4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm

touched the carved babies rioting with grape vines across the mantelpiece: he liked to whittle on wood himself and appreciated fine workmanship.
    At last he shucked his clothes down to his shirt, left them folded on the chest, drew the curtains around the bed and climbed gingerly in, sliding between ice-smooth linen sheets that had not only never been slept in by another body but must have been ironed as well. By God, what it was to have hordes of servants, he thought, as he shut his eyes and snuggled into the softness of the pillows.
    Half an hour later he turned over for the forty-fourth time and opened his eyes. It was no good. He couldn’t sleep. He was used to sleeping alone—the jealously guarded privilege of his own cubbyhole next to the bunkroom of the barracks at Carlisle was normally his sole domain. But the fact remained that this bed was bigger than that entire tiny room. The vast spaces of the chamber outside the curtains, unpeopled by friendly farting snoring humanity, made him as nervous as a horse in an empty stable.
    He got up, wandered around the room again, peered out of the window, swatted an enterprising mosquito and then found the jug of spiced wine. That was a blessing. Sipping lukewarm spiced syrup from the silver goblet provided, he looked again out of the window and saw someone moving on the Strand. Those bailiffs weren’t giving up; two men in buff coats were watching the gatehouse like cats at a mousehole.
    Thursday, 31st August 1592, morning
    Next morning Dodd had a slight headache from the spiced wine but felt happier than he could remember after sleeping so late and waking in solitary state with no one hammering on the door telling him the Grahams were over the Border or Gilsland was under siege. God knew what was going on at home with the whole Border Country as stirred up as it was, but what could he do about it? A man-servant brought in his breakfast on a tray and seemed surprised to find him already up and dressed.
    Sitting by the window again, he ate fine white manchet bread with fresh-made butter and cheese and drank ale as nutty and sweet as Bessie’s. It was fine to look down on all the folk milling around, working hard, and the shops opening up with a rattle of shutters. And it was staggering the wealth here; even the prentices had velvet sleeves and the kitchen maids wore silk ribbons and fine hats. How would you pillage London, Dodd wondered, where would you begin? Fetching the spoils away might be a problem—there didn’t seem to be many horses around. Most people were on foot.
    There was a knock on the door and Carey entered, resplendent in black velvet and brocade, a suit Dodd didn’t think he had seen before. He had obviously been up since well before sunrise and was full of plans. He instantly destroyed the restful peace of the morning.
    ‘Morning, Sergeant,’ he said cheerfully, strode to the window and peered out. His brows knitted. ‘Christ, we’re under siege.’
    Dodd looked out again at once, but couldn’t see any armed concourse of men, so assumed the Courtier was exaggerating about debt-collectors again. ‘Oh ay?’
    Carey paced up and down tiringly. ‘I was going to slip out by river this morning, have a look round, but there was a whole boatload of ’em waiting by the steps. And there are four that I recognise on the Strand now.’
    Dodd nodded mournfully, though in fact he had rarely been more tickled by a situation in his life. God, whatever else you could say about the Courtier, he was very entertaining.
    ‘Ay, they were keepin’ watch here last night.’
    ‘Were they?’ Carey was only confirmed in his disgust. Off he went pacing again.
    ‘Er…sir,’ said Dodd tactfully. ‘Yer father’s a man o’ substance and wealth.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Could he not…er…pay ’em off, sir?’
    The Courtier smiled sadly, wandered over to check the wine jug, lifted his eyebrows at Dodd and then poured himself a gobletful and knocked it back.
    ‘Well, he