A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery

by P. F. Chisholm

  “Ay,” said Dodd, who felt he was now on more familiar ground. Hadn’t he gone into town with his father and all his brothers and sisters to have a good gawk at her while she was being kept at Carlisle? Carey had told him before how Walsingham had trapped her, twenty years later.

  “Now if you do it randomly, of course, you have to make sure everyone you write to has the key. That’s dangerous as well—you could lose it or your enemies could capture it. A good codebreaker can break that one as well if you’ve written enough or been careless.”

  Dodd looked at the uncommunicative numbers. Surely Carey couldn’t do something like that?

  “I know some of the common patterns used so when I have the time I can try a few out on it. And we can try and find a code book. Do you think you could go back and search Tregian’s room again?”

  “Nay sir, I dinna think so. It’s likely got a new man in it.”

  “Hm. It might be worth going and charming mine host for it. Failing a code book I’m just going to have to try and break the bloody thing.” Carey puffed a sigh out. “God, I wish I’d paid more attention to my lessons with Mr. Phelippes instead of chasing Scottish ladies.”

  Dodd grunted. That was no surprise.

  Dodd looked again at the numbers and at the letters at the start. “A,” he said. “Is that the codebook?”

  “Could be. And of course the really interesting point is what is a ciphered letter in invisible ink which comes from either Topcliffe or Heneage—or perhaps is intended for them—doing in Richard Tregian’s chamber? Especially if he’s going to end up being executed by them.”

  Carey blinked at the copies and yawned cavernously. “We’ll have a try at possibilities tomorrow,” he said, “I’m going to bed.”

  Thursday 14th September 1592, dawn.

  Dodd was woken by a hammering on the door. He woke up fully to find himself at the door in his shirt with his sword drawn and raised to strike whoever it was had just ruined a very fine dream about Janet. Carey’s voice rang out.

  “Come on, Sergeant Dodd, get your arse out of bed, the sun’s nearly up…”

  From the sound of it Carey too was in a temper and as usual full of energy and enterprise at a time when more decent folk were still asleep. The London sky had barely started to pale. Dodd lowered his sword regretfully, unbolted the door, put the sword on the bed and started assembling the daft confection of cloth he had to wear in this Godforsaken hell hole. He refused to let a man help him with it which was why it always took him so long, especially with it happening in the morning and all. He looked longingly at his nice comfy homespun suit Janet had woven for him and that he had been so proud of when he first came to London. At least he had to admit that he was the target of a lot fewer London coney-catchers when he wasn’t wearing it.

  There was another bang of fist on panelling. Shrugging the braces over his shoulders and bending to pull his boots on, he called, “It’s no’ locked,” and Carey burst through the door looking furious.

  “That bloody lawyer’s bolted,” he snarled at Dodd, who just sighed.

  “Ay, o’course.”

  “Why of course?”

  “Anybody could see he wis hiding something.”

  “Course he was, he’s a lawyer, but why’d he bolt?” Dodd said nothing and Carey started to pace up and down after finding that the wine flagon was empty. “Steward says he went to his bedchamber last night and this morning there’s no sign of him at all.”

  Dodd was struggling into his doublet. “Nae doot of it, he’s out of London and heading for his ain country,” he said wistfully because it was what he would have done.

  “May I remind you, Sergeant, that we have to appear in Court this morning in order to swear out a bill against Heneage in his absence. For that we need a lawyer and Enys’ the only one we’ve got.”

  Dodd sighed again, fumbling with his multiple buttons. Carey came over impatiently and twitched it into place on Dodd’s shoulders, then briskly started rebuttoning. He was, inevitably, immaculate in black velvet and brocade, though his breath was as bad as a dog’s.

  “So let’s get over to the Temple and see if we can find the blasted man before he leaves.”

  “He’d go back there first would he?” Dodd said, wondering if even a lawyer could be so stupid.

  “Course he would, you could see how upset he was about it being ransacked. Probably got a little treasure trove of fees and bribes there.”

