Most of the gentlemen in front of him had fought their own battles, perhaps one or two of the elder ones even with Carey’s own father, during the Northern Rising. They were listening gravely, a couple of them nodding.
‘Here we have the woman who might have done it, Mrs Atkinson herself. She is wearing now what she was wearing that morning, according to all witnesses. Can you see bloodstains on it?’
Their eyes swivelled to where Mrs Atkinson stood and took in the fact that although her clothes were dirty, there were no bloodstains.
‘She is a woman, gentlemen. God made woman to serve man and accordingly he made her weaker, more timorous and less apt to violence. Is it believable she could have cut her own husband’s throat, a dreadful crime and against all nature, and then gone downstairs immediately, spoken with her daughter, set a tray with breakfast, and gone up again? Of course not. Even if she could have done it, why should she? She is not mad nor melancholy. Even if she was such a wicked Jezebel as to turn against her rightful lord, why should she do it in such a way that she was bound to be suspected?’
Apart from Thomas Lowther, whom Cicero himself could not possibly have convinced, the other gentlemen were looking encouragingly puzzled.
‘Well, gentlemen, although I cannot claim to be a learned lawyer, I did finally bring myself to ask the lawyer’s question, cui bono? Who benefits? Who could possibly benefit from James Atkinson’s death? And in particular, who could benefit from the manner of it? The very bloody manner of it which guaranteed that Mrs Atkinson would be accused of the crime of petty treason and would most likely burn.’
He paused impressively to let them think about it and a tiny thought darted through his mind like a silver fish that here was a surprise, the world could be focused down to an intoxicating point of intensity outside a card game or a battlefield. For a second he was intrigued and happy and then he turned his attention back to the jury.
‘Cui bono?’ he said again. ‘Well, gentlemen, it’s important you know that in a case of proven murder, the murderer’s property goes to the victim’s family.’
Lancelot Carleton was frowning at him. ‘Yes, gentlemen. Mr Atkinson’s death would normally mean that Mrs Atkinson inherited his goods and property, including the house where they lived. However, if she was arraigned and burned as his murderer, neither she nor her children could enjoy the gain. Instead, all the property would pass to Mr Atkinson’s family. In this case, to Mrs Matilda Leigh, nee Atkinson, his half-sister, and of course, her husband Mr John Leigh, draper, and their next-door-neighbour.’
It was terribly satisfying to listen to all the gasps around him. Carey swept his glance around the packed marketplace, took in Scrope who had his fingers interlaced and a surprised expression on his face, and Edward Aglionby whose expression was very intent and then went back to the jury who were staring at him with their mouths open.
‘Your honour,’ he said to the Coroner. ‘May I call first Mr Leigh, then Julia Coldale, maidservant to Mrs Atkinson, and then return to Mr Leigh?’
Aglionby wanted to hear the story too. He nodded immediately.
John Leigh reluctantly took the oath.
‘Mr Leigh,’ said Carey, pointedly putting his hat back on his head. ‘Is it true that you have a long-running lawsuit in Chancery over the ownership of Mr James Atkinson’s town house?’
Leigh looked from side to side and nodded.
‘Speak up, please.’
‘Ay,’ he said with an effort. ‘It’s true.’
‘Is it true that the case was costing you a great deal of money you could ill-afford, but you wanted the house in order to expand your business and your family into it?’
‘Ay,’ muttered Leigh.
‘Your wife was estranged from her half-brother; the lawsuit made things worse, especially when the young lawyer the Atkinsons had retained then married the daughter of the judge in the case and might have gained from that a great deal of influence.’
Leigh nodded again, caught himself and said, ‘Ay. I cannot deny it, sir.’
‘Thank you, that’s all for the moment. Mr Bell, will you call Julia Coldale?’
The girl came slowly forwards, leaning on Philadelphia’s solicitous arm, and despite the obvious pain in her throat, enjoying herself. So was Philadelphia, Carey saw, despite her serious expression.
Carey had Julia stand close to the jury so they could hear her, and also see the marks on her throat.
Julia said she was a cousin of Kate Atkinson’s and she was serving her to learn houswifery. The sun was high overhead by now and the heat causing sweat to trickle down Carey’s spine.
‘What happened early on Monday morning, Miss Coldale?’ he asked the girl.
Julia coughed, took a deep breath. ‘A man stopped me in the street when I was going to Mrs Atkinson’s house-I live with my sister in Carlisle, sir-and he asked would I do him a favour for five shillings and I said I wasnae that kind of woman, and he said no, it was only to open a window shutter in the Atkinsons’ bedroom, so he could throw a message in.’
She spoke slowly and huskily and leaned a little forward to Carey.
‘Who was the man?’
As he asked the question there was a sound behind Carey, tantalisingly familiar and yet out of place, not quite the whip of a bow, more a…
The small crossbow bolt sprouted like an evil weed, a little above and to the side of Julia Coldale’s left breast. She jerked, looked down and stared, put her hand up uncertainly to touch the black rod, then slid softly to the cobblestones.
The marketplace erupted. Over the shouting and screaming and the open-mouthed astonishment of the jury, half of whom instinctively had their swords out, Carey caught Aglionby’s eye. The man was astonished, swelling with outrage, but he wasn’t panicking.
‘Mr Mayor, shut the gates,’ Carey said to him, quite conversationally under the din, knowing the different pitch would get through to him when a shout would be lost.
Aglionby nodded once, was on his feet and up the steps to the market cross.
There was a thunk! beside him and Carey turned to see a crossbow bolt stuck into the table wood quite close by. Is he shooting at me or the Mayor, he wondered coldly, moving back. Scrope was also on his feet, sword out, looking about him for the sniper as aggressively as a man with no chin could. The trouble with crossbows was that they made very little sound, didn’t smoke and didn’t flash.
The towncrier’s bell jangled from the market cross.
‘Trained bands o’ Carell city,’ boomed the Mayor’s voice and some of the noise paused to hear him speak. ‘Denham’s troop to Caldergate, Beverley’s troop to Scotchgate, Blennerhasset’s troop to Botchergate, close the gates; we’ll shut the City. At the double now, lads, run!’
One of the jurors had already run up the steps and was ringing the townbell. Moments later the Cathedral bell answered it. Three bodies of the men-at-arms around the marketplace peeled off and ran in three different directions.
Another bolt twanged off the stone cross beside Aglionby and he gasped and flinched, but stayed where he was.
‘Sir Robert,’ he called. ‘D’ye ken the name o’ the man makin’ this outrage?’
‘Jock Burn,’ said Carey instantly.