breath smelled of stale beer and onions through his ginger moustache.
“Get up, you,” he ordered.
I tried to sit, and the night’s excesses caught me like a fist to the head; I leaned forward and exhaled slowly while I regained my balance.
“What are you doing in here?” Edmonton said, in the same peremptory tone.
“Sleeping,” I said. “At least, I was.”
“Well, you can get up now. You’re under arrest.”
“What?” I pushed myself upright and winced as I leaned my weight on my bruised hand. A vivid image of Nick Kingsley’s bloodied face flashed in my memory. “Is it a crime to sleep in the stables?”
Edmonton allowed himself a little sarcastic laugh.
“Not compared to what you’re accused of, no.”
It began to dawn on me that he might be serious. I looked past him and saw Marina shifting anxiously at his shoulder.
“You didn’t come back last night,” she said, reproachfully. “I didn’t know where to find you, otherwise—” She glanced at the constable and held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness in the face of the law.
“This is absurd,” I said, remaining seated and tucking my bruised fist into my armpit. I could only assume young Kingsley had accused me of theft and assault. Just in case, I reached down with my left hand and began surreptitiously untying the leather pouch from my belt. If I were to be searched, I did not want anyone finding the copied keys or the papers I had taken from Fitch’s fireplace.
“Don’t make difficulties,” Edmonton said, as if the prospect wearied him. Then he moved to the door, shielding his eyes against the dawn light, and uttered a barking command. In the instant that his back was turned, I pulled the pouch from my belt and stuffed it firmly down behind the straw bale I was sitting on, until it was out of sight. There was just time to tuck my hands between my knees before two tall young men carrying pikestaffs appeared in the doorway of the stable.
“Are you going to walk with us of your own accord, eh?” Edmonton jerked his head towards the guards.
I stood up and felt my legs buckle beneath me for a moment. I hoped Edmonton had not noticed.
“Can you tell me what am I arrested for?”
“Murder,” he said, shortly.
A ripple of panic spread through me. Had Nick Kingsley died from his injury in the night?
“No—there is some mistake,” I protested. “Whose murder?”
“The apothecary William Fitch.” There was a note of satisfaction in Edmonton’s voice.
“
“Your name was written in his ledger from the day before.”
“With many others, surely—”
“Doctor Ezekiel Sykes has given testimony that he was leaving Fitch’s shop when you arrived. There is no name after yours in the ledger. That makes you the last person to see him alive, and the first to see him dead.”
“But that is not true!” I grasped at his sleeve in alarm. “It is the other way around—I was leaving as Sykes arrived. He asked Fitch to lock the shop door so they could talk in private.”
Edmonton merely raised an eyebrow.
“You are asking me to believe that our Doctor Sykes is deliberately lying to the law? And why would he do that, do you suppose? What would he gain?”
I pressed my lips together tightly. There seemed only one possible answer to that; Sykes was sharp enough to point the finger at me before I had a chance to tell anyone that he had been Fitch’s last visitor on the evening he was killed, knowing that the word of a stranger and a foreigner would not stand against that of a respected physician. Which meant—what? That Sykes had killed Fitch himself? At the very least it suggested he was implicated. I stared at the constable, knowing that to accuse the physician of lying would only make my situation worse. A legion of confused thoughts chased one another through my clouded brain. There was the half-burned page from the ledger in the fireplace showing Sykes’s purchase of—what had it been? I ransacked my memory, trying to picture the torn paper. Then I realised.
“
“What did you say?”
“I only said, ‘My God,’ in my own tongue.”
“Huh.” He regarded me for a moment, then reluctantly dropped my wrist. “Praying won’t help you now, and neither will blasphemy. Take him away,” he added, nodding to the guards. The taller of the two stepped forward and made as if to grab hold of my arm; I shook him off, grasping at Edmonton’s shirt.
“Wait—you can’t arrest me, I have done nothing! Fetch Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral—he will vouch for me. Or Dean Rogers. They will tell you I am a friend and a respectable scholar.”
“We’ll see.”
“I have friends at the royal court.”
“And I’m the King of Cockaigne.”
Edmonton brushed my hand away, wrinkling his mouth in irritation, as the guards moved in to grasp me hard by the arms. I realised there was little point in struggling; my best hope was to submit and rely on Harry’s standing to protect me. He would not be pleased at the unwelcome attention I had once again drawn to him, but I was sure he would do everything possible to help me. At least, I had to hope so. Was this what Langworth had in mind when he spoke to Samuel of an idea to keep me out of trouble? I caught Marina’s eye over Edmonton’s shoulder.
“Doctor Robinson at the cathedral—let him know what has happened. Please?”
She wagged a finger in mock reproach, as if this whole business were a great joke.
“If you will go wandering about at night, sir. You have still not paid me for the orange.”
“When I get back,” I called, as the soldiers dragged me towards the gate. “But tell Harry Robinson.” She winked, and I hoped she would at least carry out my request; I had no faith that Edmonton would. At that moment, I would have paid almost any price.
I was marched through the streets towards the West Gate. Grey morning light only just brushed the sky; I was fortunate that not many people were about. Even so, I kept my head down, trying to hide my face. At the foot of one of the vast drum towers, we stopped and one of the guards rapped briskly on a door set into the wall. The other deftly removed my belt with my knife and handed it to Edmonton. There came a jangling of keys and the door was opened by a squat man in a dirty smock with shoulders like an ox and his front teeth missing.
“For the love of God, Constable, I’ve no more room,” he complained, looking me up and down and turning to Edmonton. “They’ve brought prisoners in from all over the county for the assizes next week. Where am I supposed to put him?”
“Put him in with the other murderers. Make sure you lock him up soundly—he’s dangerous.”
“I’m not,” I said. “And I haven’t killed anyone.” The gaoler looked at me briefly and curled his lip.
“If I had sixpence for every one of you that said that. Go on up, then, we’ll shove him in somewhere.”
The guards pushed me in the back towards the door. Edmonton stood with his arms crossed, looking pleased with his morning’s work.
“See you at the assizes,” he said.
I stared at him.
“You cannot leave me in here until the assizes!”
He laughed. “Then you had better find someone to stand bail for you. Good luck with that.”
“Harry Robinson will stand bail—you must send for him. And take care of that knife—I want it back!” I was dragged inside the prison door before I could finish the sentence. As it closed behind me, I caught a last glimpse of Edmonton with that infuriating smirk still painted on his face. He had no intention of sending for Harry if he could help it, I was sure. Had he not as good as told me that the appearance of justice counted for more than the truth of it in this town? The sight of a foreigner hung for Fitch’s murder would please the gallows crowd, but it would please