  “Ay sir, but I wouldnae…”

  “He’s an idiot. That’s where he’ll be,” said Carey looking distinctly furtive as he stepped into the corridor.“Come on, hurry up before my lady mother wakes and insists on coming too.”

  Despite not having had any breakfast or small beer to wake him up, Dodd’s mouth turned down with the effort of not laughing at Carey’s tone of voice when speaking of his mother. Dodd rather liked the old lady, but he could see how she was a terrible trial to her sons.

  The steward had orders that Carey was not to stir without a bodyguard—no doubt by order of Lady Hunsdon, and equally doubtless to keep him from leaping into trouble as well as protecting him in case trouble should come to find him.

  After considerable argument they went out with two Berwickmen in buff coats and Shakespeare. According to him Marlowe wasn’t up yet which was perfectly normal. Or had he shinned out of the window too, Dodd wondered.

  “His window overlooks the courtyard and his door is locked,” Shakespeare said primly in answer to Carey’s suspicious look. “I have seen to it that he has paper, pens and ink, food, booze, and tobacco any time he cares to call for them. He’ll be no trouble, trust me. He will know that Topcliffe will wait until he shows his nose and then arrest him for thwarting the ambush in the Mermaid at Sir Robert’s urging.”

  Which Marlowe himself had set up by sending the potboy to Topcliffe and paying the roaring boys earlier to make their feint attack on Fleet Street. What a fool the poet was, Dodd thought. Heneage must have ordered him to do it as soon as the clerk of the court warned him to avoid Carey’s arrest. Mind, it must have been fun to watch him, he would have been enraged. Perhaps that was why Marlowe had gone along with it.

  They found Enys’ chambers by asking around. It was at the very top of a tottering building facing a dilapidated courtyard that had apparently just been bought by the Earl of Essex. They left Shakespeare and the Berwickmen in the courtyard and went up. At the top of the rickety stairs was a door that had plainly been broken into and then set back carefully in place later. Carey started by knocking politely. After a long wait there was a sound from inside. Carey hammered on the wall next to it.

  “Mr. Enys,” he bellowed. “Enys, God damn your eyes, open up!”

  “One moment,” came the cry. They waited. Dodd went to the small window on the landing and peered out at the Berwickmen who were standing around looking bored. Shakespeare was sitting on a mounting block scribbling in his notebook. At last there was the sound of furniture being scraped back and a broken panel was pulled away. A woman peered through the gap. In the dim light they could see there was something wrong with her face as well as her eyes being swollen with tears.

  “Is Mr. Enys within, mistress?” asked Carey, moderating his tone a little.

  The woman sniffled and shook her head. “He was away from home last night and he came back in a hurry very early this morning and then was away again, he said, to see that Mr. Heneage’s bill was fouled in his absence as quickly as possible.”

  Carey looked taken aback. “Oh. Westminster?”

  “So he said.”

  “Well, Mrs. Enys…”

  “No sir, Mr. Enys is my brother. My name is Mrs. Morgan.”

  Carey paused. “Ah? Really? My mother’s family name is Morgan…I wonder if there’s a connection.”

  “I don’t know, sir. My husband’s cousin Henry Morgan was a well-known…er…sea trader.”

  “Can we come in?”

  For answer the woman started removing a piece of door. Dodd and
Carey helped her and entered Enys’ chambers.

  There were two rooms visible. In the light from the small window they could see that the smallpox had made as bad a mess of her face as it had of her brother’s. She was quite a tall woman, a little stooped, in a plain grey wool kirtle and doublet bodice, with her hair covered by a linen cap that was crooked. Carey bowed to her and she curtseyed.

  “I’m sorry not to be able to offer you anything, sir, but…you can see…”

  She waved a hand helplessly. Carey took a deep breath.

  “Mrs. Morgan, I am Sir Robert Carey, and this is Sergeant Henry Dodd, your brother’s client.”

  “Yes, my brother has told me about you.”

  “Can you tell us what happened, mistress?”

