Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) by P. F. Chisholm Page A

both worldly wise and girlish. “She didn’t say. But how could it have been her, Sir Robert? Surely she would simply have married Leicester anyway once the wife was dead and gone, no matter what the scandal? If she’d done it? Once she had damned her soul that way, where was the problem damning herself again? You can only hang once.”
    Clearly Thomasina had been worrying about it, too. She sounded reasonable, but…the Queen was a woman and therefore by nature unreasonable.
    “I’ll need to see the report by the coroner and the inquest jury’s verdict and any witness statements,” he said, hoping to play for time while the documents were searched for and copied.
    Thomasina reached into a box beside her and brought out a sheaf of papers which she handed to him. They were all certified copies, written in the cramped secretary script of one of the older Exchequer clerks.
    “I have to say what I’m investigating when I ask questions. I can’t possibly keep it secret.” Thomasina shrugged again. This was an impossible task, Carey thought with a sigh. “Does Her Majesty know I haven’t yet been paid my wardenry fee?”
    Thomasina looked blank. “You had two chests of coin from her…”
    “They were free loans. This is my fee of £400 which I was also promised. Separate and different.” Nothing. “Mention it to my loving aunt, will you, Mrs. Thomasina? Try and get it into her head that soldiers need to be paid or they won’t fight, that’s all I ask. And by the way…I wanted to ask your…advice on the Bonnettis.”
    “The Italian spies?”
    “Especially Signora Bonnetti.” He looked carefully into space. “I am hoping to introduce her to my lord of Essex to help him with his farm of sweet wines. I want to be sure that the Queen has no objection.” Yes, by God. He’d learned a lesson in Dumfries.
    Thomasina tilted her head. “I will send you a message if there is a problem, Sir Robert. In the meantime…you’ll do it?”
    “I shall think about it,” said Carey, “and then I shall give her an answer.”
    This was the Queen’s invariable answer to anyone who wanted her to do anything at all, in particular marry. Thomasina knew that, too, and smiled briefly. He was joking. He had absolutely no choice in the matter.
    He stood and bowed to the Queen’s Fool.
    When he and the page boy had put back the ladder and climbed carefully down, he was nearly knocked over by two swordsmen hacking at each other with theatrical gusto. He circled the fight, saw it was simply the first veney against the second veney, and slipped out of the tithe barn where he found Hughie waiting for him.
    They walked back to Cumberland’s camp. On the way, Carey spotted an elderly laundress with a big basket of shirts and bought a new shirt for Hughie from her on the spot, had him change into it, and gave her the old one to try and clean. It cost the same as fine linen would in London but was clearly some kind of hemp. Hughie seemed pleased. They walked on, Hughie admiring the whiteness of the shirtsleeves.
    “Is it true,” he asked, “that the Queen canna stand a man wi’ a dirty shirt in her presence?”
    “Very true,” said Carey. “She’s notorious for it.” Hughie was chuckling. “What?”
    “Ah wis just wondering if she’d ever met the King of Scotland?” Hughie sniggered and Carey had to laugh as well. In the unlikely event of Her Majesty the Queen ever being in the same room as the young King, who rarely even wiped his face, let alone washed his body or shifted his shirt, a hail of slippers and fans would be the least His Majesty of Scotland could expect. For certain his subsidy from the English Treasury would suddenly dry up.
    Hughie carried on, shaking his head, to the tiring room while Carey went in search of somewhere relatively peaceful with good light so he could read the inquest papers.
    Saturday 16th September 1592,
late afternoon
    Carey was impressed when he looked at the work young Hughie had done on