by C. J. Sansom
Brick walls abutted the lane now. We came to a pair of open iron gates, giving us a view of a modern red-brick manor house, long chimneys reaching to the sky. I noticed the knot gardens in front of the house were starting to run wild, the flowerbeds full of weeds.
‘So this is where John Boleyn lives?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes,’ Toby answered. ‘A far cry from Norwich Castle gaol.’
We rode slowly up the path. As we approached the main door a tall bearded man in his thirties, with red hair and a solid body already starting to run to fat, came out. He was carrying a mounting block. ‘I am Serjeant Shardlake,’ I said. ‘A lawyer appointed by Master Copuldyke to look into the case against John Boleyn. Is Mistress Isabella at home?’
The man frowned. ‘We didn’t know there had been a change of lawyer.’
‘I am acting as Master Copuldyke’s agent. I have a letter of authority. And you will recognize Goodman Lockswood.’
‘Ay. God give you good morrow, Toby.’
‘And you, Daniel. We are here to help if we can.’ Toby turned to me. ‘This is Master Boleyn’s steward, Daniel Chawry.’
The steward bowed to each of us in turn. ‘I fear when you have dismounted I must ask you to help me take the horses to the stables. There are no other male servants now.’
‘Is it just Mistress Isabella at home?’ I had feared the twins might have returned, but Chawry answered, ‘Just her, her maid and me. The other servants left when the master was taken away.’
I nodded sympathetically. Association with scandal, particularly something as horrible as this, often drove servants to leave a house. We dismounted, a twinge below my shoulder blade reminding me my back had not quite settled down. Chawry led us round the side of the house to a stable block. There was a smaller, separate stable beside it, and as we passed it we heard a loud neighing and the crash of hooves. Barak asked, ‘Is that the fabled Midnight?’
‘It is. The only horse left apart from the mistress’s. Thank God his stable is built of strong oak and he’s well penned in; I throw his food over the top of his stall. I haven’t dared go in there to muck it out.’
I passed the reins of my horse to Barak and walked across to the little stable. So this was where the boots and hammer were found. I glanced at the door; it was firmly chained and padlocked and I saw that it was flush with the wall at the top, and with the step at the bottom. Nobody could have flung the hammer and boots in there from outside. I walked round the building. There was a shuttered window at the rear; I pulled at it; it was locked from inside. My action set off another round of frantic neighing and kicking from within. I returned to the front of the building. There was a small gap of a quarter inch or so between two boards and I peered inside. It was almost totally dark, but as my eyes adjusted I caught a glimpse of the whites of the rolling eyes of a horse. I stepped away. ‘Is it not cruel to keep the horse in darkness?’ I asked Chawry.
‘That window’s bolted from the inside. To get to it you’d have to go past Midnight’s stall, and that’s within kicking range. But I have the key since Master Boleyn was taken away; I can let you in if you like,’ he added, a little insolently.
‘I think not,’ I said dryly.
‘Master Boleyn is very keen to sell Midnight as soon as possible for some reason; he has asked me, through Isabella, to arrange it. It is not proving easy.’
We tied up our horses in the other stable, then Chawry led us into the house, asking us to wait in the hallway while he went to find his mistress. It was a pleasant place, finely furnished, an expensive tapestry of an idealized rural scene, all nymphs and shepherds, dominating the hallway. I noticed, though, balls of dust in the corners.
Chawry returned and told us Mistress Boleyn would receive us. I noticed he used the name she was not strictly entitled to now. I signed to Barak and Toby to wait – I did not want to overwhelm the woman – and Nicholas and I followed the steward into a parlour, well furnished but with the same slightly neglected air as the rest of the house. An unusually pretty, buxom woman in her early thirties, with blonde hair under a sober black hood, stood with her hands clasped in front of her. We bowed, and I introduced myself and Nicholas.
‘Master Copuldyke has asked you to help my husband?’ Her voice had a strong Norfolk accent.
‘He wishes me to investigate the whole case thoroughly, to see whether new light can be cast on the murder.’
‘God bless her grace the Lady Elizabeth,’ Isabella said feelingly. ‘But there is so little time now. Only six days –’
‘I know. I visited your husband in Norwich Castle yesterday; he asked me to send you his love, and thank you for the food you have provided him with.’
‘I have some more. Could you take it back with you today? Otherwise he’ll have no vittles to chaw, the prison provides nothing.’
‘Most certainly.’
She raised a hand to brush away a strand of blonde hair. ‘Since our cook left I have done nothing but prepare dishes for John. ’Tis as well I have experience from when I worked at the inn.’ She fixed me with her large, dark blue eyes. ‘You will know my former work. John’s neighbours have despised him since he brought me to the house. Do you despise me, sir, for what I was, and for living in sin for years?’
This was remarkably direct, but also very brave. ‘Certainly not. I will do anything within my power to help you.’
‘And I,’ Nicholas added. He looked at Isabella, obviously appreciative of her unusual beauty. I said, ‘May we sit down, and ask some questions? Master Nicholas will make notes.’ I added, ‘They will inevitably be personal ones.’
