4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (7 page)

Dodd’s jaw dropped. He could not get used to the way Carey casually bandied about sums that he had never even thought about before, much less owned or spent.

‘And then there’s brother Edmund who’s not cheap to maintain either, and John’s expenses in Berwick are crippling. Father says if he kept paying off his sons’ debts he’d be begging at Temple Gate in a year and stark raving mad into the bargain.’

‘But sir! What on earth d’ye spend all this money on? Not just clothes, surely?’

‘Oh clothes, armour, horses, masquing, occasional little bets, women, plays, cockfighting…God, I don’t know. It just flows away from me somehow.’

‘Ay. So how much d’ye owe?’

Carey shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Somewhere about another two or three thousand, I should think. Thereabouts.’

Very carefully Dodd shut his mouth and swallowed hard.

‘Two or three thousand pounds?’ he asked, just to get it straight. Carey looked mildly irritated.

‘Well, it’s not pennies, unfortunately.’

‘And the creditors are feeling a mite impatient?’

‘They’re terrified because I got away from them last time and they think I’ll do it again—go north and stay there until the lot of them are dead or in debtors’ gaol themselves.’ Dodd blinked at this admission. Even Carey had the grace to look a little shamefaced. ‘Well, what else could I do?’

‘Ay, sir. What?’ echoed Dodd, thinking of a whole variety of sensible and economical things.

‘Anyway, you have to spend money to get money. Which reminds me—did Heneage give you a bribe?’

‘Nay, sir, he didnae,’ said Dodd, feeling aggrieved. ‘Nae such thing. He said he might invite me tae his residence in Chelsea, but nae more than that…’

Carey frowned. ‘That was bloody cheeky of him.’

Dodd felt confused. ‘It was?’

‘Who does he think he is, threatening you in front of me and my father?’

‘Ah…Was that what he wis doing, sir?’

Carey’s frown lightened. ‘Well, you’ll have confused him at least. What did you say?’

‘I said he wis kind, sir. Nae more.’

Carey shouted with laughter. ‘I wish I’d been closer to see his reaction. You must be the first person he’s said that to who didn’t instantly quiver with fright.’

‘Ay, he seemed puzzled. He said I should ask you, sir.’

‘How would you react if Richie Graham invited you to Brackenhill to discuss your blackrent payments?’

‘Och.’ Dodd sucked his teeth. ‘I see. What is Mr Heneage, exactly, sir?’

‘One of the most powerful men in the kingdom and getting stronger every day. I’d say he’s even keeping the Cecils up at nights.’

‘Why? He disnae seem much of a fighting man.’

‘Did you ever hear of Sir Francis Walsingham?’

‘Ay, sir, ye’ve told me about him. The Queen’s Secretary.’

‘And chief intelligencer, until his death. Well, Heneage has taken over Walsingham’s activities in collecting information here and abroad, and in hunting down Papist priests. Unlike Walsingham, he isn’t an honest man. Interrogations of suspected traitors used to take place in the Tower of London, under warrant from the Queen. Now they happen at Chelsea.’

‘But he couldnae arrest me, could he, Sir Robert? I’m no’ a traitor.’

Carey said nothing to that, just looked at him until Dodd felt embarrassed by his naivety.

‘It is certainly true,’ said Carey eventually, in a distant tone of voice, ‘that all suspected traitors who are taken to Heneage’s house in Chelsea eventually confess to treason.’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd, his mouth gone dry. ‘I see now what he was trying. What should I do, sir? He seems to think I know what went on in Scotland. And I dinna, sir, I was wi’ the Johnstones when ye…er…when ye were talking to the King.’

‘A piece of advice for you, Dodd,’ Carey said, fiddling with the embroidered cuffs of his fancy gloves. ‘If Heneage offers you a bribe, take it. Answer his questions, tell him whatever you can; by all means play stupid, but convince him that you are frightened enough of him to want to co-operate. He likes that.’

‘Ay.’

Carey squinted through the window glass again and then sat down and ran his hand through his hair.

