A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm

You could easily wind up in the Tower confessing to Papistry.”
    Enys smiled back bitterly. “The man is a scandal and a tyrant, m’lord. Yes, I could. But I may do so in any case since he is mine enemy in which case…”
    “In which case, Mr. Enys?”
    “In which case I might as well take the fight to the enemy first.”
    Dodd nodded at this piece of good sense. Hunsdon laced his fingers together.
    “Mr. Enys, I shall naturally make enquiries about you. What were the cases?”
    “Matters relating to the estates of Mr. Robert Boscoba, Mr. John Veryan, and Sir Piran Mawes of Trenever.”
    “Cornish lands? You’re Cornish, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, your ladyship. My father was from Penryn and came up to London after Glasney College was put down. My sister…” Enys paused. “…My sister was wed to a Cornishman until the smallpox widowed her.”
    Lady Hunsdon nodded intently. “Do you know a Mr. Richard Tregian who would have come up to London about two or three weeks ago?”
    “No, my lady,” said Enys, his eyes narrowing, “I have never met him.”
    “Assuming my enquiries are satisfactory,” said Hunsdon, “I shall retain you for the amount of a guinea per week plus refreshers for court appearances.”
    The lawyer bowed low. “My lord is very generous,”
    Lady Hunsdon leaned forward confidingly. “Mr. Enys,” she said coaxingly, “what were the cases you withdrew from about?”
    Enys’s eyelids fluttered. “I cannot tell you more, m’lady, I’m very sorry. Client confidentiality.”
    “You withdrew from the cases,” Hunsdon pointed out.
    “I did, m’lord, because they would have gone against my honour.” There was a pause whilst Enys nerved himself. “It would also go against my honour to babble about them like a woman at the conduit to anyone who asked.” Hunsdon nodded.
    “How soon can you draft and lodge the pleadings on Sergeant Dodd’s behalf.”
    “Once I am fee’d and briefed, m’lord, by tomorrow.”
    “Any ideas on the conduct?”
    “Yes, m’lord.” The young man took a deep breath and clasped the lapels of his gown tightly. “I would recommend a writ of
pillatus
against Mr. Heneage for the criminal assault and wrongful imprisonment, to be served immediately.”
    Both Hunsdon and his lady stared at the young man for a second, transfixed, before Hunsdon bellowed with laughter and his lady gurgled. Carey too had a wicked grin on his face. “What’s that?” hissed Dodd to him, knowing he was missing something important here.
    “He’s saying we should get a warrant to arrest Heneage immediately on the criminal charges,” whispered Carey, still grinning.
    “He’ll surely wriggle out…”
    “Of course he will, but he’ll spend at least a night in prison if we time it right.”
    Dodd’s lips parted in delight. “Och,” he said, “I like this lawyer.”
    “While he’s in prison,” added Enys, “we should serve writs of subpoena on all potential witnesses and put any that are…frightened…into protective custody.”
    Hunsdon let out another bark. Dodd understood this. “Mr. Enys,” he called across the tiled floor, “one o’them’s the Gaoler o’the Fleet.”
    Enys’s pock-marked brow wrinkled. “Then I think he needs to be named on the originating warrant as a confederate and also arrested, or he’ll never testify.”
    ***
     
    Barnabus Cooke’s funeral was later that afternoon and a respectable affair, attended naturally by Carey, Dodd, and the young Simon Barnet, though not Barnabus’ sister’s family which was still locked up in their house with plague. No more of them had died apart from the mother. Hunsdon had paid for Barnabus’s coffin and the burial fees and also four pauper mourners, one of whom seemed to be genuinely upset. The Church of St Bride’s was convenient and the vicar glad of the shroud money, but had the sense to keep his eulogy of Barnabus short and tactful. Carey had pointedly invited Shakespeare to come as well, but had