Read 3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery for Free Online Page B

opened his doublet buttons to take the pressure off his side, then answered the heavy door himself to a timid knock.
    Surgeon’s fee paid, he decided he could stay awake until the evening. Sleeping during the day always made him feel frowsty and ill-tempered, and he was surprised to find himself so soggy and weary after only one night’s lost sleep. He stamped into his office, rubbing his itchy face, his head aching but the memory of the night’s doings clear. One of the many things he had learned when he attended Sir Francis Walsingham on an embassy to Scotland in the early eighties had been the vital importance of timeliness in intelligence. Burghley was not the spymaster that Sir Francis had been, but he needed to know about James VI’s mysterious German as soon as possible—which meant by Tuesday, with luck. Carey took a sheet of paper, dipped his pen and began to write, hoping that what he was writing was reasonably comprehensible.
    An hour later Philadelphia came hurrying up the stairs, knocked and entered her brother’s bedchamber and found it empty. She heard snoring from the office, went through and found Carey with his head on his arms fast asleep at his desk.
    “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she sniffed, and shook his shoulder gently. “Robin, if that’s a letter to Lord Burghley, you’ll drool on it and smear the ink…”
    Robin grunted. Philly saw his doublet was open, pulled it back and saw blood on his shirt. Her lips tightened.
    Moments later she was in the castle courtyard, sending every available boy scurrying to find Barnabus. The small ferret-faced London servant eventually arrived looking hungover and even uglier than usual.
    “Good day, Barnabus,” she said with freezing civility. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”
    “Er…” said Barnabus.
    “I’m delighted to hear it. Are you free to do your job now?”
    “I didn’t know ‘e was…”
    “When I want to hear your excuses, I’ll ask for them. Now get up there and help me put your master to bed, you lazy, idle, good-for-nothing…”
    “What’s wrong with him?” muttered Barnabus resentfully as they climbed the stairs. “‘E drunk then…?”
    A tremendous backhanded buffet over his ears from Philadelphia almost knocked him over. Barnabus shook his ringing head and blinked at her in astonishment. Seeing her fury, and remembering whose sister she was, he decided not to say the various things he thought of, and carried on up the stairs.
    Carey was extremely unwilling to be woken, but finally came groaning to consciousness and let his doublet and shirt be taken off him so that Philadelphia could attack the re-opened cut with rosewater, aqua vitae and hot water. She peeled the bandages off, making him wince.
    “God damn it, Philly…”
    “Don’t swear, and hold still. You’ve another bad lump on your head, what did that?”
    Carey thought for a moment. “Sim’s Will Croser’s horse kicked me,” he said. “My helmet’s dented.”
    “I’m not surprised. What was he thinking of?”
    Carey blinked and said with dignity, “Insofar as Sim’s Will is capable of thought, I should think he was thinking I was an Elliot.”
    “Hmf. I wish you wouldn’t get into fights.”
    Carey began laughing. “Philadelphia, my sweet, it’s my job.”
    “Hah! Hold still while I…”
    “Ouch!”
    “I told you to hold still. Barnabus, where are you going?”
    “I was only getting a fresh shirt from the laundry.”
    “Bring bandages and the St John’s wort ointment from the stillroom and small beer and some bread and cheese too.”
    “I’m not hungry, Philly.” She bit her lip worriedly and felt his forehead, her gesture exactly like their mother. “No, I’m not sickening. I’m not as delicate as you think me. It’s Long George. He had to have his right hand cut off this morning. His pistol exploded and took most of the fingers from it.”
    “I don’t see what Long George’s hand has got to do with you not eating,” said