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

received an elegantly phrased letter of regret. Apart from a remarkable number of upright men who turned up hoping to be paid mourners too, there were several women in veils and striped petticoats and a round-faced man in a fine wool suit with a snowy falling band whom Dodd felt he had seen somewhere before. Carey seemed to know him and once the small coffin had been lowered into the plot in the crowded graveyard, strode over to greet him.
    “Mr. Hughes,” he said, “how kind of you to attend.”
    The man took his hat off and bowed. “Thank you, sir,” he said easily, “I try to attend them as gets away.”
    Carey smiled. “Still smarting?”
    Hughes smiled back. “No sir, though I’ll allow as I had a rope measured and properly stretched for him. I’m also here to bring the compliments of my brother-in-law and his thanks to your worshipful father for his support of Barnabus Cooke’s family.”
    Carey seemed surprised by this for he paused, and then bowed shallowly. “My father is proud of his good lordship and feels it is the least he could do.”
    “Nonetheless, sir, there’s not many would bother nowadays. My brother-in-law would like you to know that he is obliged to your honours and at your father’s service.”
    With a dignified tip of his hat, Mr. Hughes moved quietly away and through the gate. Carey blinked after him. “Well well,” he said, “that’s interesting.”
    Dodd was irritated that again he didn’t know what was going on here. “Ay?” he complained.
    Carey smiled and led the way to a boozing ken on Fleet Street, filled with a raucous flock of hard-drinking black-robed lawyers and their pamphlet-writing hangers on.
    “That, Sergeant,” he said as he drank brandywine with satisfaction, “is the London hangman. You saw him performing his office yesterday.”
    “Jesu,” said Dodd, feeling slightly queasy.
    “He is also, and this is where it gets interesting, the brother-in-law of the King of London, Mr. Laurence Pickering himself. Who has just as good as offered an alliance to my father for some reason.”
    “The King of London?”
    “Mr. Laurence Pickering, King of the London thieves, chief controller of the London footpads and upright men, main profiter by the labours of the London whores, coming second only to his Grace the Bishop of Winchester who collects their rents.”
    “Ay,” said Dodd with respect. “Is there only the one King of London, then?”
    “Oh yes,” said Carey drily, “Only the one. Now.”
    Wednesday 13th September 1592, morning.
     
    At dawn the next day, itching in tight wool and with a new highcrowned beaver hat on his head, Dodd went with Carey to take a boat at Temple steps with Enys for Westminster Hall. Enys was carrying a sheaf of papers in a blue brocade bag and looked tired with bags under his eyes. He pulled his black robe around him and held his hat tight to his head. It was hard to tell the expression on his face, so thick were the scars from the smallpox, but he looked tense.
    “Sir Robert, is your father providing bailiffs to back up the court staff?” he asked Carey.
    Carey was busy smiling and taking his hat off to a boatload of attractive women heading downstream for London Bridge.
    “Hm? Oh yes, the steward’s arranging for it and they’ll meet us at Westminster once you have the warrant.”
    “Ay, but we’ll niver arrest him, will we?” Dodd said, thinking of Richie Graham of Brackenhill’s likely reaction to any such attempt, never mind Jock o’the Peartree’s. Jock would still be roaring with laughter at the joke as he slit your throat.
    The Hunsdon boat was butting up against the boat landing. Carey and Dodd hopped in, while Enys seemed very nervous of the water and nearly fell as he stepped across. He sat himself down and gripped the seat hard with his hands, swallowing.
    “I rather think we will, Sergeant,” said Enys, “although I’m sure not for long. And as there is no doubt at all that as soon as he’s bailed