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

in the meantime, if you could…ah…be kind enough to leave it with me? Eh?”
    Carey took breath to say that he was not patient and was in fact highly displeased, but Scrope beamed again, patted his shoulder with irritating familiarity and said, “I would love to carry on chatting, Robin, but I simply must go up to the keep and change or Philadelphia will skin me, bless her heart.”
    Carey could do no more than growl at the Lord Warden’s departing back.
    “Ay,” said a doleful voice behind him and Carey turned to see Sergeant Dodd standing there. “Valuable things, guns. So I heard.”
    Carey’s lips tightened with frustration. “Well, Sergeant, thanks to my Lord Warden. I’ve lost the sale of a fifty pound office and you’ve lost about ten pounds in bribes from hopeful candidates trying to get you to put in a good word for them.”
    It hardly seemed possible but Dodd’s face became even longer and more mournful, which gave Carey some satisfaction.
    “Och,” said Dodd, sounding stricken, “I hadnae thought of that.”
    Carey snorted and turned to go back to the Queen Mary Tower to see how much money he could raise for backing Thunder the next day. Dodd fell into step beside him.
    “Lowther’ll gi’ us none of them,” Dodd predicted.
    Carey snorted again.
    “If they’re there at all,” added Dodd thoughtfully.
    “What?”
    “If they’re there…”
    “Are you saying the guns might not have been delivered?”
    “Och, I heard tell there were barrels full o’ something heavy delivered this morning and barrels of gunpowder and all, but I never heard anyone had seen the guns broken out of the barrels.”
    There was a short thoughtful silence.
    “I saw Sir Simon Musgrave testing a caliver in the yard.”
    “I heard him too, the bastard.”
    Strictly speaking Carey should have reprimanded Dodd for talking about one of the Queen’s knights so rudely, but he didn’t like Musgrave either.
    “You know he’s one o’ Sir Henry Widdrington’s best allies,” Dodd added.
    “Hmm.”
    “And I know he proved two calivers, but naebody saw any of the other guns save Sir Richard Lowther and his cousin, the new armoury clerk. And they was mighty quick to change the locks again, so ye couldnae see them yourself, sir.”
    “Hmm.”
    Carey said nothing more because he was thinking. At the foot of the Queen Mary Tower he turned and smiled at Dodd.
    “Could you manage to stay moderately sober tonight, Sergeant?”
    “I might.” Dodd was watching him cautiously.
    “Good. Meet me by the armoury an hour after the midnight guard-change.”
    “Sir, I didnae mean…”
    “Excellent. I’ll see you there, then.”
    Dodd shut his mouth since Carey had already trotted up the spiral stairs and out of sight. “Och, Jesus,” Dodd said to himself sadly. “What the Devil’s he up to now?”
    Saturday, 8th July 1592, evening
    Philadelphia sat at her table in the dining room that presently doubled as a council chamber and stewed with mixed rage and hilarity. This supper party was clearly not going to be an unqualified success. All down the table were ranged the higher ranking of the local gentlemen who had come in for the muster, and some of the hardier wives and women-folk. They were talking well, their faces flushed with spiced wine and the joys of gossip, hardly tasting their food as they thrashed out the two most recent excitements: the inquest into the previous armoury clerk’s death and the raid on Falkland Palace the previous week. Seated with infinite care according to rank and known blood-feuds between them, they were settled in and looked like being no trouble.
    However there was trouble brewing right next to her where her husband sat, his long bony face struggling to appear politely interested. At his right sat Sir Simon Musgrave, and facing Sir Simon was Scrope’s younger brother Harry, who had brought his young wife. The silly girl was tricked out to the nines in Edinburgh fashion, halfway between the