‘My blasted father’s disappeared off with Heneage to have a look at some property Mr Vice wants to buy. God knows why they’re both here when the Queen’s on progress in Oxford and they’re thick as thieves as well. I thought Father loathed the man.’

‘Perhaps Heneage wants blackrent fra yer father?’ offered Dodd. Carey gave him one of those very blue considering looks of his.

‘You catch on fast, don’t you Dodd?’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m beginning to think something like that is going on, but I’m damned if I can work out what. Father ought to be untouchable by the likes of Heneage.’

Dodd knew this was because Lord Hunsdon was in fact the Queen’s bastard half-brother. Carey was staring out of the window and the expression on his face was one that Dodd had never seen there before; a cold, wary, calculating look.

‘Anyway, he says he wants me to write a report for him about Scotland. Presumably, one he can show to Heneage.’

‘Ay, sir. Which tale will ye tell?’

Carey looked amused at Dodd’s tone. ‘The one for public consumption, of course. It seems nobody the Cecils or Heneage is paying for news from Scotland actually recognised me at the crucial time, which is a blessed relief. Thanks for backing me with Heneage, by the way, you did it perfectly. I nearly bust a gut trying not to laugh at his expression when you were stonewalling him.’

Dodd tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘Ay, sir. I’ll own I was surprised to hear ye…er…tell such a strange tale to your dad.’

‘What? You mean, lie to him?’ Carey grinned, who would have instantly called Dodd out if he’d said the word himself. ‘I didn’t. He’s already got the real report from me. He warned me to be tactful with Heneage, so I was.’

‘Er…how?’

‘Called me Robert. Never does that, not ever. Usually it’s Robin, boy or bloody idiot, depending. I wanted to talk to him about it last night but his man said he was…ah…busy and passed the message about the report. Now it seems I’m stuck here indoors scribbling away like some damned clerk—God, how I hate paperwork. But I want you and Barnabus to go and do some scouting for me. See what’s going on. Barnabus will want to put a notice up in St Paul’s to find a new master and if you see any likely looking northerners who might make a decent
valet de chambre
for me, get their names. I may have to borrow somebody from Father, seeing the Court’s not in town and the law term not started yet. And something’s wrong here but I’m not sure what.’

‘With your father?’

‘And with London too. It’s too quiet. Strand’s half-empty. Where is everybody? Bartolmy’s fair just packed up and Southwark due to start, but all the traders seem to have made off as fast as they can with their woolsacks and bolts of cloth. I want to know why. Stick close to Barnabus, and if you get lost, head south for the river and then go westwards until you find Somerset House. Or take a boat.’

‘Ay, sir.’

‘And leave any of your money behind that you don’t want stolen. London pick-pockets are famous the world over.’

As Dodd had brought what had once seemed to him like the large sum of three shillings from his pay and also had an angel and some shillings from the footpads, he nodded at this good advice.

***

St Paul’s was surrounded by a market full of little stalls filled up with booksellers and papersellers, more books than Dodd had ever seen in his entire life before. Even the Reverend Gilpin had never had such a lot of books. How could a man tell which he wanted to read? It was indecent. And the place was full of people standing around reading books or talking and arguing with each other. Two poorly-dressed, hungry-looking men were arguing loudly with a fat man in an ink-stained apron who they seemed to think owed them money for their writing of a book, which he was strenuously denying.

Barnabus threaded through purposefully, swatting boys away from his pockets and disentangling Dodd from a pretty young piece in a mockado gown who seemed to think Dodd was her long-lost cousin.

They climbed the steps and went into the cathedral of London town, which was a great echoing monster of a building. The nave was full of little stalls, and scriveners tables, the aisle was full of young men who paraded in clothes that made Dodd gasp for the colours of them, the outrageous size of their cartwheel ruffs, the velvets, damasks and satins, the vast padded breeches and the long peascod bellies, the slashings and panes and embroideries. The human butterflies were in constant motion, bowing to each other, talking, laughing.

‘Mm,’ said Barnabus, staring about critically. ‘Now where is everybody?’

‘Eh?’ said Dodd.

