rebelliously. It was typical of Carey that he let some bunch of Berwickmen have all the fun.

  The bailiff was speaking to Heneage’s steward whose expression was one of astonishment and horror. Not only, explained the bailiff, was there a warrant for Mr. Heneage’s arrest, there was also a warrant to search the house for him if he didn’t come out, which warrant they were minded to execute immediately.

  The steward was objecting that Mr. Vice Chamberlain was not there, had gone out, had never been there and…The bailiffs shouldered past him, followed by Mr. Enys, who was wearing an oddly fixed and intent expression.

  There was a sound of shouting and feet thundering on stairs. Carey’s face clouded. “Hang on,” he said, “that’s not right.”

  He headed for the door and brushed past the still protesting steward, followed by Dodd who was pleased to be in at the kill.

  The house was expensively oak panelled and diamond-paned, there was an extremely fine cupboard with its carved doors shut, and the steps going down to the cellar truly reeked.

  The bailiffs had fanned out and were checking all the doors. Enys had hurried down the stairs and into the arched cellar where there were a few barrels of wine and a central pillar. Barred windows level with the courtyard paving let in some light. Bolted to the pillar about eight foot off the ground was a pair of iron manacles. Somebody had dug a pit in the earth underneath them which was soiled with turds. The manacles were darkened and rusty with blood.

  Carey paused, took a deep breath and then went forward to where Enys was opening both of the smaller doors that gave onto two further cellars that were tiny, damp, and had not been cleaned since last there were prisoners there. However they were otherwise empty and Enys turned away, the shadows making his face hard to read, though Dodd could have sworn he saw a glint of something on the man’s face.

  “Who were you looking for?” Carey said quietly, his hand on Enys’s narrow shoulder.

  “No one…” Enys looked down. “My brother. I heard…I was afraid…Heneage might have taken him.”

  “So you used me and my father…”

  “No sir,” said Enys, looking straight at him. “It’s clear that Heneage was warned to be away from here by someone, probably the clerk of the court. But we had to make the attempt to begin the case.”

  Carey nodded. “And? Is Cecil involved in this? Raleigh?”

  Enys shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, sir, only I had to try. My brother has been missing for over two weeks. We should leave immediately so we can…”

  Carey took his hand away from his sword. “Oh not so fast,” he drawled. “I think we should check more carefully for Mr. Vice. Now we’re here.”

  Starting at the top of the house, moving from one room to the other while the Cornishmen stood around the steward and the couple of valets busied themselves with the horses in the stables, Carey searched the place methodically. In one room that had a writing desk and a number of books in it, he found a pile of papers newly ciphered which he swept into a convenient post bag. In a chest he found another stack of rolled parchment, one of which he opened. He whistled.

  “Mother would be interested by these,” he said. “It seems our Mr. Vice has been busy buying lands in Cornwall—look.”

  Dodd looked, squinted, and sighed because the damned thing was not only in a cramped secretary hand but was clearly in some form of foreign.

  “You can see it’s a deed—see the word ‘Dedo’ which means I give, and that says ‘Comitatis Cornwallensis’—which means Cornwall. We’ll just borrow this one, I think.” Carey dropped it in the bag.

  There was a book on the desk, much thumbed, which Carey looked at and which turned out to be Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.

  Dodd had been attending to the cupboard with the carved doors. Eventually the lock broke and he opened it. There was a nice haul of silver.

  “Jesu, Sergeant, put that back,” Carey said behind him, “we’re not here for the man’s insight.”

  Dodd was puzzled. “Are we no’? I thocht that was what we were about. Can I no’ nip out that fine gelding in the stables then, the one wi’ the white sock?”

  Carey grinned. “We’re not raiding the man, we’re searching his house for evidence of wrongdoing and I’m certainly not losing my reputation fo
r the sake of a second-rate collection of silver plate and one nag with the spavins. The man has no taste at all.” Dodd scowled. Who cared what the silver plate looked like since it was going to be melted down? And the gelding certainly did not have the spavins and was in fact a very nice piece of horseflesh, as Dodd knew, and probably Carey did as well.

  At the foot of the stairs Enys was anxiously waiting for them. “I had no intention of taking Mr. Vice Chamberlain’s papers…” he began.

  “Of course not,” said Carey breezily. “We came to arrest Heneage but in the course of our search for him we came upon some papers which might possibly relate to treason and which my Lord Chamberlain, as his superior, would naturally wish to know about. We’ll give them back as soon as we can find Heneage himself.”

  He led the way out of the door and along the path to the boat-landing. To the steward he gave a shilling to pay for the damage to the cupboard and to convey his compliments to Mr. Vice Chamberlain—he was sure they would meet soon.

  ***

  It seemed a very long row back to Somerset House steps, even though Dodd wasn’t rowing and the current was helping the men sweating at the oars in the warm afternoon sun. Enys remained silent, staring into space, and Dodd had nothing much to say either. Carey watched Enys for a while before remarking, seemingly at venture, “Have you truly seen nothing of your brother for more than two weeks?”

  Enys turned his gargoyle’s face to Carey’s. “Nothing. And he would be back by now. He…he was concerned in something dangerous connected with Heneage, something to do with land, but that’s all I know.”

  Carey handed over the deed he had taken. “Is it real?”

  Enys squinted his eyes, read the deed, and nodded. “Yes, quite in order, a few hides of farmland near Helston. In Cornwall they call them ‘wheals.’”

  “Are these anything to do with the cases you withdrew from?”

  Enys shook his head. “Not this piece of land, no. Were there other deeds there?”

  “Plenty of them.”