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

went out again and reappeared staggering under enormous jugs of water.
    Dodd was almost gobbling with rage. ‘Are ye saying I’m dirty?’
    Carey rolled his eyes. ‘When was the last time you had a bath, Sergeant? I mean all over, not just a rinsing at a pump?’
    ‘I…I…’
    ‘Quite. Come on.’ Carey gestured lazily with the dag. ‘Clothes off.’
    Anthony was arranging the fancy suit on the bed. Water poured and was mixed into the tub. The other two servants left the jugs behind and tiptoed out and Anthony took a dish of soap, a towel and a scrubbing brush and stood beside the tub with a completely blank face, like a statue.
    Slowly, heart thumping with fury, Dodd undid his laces, hung his jerkin on a hook on the back of the door, and stripped off to his shirt.
    ‘All the way,’ Carey said.
    ‘But it’s no’ Christmas,’ Dodd pleaded. ‘Why would I need a bath in August? And I swam in the Esk in June.’
    ‘Humour me, Sergeant. Put it down to a chronic madness instilled by a Queen who bathes every single month, winter or summer.’
    ‘Every month? Ye dinnae do that, d’ye sir? It’s no’ healthy.’
    ‘No, of course I don’t, unless I’m actually at court. Nonetheless. Even when it’s not Christmas, if you are going to sit at my father’s supper table, you are going to do it in a civilised manner.’
    Mad. The Courtier and all his family were clearly as lunatic as they come. Carey in particular should be in Bedlam hospital, not casually pointing a dag at his Sergeant. Setting his jaw, Dodd pulled off his shirt and dipped a toe into the water, which had rosemary leaves in it, by Christ. What did they think he was, some kind of catamite? The water was hot but he decided not to complain about it as he got in and sat down cautiously, put his hand out for the soap.
    Half an hour later, skin tingling from the soap and the scrubbing brush, Dodd got out again and resentfully allowed himself to be towelled dry by Anthony, who had also trimmed and nit-combed his hair while he was helpless in the bath.
    ‘Now what?’ he growled at Carey who was still sitting at ease by the window, dag beside him on a little table, reading the book about hunting. For answer Carey lifted his eyebrows at Anthony.
    The shirt was of the finest linen Dodd had ever seen, and astonishingly clean, though at least it had no fancy embroidery on it. He pulled it on while Anthony carefully toed his own shirt and netherstocks into a pile by the door. The valet then began the ridiculously complicated business of dressing Dodd in a fashionable suit. He even used needle and thread to alter it on Dodd’s body, shortening and letting out the waist. The shoulders were tight but when Dodd mentioned it, Carey smiled.
    ‘They’re meant to be tight, it’s the padding. Now what are you going to wear on your neck? I’ve brought a ruff and a falling band.’
    ‘Not a ruff, please, sir,’ begged Dodd. ‘I cannae wear a ruff.’
    ‘Fair enough. The falling band it is, Anthony.’
    How the Courtier could bear to wear such tight clothes all the time, Dodd had no idea. His chest felt imprisoned and his shoulders were firmly pulled back by the cut of the doublet. The servants who had brought the bathwater returned, wheeling a large mirror, and Dodd squinted at the stranger standing awkwardly in it, wearing his face.
    ‘There,’ said Carey with satisfaction. ‘That’s much better.’
    ‘Is it, sir?’ said Dodd hollowly. ‘Ah cannae see it maself.’
    Carey stood up. He was already trimly turned out in brocade and tawny satin, Dodd noticed, the width of his ruff just this side of looking daft. But it suited him. Dodd felt he was a laughing stock, all dollied up in clothes he had no business wearing.
    Anthony handed him his sword belt which he shrugged over his shoulder.
    ‘I’ve brought some jewels, if you care to wear them,’ offered Carey.
    ‘No, sir,’ said Dodd firmly.
    ‘Suit yourself. Now listen to me, Dodd. This is London. Nobody