3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm

stared fixedly at the boy as the gentlemen listened with interest.
    “…he’s a strong nag, an’ willing,” Hutchin finished after an imperceptible change of course. “And I’d be willing, sir, it’d be good practice.”
    “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed if he proved slower than you expected,” said Carey gravely.
    “Och, nay, sir, I wouldnae expect him to win, not wi’ Mr Salkeld’s bonny mare in the race and all,” said Young Hutchin, all wide blue eyes and innocence.
    Mr Salkeld was standing beside Carey and gave a modest snort.
    “Well, she shapes prettily enough,” he admitted. “Prettily enough, certainly.”
    “Hm,” temporised Carey artfully. “I’m not sure it would be worth it.”
    Mr Salkeld took out his purse.
    “Sir Robert,” he said with a friendly smile, “I can see ye’re too modest for your own good. How about a little bet to make it worth your while?”
    “Well…”
    “I’ll do better than that. I’ll give ye odds of two to one that my pretty little mare can beat your great Thunder.”
    “Now I think you’re being modest, Mr Salkeld.”
    “Three to one, and my hand on it. Shall we say five pounds?”
    They shook gravely while Carey wondered where he could find five pounds at short notice if he had to.
    After that nothing would do but that Scrope must show the gentlemen his lymer bitch who had pupped on the Deputy Warden’s bed at the beginning of the week. There was little to see at the back of the pupping kennel, beyond yellow fur and an occasional sprawling paw, while the bitch lifted her lip at them and growled softly. Carey waited while the rest of them went off to examine some sleuth-dog puppies, then put his hand near her muzzle. She sniffed, whined, thumped her tail and let him pat her head.
    “I should think so,” said Carey, pleased. “Where’s your gratitude, eh? I want that big son of yours, my girl, and don’t forget it.”
    “Sir Robert,” hissed a young voice behind him and Carey turned to see Young Hutchin slouching there. He smiled at the boy who smiled back and transformed his truculent face into something much younger and more pleasant.
    “Now then,” Carey said warily.
    Hutchin drew a deep breath. “When I take Thunder out for his evening run, will I let anybody see him?”
    “Certainly,” said Carey. “Let them see he’s no miracle.”
    Young Hutchin nodded and grinned in perfect understanding.
    Scrope and his party returned and Carey tagged along while they wandered down to the Captain’s gate to look at the alterations and refurbishments being done to the Warden’s Lodgings in the gate-house. Finally the gentlemen went off into Carlisle town which was already getting noisy and Carey at last had Scrope to himself.
    Scrope, however, did not want to talk about the armoury clerkship or the weapons. He chatted about horses, he held forth on Buttercup the lymer bitch’s ancestry and talents, he spoke hopefully that some of the falcons might be out of moult soon, he congratulated Carey on the venison his patrol had brought in and the sheep which was being butchered even now, and he regretted at length the sad news about Long George.
    At last Carey’s patience cracked. “My lord,” he said, breaking into a long reminiscence about a tiercel bird Scrope had hunted with five years before. “Will you be issuing the new weapons for the muster?”
    “Oh ah, no, no, Robin, not at all, never done for a muster, you know.”
    “But for God’s sake, my lord, even the Graham women have bloody pistols and my men are only armed with longbows.”
    “Never done, my dear chap, simply never done. Now don’t huff at me…”
    “I would have taken it very kindly if you had waited to consult me over the temporary clerk to the…”
    “Quite so, quite so, I’m sure you would.” Scrope beamed densely. “Very patient of you, bit of a mix up over the armoury clerkship, and once it’s all sorted out, we’ll look into the matter, of course, but