  Mrs. Morgan bit her lip and shut her eyes tight. “They came and battered the door in and they said if I stood facing the wall and did not scream they wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “They kept their promise?”

  She shrugged. “Yes sir.”

  It was easy to recognise the handiwork of pursuivants. Every chest had been upended, every book opened and dropped on the floor, the great bed and the truckle in the bedroom with the curtains ripped and the mattress slashed so that wadding bled out of it.

  Carey sighed. “Did they get all the papers?”

  “I expect so, sir,” said Mrs. Morgan. “They took every piece of paper they could find, even things that were nothing to do with your case.”

  “Who were they?”

  “They had their cloaks muffled over their faces and their hats pulled down. I didn’t know them. My brother said he needed to consult some books at his Inn and then he felt he could apply for a judgement immediately. Is there anything else I may help you with, sir, as I have a great deal to do?”

  It was a clear, though polite, invitation to leave. Carey looked at the woman seriously, not seeming put off as Dodd was by the pock scars disfiguring her face.

  “I now understand why Enys was reluctant to stay at my father’s house last night. He should have mentioned you.”

  The woman said nothing and curtseyed.

  “Would you feel safer in Somerset House under my father’s shelter and protection, mistress?”

  Mrs. Morgan curtseyed again.

  “I would prefer to stay here. There’s…a lot to do.” She coloured under Carey’s gaze and stepped away from the light.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes sir. Thank you for your offer.”

  Carey shook his head. “As you wish, mistress. If you change your mind simply come to my father’s house on the Strand and tell the porter that I sent you.”

  She nodded and looked at the ground until they left.

  They went in silence down to the Temple steps and waited an unconscionable time for a boat. Just as one finally rowed languidly towards the boat landing where Carey was pacing up and down impatiently checking the sun and the tide every minute, there was a clatter of boots behind them and Enys appeared, running down the steps towards them, holding his sword awkwardly up and away from his legs.

  “Ah, Mr. Enys,” said Carey, “there was I thinking you might have left town?”

  Enys was puffing and wheezing alarmingly. He shook his head, unable to speak.

  They all got in the boat with the Berwickers and Shakespeare looking as if they were prepared for a boring day. Soon the boatman and his son were rowing upstream to Westminster. Once Enys had got his breath back, Carey looked at him consideringly.

  “Why didn’t you mention Mrs. Morgan to us last night?” he asked.

  “Um…” Enys looked panicky.

  “Mr. Enys,” said Carey pompously, “what my mother said is true. We are in a war with Heneage and Topcliffe, but luckily my father has the capacity to protect his counsellors and servants and friends at the moment. He would have sent men to guard your chambers or bring your sister to safety if you had said something…”

  Enys coloured red. “I know, sir. I am afraid I was in a panic. I…my sister is very shy and prefers not to be seen in public, or at all.”

  “She has Lady Sidney’s malady.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My Lady Sidney—Sir Philip’s sister, you know—caught the smallpox whilst nursing the Queen when she had it and took it very much worse than Her Majesty. She was a very beautiful lady before but now considers herself hideous and never comes to Court. She meets with poets and writers at her house which she refuses to leave. And yet, we would all delight to see her at Court for never was a kinder nor wittier lady. Even the Queen, who dislikes any kind of ugliness, has often said how she misses her.”

  Enys was an even darker red.

  “I…”

  “No one can convince Lady Sidney that nobody is laughing at her and that if anyone should dare to laugh an hundred swords would be drawn in her defence, including mine. I have told her so myself but she only smiles sadly and shakes her head,” said Carey, tilting into the romantic flourishing speech of the court. “And so we are deprived of the company of the finest jewel that could adorn any court, saving the Queen’s blessed Majesty, a woman of intellect and discretion and wit, all because she fancies a few scars make her hideous.”

  Enys seemed unable to speak. He coughed a couple of times and mopped his face with his hankerchief. Shakespeare was staring at him with interest but he seemed not to notice.

