A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm Page A

Dodd rebelliously. It was typical of Carey that he let some bunch of Berwickmen have all the fun.
    The bailiff was speaking to Heneage’s steward whose expression was one of astonishment and horror. Not only, explained the bailiff, was there a warrant for Mr. Heneage’s arrest, there was also a warrant to search the house for him if he didn’t come out, which warrant they were minded to execute immediately.
    The steward was objecting that Mr. Vice Chamberlain was not there, had gone out, had never been there and…The bailiffs shouldered past him, followed by Mr. Enys, who was wearing an oddly fixed and intent expression.
    There was a sound of shouting and feet thundering on stairs. Carey’s face clouded. “Hang on,” he said, “that’s not right.”
    He headed for the door and brushed past the still protesting steward, followed by Dodd who was pleased to be in at the kill.
    The house was expensively oak panelled and diamond-paned, there was an extremely fine cupboard with its carved doors shut, and the steps going down to the cellar truly reeked.
    The bailiffs had fanned out and were checking all the doors. Enys had hurried down the stairs and into the arched cellar where there were a few barrels of wine and a central pillar. Barred windows level with the courtyard paving let in some light. Bolted to the pillar about eight foot off the ground was a pair of iron manacles. Somebody had dug a pit in the earth underneath them which was soiled with turds. The manacles were darkened and rusty with blood.
    Carey paused, took a deep breath and then went forward to where Enys was opening both of the smaller doors that gave onto two further cellars that were tiny, damp, and had not been cleaned since last there were prisoners there. However they were otherwise empty and Enys turned away, the shadows making his face hard to read, though Dodd could have sworn he saw a glint of something on the man’s face.
    “Who were you looking for?” Carey said quietly, his hand on Enys’s narrow shoulder.
    “No one…” Enys looked down. “My brother. I heard…I was afraid…Heneage might have taken him.”
    “So you used me and my father…”
    “No sir,” said Enys, looking straight at him. “It’s clear that Heneage was warned to be away from here by someone, probably the clerk of the court. But we had to make the attempt to begin the case.”
    Carey nodded. “And? Is Cecil involved in this? Raleigh?”
    Enys shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, sir, only I had to try. My brother has been missing for over two weeks. We should leave immediately so we can…”
    Carey took his hand away from his sword. “Oh not so fast,” he drawled. “I think we should check more carefully for Mr. Vice. Now we’re here.”
    Starting at the top of the house, moving from one room to the other while the Cornishmen stood around the steward and the couple of valets busied themselves with the horses in the stables, Carey searched the place methodically. In one room that had a writing desk and a number of books in it, he found a pile of papers newly ciphered which he swept into a convenient post bag. In a chest he found another stack of rolled parchment, one of which he opened. He whistled.
    “Mother would be interested by these,” he said. “It seems our Mr. Vice has been busy buying lands in Cornwall—look.”
    Dodd looked, squinted, and sighed because the damned thing was not only in a cramped secretary hand but was clearly in some form of foreign.
    “You can see it’s a deed—see the word ‘Dedo’ which means I give, and that says ‘Comitatis Cornwallensis’—which means Cornwall. We’ll just borrow this one, I think.” Carey dropped it in the bag.
    There was a book on the desk, much thumbed, which Carey looked at and which turned out to be Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
    Dodd had been attending to the cupboard with the carved doors. Eventually the lock broke and he opened it. There was a nice haul of silver.
    “Jesu, Sergeant,