‘Nobody here,’ Barnabus said over his shoulder as he threaded across the circling stream of haberdashery to one of the huge round pillars near the high altar screen with its blaze of gold and silver and red silk banners. There were a number of men in jerkins or buff leather standing around the pillar, looking hopeful, pieces of paper pinned to a noticeboard behind them. Barnabus went straight to it, stole two pins from one of the older notices, and stuck up his own paper.

‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave ’im, but what can you do?’

‘You’re resigning from the Courtier’s service?’

‘I’ve had enough,’ sniffed Barnabus. ‘Carlisle don’t suit me, what with nuffing to do and nearly getting hanged in the summer. I’ll leave ’im when I’ve found a new master.’

‘Hmf,’ said Dodd. He’d never thought much of Barnabus, who rode like a sack of meal and half the time made no sense at all. Mind you, he had good skills at knife-throwing and the Courtier seemed to rate him, but that was all you could say in his favour really.

Barnabus squared his shoulders and looked round at the competition, some of which seemed large and ugly enough.

‘Don’t know what I’ll find though,’ said the little man gloomily. ‘What with nobody being here.’

‘But…look at ’em all.’

‘Nah,’ said Barnabus, folding his arms and leaning against another pillar to glare disapprovingly down the aisle. ‘The Mediterranean’s half-empty for the time of year. Must all be up at Oxford, arse-licking the Queen.’

How did they all fit in when they were here, Dodd wondered. He craned his neck to look up at the roof which seemed very new, the upper walls part burned. St Paul’s had no proper spire, only a temporary roof where it should have been. Barnabus was beckoning one of the urchins playing dice by the altar steps.

‘Here, you, boy. Show my friend here round Paul’s for me and if nobody’s nipped his purse by the time he gets back, I’ll pay you a penny extra.’

Dodd shrugged and followed the mucky-faced child who pointed self-importantly at a large monument full of moping angels and rampant lions and the like on the south side, with a little chapel next to it. Apparently it was Duke Humphrey’s tomb for certain sure and definite though some scurvy buggers said it was some John Beauchamp fellow or other, which it wasn’t but Duke Humphrey’s, did he understand?

Dodd shrugged again and said it could be Good King Henry’s tomb for all he cared, to be told sharply that that one was in Westminster, didn’t he know nuffing?

Tomb after tomb was knowledgeably pointed out, one with a lot of reverence as Sir Philip Sidney’s, and they made the circuit of the nave where pie-sellers, stationers and the apple-women cried their wares. It all seemed crowded and noisy enough for Dodd.

At least the Londoners seemed to be friendly folk. Overfriendly, perhaps. Twice Dodd was hailed as an old friend by men he had never met before, one of them a southerner from Yorkshire by his speech.

The third time a complete stranger clasped his arm and demanded to know what he was doing in London, bless him, Dodd decided to play along with the game.

‘Och, good day,’ he said with as big a smile as he could muster. ‘If it’s no’ Wee Colin Elliot himself,’ he added, naming his family’s bitterest enemy. ‘What are ye doing here?’

The man, who was as tall as Dodd and by his speech had never been north of Durham in his life, laughed and bowed.

‘I could ask the same of you, friend.’

‘It’s too long a tale to tell,’ said Dodd who couldn’t be bothered to make one up. ‘How’s yer wife and the bairns?’

‘Well enough,’ said the man. ‘Well enough indeed. I thought it was you; I was just saying to my friend here, that’s him to the life and it was.’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd, still smiling unnaturally until his face ached with the exercise. The friend was shorter and darker and both were well-dressed in wool suits trimmed with velvet.

‘It does ma heart good to find a fellow Berwick man here in this nest of Southerners,’ said the shorter of the two in a passable imitation of the Berwick way of talking. ‘Mr Dodd, you must have a cup of wine with us. Will ye do that? Us northerners should stick together, after all.’

‘Oh ay, we should. O’ course,’ said Dodd, glancing across at Barnabus who was deep in obsequious conversation with an elaborately taffeta’d young man. Dodd shrugged. If he wasn’t feared of the Bewcastle Waste or the Tarras Moss, why should he be feared of London, strange place though it was?