  “I’m afraid, sir, my sister is not of so high blood as my lady Sidney,” he said at last, his voice husky. “And all…er…all she ever wanted was to marry her sweetheart and bear his children.”

  Carey nodded. Enys stared out over the river.

  “Three years ago I heard that my best friend that had married my sister had taken the smallpox,” he was almost whispering as if he had difficulty getting breath to speak even slowly. “He…I posted down to Cornwall when I heard and found him dead and buried and his two children sickening. After they died my sister took sick and so I nursed her for I would not bring any other into that house of ill fortune to do it. Then when she recovered, I took sick of it as well and so turn and turnabout she nursed me. We lived, barely, hence we have such similar scars, but my sister says…No one cares how ugly a man be, so he be rich enough and kindly, but for a woman to lose her complexion and her looks is an end to all marrying. And so, since her jointure was small and her husband’s land reverted to his brother on the death of his issue, we shut up the house in Cornwall and came to London together to try if the law would make our fortunes.”

  Carey nodded. “Her Majesty says that Lady Sidney’s scars are as much honours of battle as any gallant’s sword cuts. And so I think yours and your sister’s must be too.”

  Enys inclined his head at the compliment, then turned aside to stare over the water again. “My apologies, sir, but I hate to remember that year.”

  Carey and Dodd left him to it. The tale was common enough, Dodd thought, but hit each person it happened to as rawly as if no one else had ever caught smallpox. He might catch it himself and die with his face turned to a great clot of blood as the blisters burst—though they said that when the blisters came out you were on the mend so long as none of the blisters turned sick. That was why they tied your hands to the bedposts so you wouldn’t scratch.

  Dodd shuddered and trailed his fingers in the waters. Fish rose to him from the depths and he wished vaguely for a fishing rod.

  Westminster steps was again clotted with lawyers in their black robes, Enys dug his own robe out of a drawstring bag of fashionable blue brocade and slung it round his shoulders. At once the transformation happened; he seemed to relax and settle as if he had put on a jack and helmet and was waiting for the fight to begin.

  “Did they get all the papers?” Carey asked him.

  Enys smiled for the first time, even if lopsidedly. “No sir, not all.” He scrambled to get out of the boat and nearly fell in the Thames again when his sword got between his legs. Dodd rolled his eyes regretfully. God preserve him from ever having to take Enys into
a real fight.

  In the din and confusion of Westminster Hall they found no trace of Heneage appearing to answer their plea.

  “Calling Mr. Enys in the matter of Sergeant Dodd versus Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage et aliter,” shouted one of the court staff.

  Once again they lined up in front of Mr. Justice Whitehead who scowled at them from under his coif.

  “Mr. Enys?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I regret to inform you,” said the judge in English, leafing through the papers before him with the expression of one skinning decayed rats, “that Mr. Heneage’s case has been transferred under the Queen’s Prerogative to the court of one of my brother justices and has been adjourned sine die. He has seen fit to rescind all warrants of pillatus on Mr. Heneage and all and any co-defendants. ”

  Enys sighed.

  “What?!” shouted Carey. “God damn it!”

  Dodd’s hand went to his swordhilt and his face set into what his men would have recognised as his killing face.

  “Mr. Enys” snapped the judge, “be so good as to inform your clients that if I hear any more blasphemous disrespect from them, I shall have them committed for contempt of court.”

  Both Carey and Dodd subsided. It seemed that the only one who was unsurprised was Enys who was looking exceedingly cynical.

  “Which honourable judge was it?”

  “Mr. Justice Howell,” said the judge with a sour expression.

  Enys nodded. “Thank you, my lord,”

  “By the way,” said the judge, “for completeness, I have had copies made of the papers filed this morning under the Queen’s prerogative by a Mr. Evesham. I believe he is the clerk to Sir Robert Cecil.” He leaned over and gave a sheaf of papers to Enys who took them with an expression of cautious surprise. Carey’s lips were formed into a soundless whistle.

  “My lord,” he said. “Sir Robert Cecil, Privy Councillor?”