‘Of course. Daniel, would you leave us?’ Chawry bowed and turned to go. He paused at the door and gave Isabella a look which seemed to me to have longing in it, though Isabella appeared not to notice. When he had gone she said quietly, ‘Of course you know that at law I am no longer John’s wife. Yet I know that if he is found not guilty, he will return and take care of us just as he did in the years before Edith was found dead.’
‘That is good to know.’ I coughed. ‘I believe you first met your husband about ten years ago.’
‘Yes, when I was working at the inn. John used to come there to escape his life at home. He told me of his troubles with Edith – though I would not have had this terrible thing happen to her – and with his sons, who, though no more than eight, were already’ – her mouth twisted in distaste – ‘cruel and vicious.’
Nicholas said. ‘We have already had the pleasure of meeting Gerald and Barnabas.’
‘I started by feeling sorry for John. I could see he was a decent man struggling with a sad fate. And over the months – we came to love each other.’ She looked at me with a defiant air. ‘People do, despite differences in age and status, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ I answered feelingly. I smiled, then asked, ‘Did you ever meet Edith?’
‘Never. But I heard enough stories from John, and later from the servants and neighbours. About her sour disposition, her lack of care for her children, her sometimes starving herself for no reason. John said he had begun to think she was mad. And then some gossiping muck-spout told her about us, and not long after she vanished. Later, when it was clear she was not coming back, John asked me to come and stay. Oh, he warned me the local gentry would be scandalized and the twins would be a trial. But I loved him, and agreed.’
I hesitated, then said, ‘Did he ever tell you that he had asked Edith to give him more children?’
She looked at me boldly for a moment. ‘Yes, but she refused. He had argued with her at first, but he told me that soon he came not to care, that long before he met me he had come to feel the same revulsion for his wife that Edith seemed to feel towards him.’
I exchanged a glance with Nicholas. This was not the story that Gawen Reynolds’s steward Michael Vowell had told us yesterday. I said, ‘Forgive me for asking this. Once you and John were living together, you had no children. Was that a deliberate decision?’
Isabel
la sighed. ‘I did not want a child out of wedlock. John wanted more children. He hated the idea of the twins as his only heirs, and he tried to persuade me for a while’ – she reddened, and looked down – ‘but in the end accepted my refusal. We – we took precautions, in the ways countryfolk know. I told John that if ever we could marry, I should be happy to give him a child. And so, when we married after Edith was declared dead, we tried.’ She sighed. ‘But we have not yet been blessed with a child.’ She shook her head wearily. ‘If I had known what was going to happen this year, I would have tried to give him one years ago.’ She took a deep breath, her face reddening again, and I realized how hard it must be to speak so frankly to a stranger. Again she struck me as brave, not bold.
I said quietly, ‘And when you came to live at Brikewell, how were matters with the twins?’
She looked me in the eye. ‘They hated me from the beginning, as I came to hate and then fear them. No matter what my husband did, they were uncontrollable.’
‘I heard no tutor would stay.’
‘They tied one poor young man up with ropes, and rolled him down the stairs. A wonder he didn’t break his neck. Another tutor they stripped naked in the schoolroom, then took him out and dumped him on the lawn. He was the last. They were fourteen then, already strong as horses and pestering the women servants. Always the two of them acting together. Since John was taken, I have been afraid of them, but thank the Lord they have decided to throw themselves on the protection of their grandfather, fearing they will be made wards of the King if my husband is –’ She broke off, finally losing control, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away fiercely with a handkerchief and said, ‘Go on, Master Shardlake. Forgive my womanish ways.’
‘Do you know their grandfather, Master Gawen Reynolds? I met him yesterday. A choleric old man.’
‘I have never seen him. He would have nothing to do with me, though the twins visited him often. Birds of a feather, I think.’
‘He seems to indulge them.’
She shrugged. ‘Let him. I will be happy never to see them again.’
I said, ‘There is one other, very important matter. According to your deposition, on the night of Edith’s murder your husband told you he was going to look at some documents in his study, and asked not to be disturbed. For two hours you did not actually see him.’
‘Yes. He has a quarrel, as you will know, with his neighbour, Witherington. Poor John, always people conspire to make his life difficult.’
‘Those missing two hours are very important.’
Isabella frowned. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? When John was first arrested and I went to see him in prison, I offered to say I had gone to his study during those hours and spoken to him. But he would not let me, he said it would be perjury and if I were discovered, I would be in trouble. You see, Master Shardlake, what a devoted husband John is.’
‘And what a devoted wife you are.’ I said softly. ‘Nicholas, make no record of what Mistress Boleyn just said about perjury.’
‘I heard her say nothing about that.’ He smiled, and Isabella smiled faintly in return.
‘Where do you think he was those two hours?’ I asked.
Isabella looked at me hard. ‘In his study.’
I asked, ‘Will you alone be giving evidence in your husband’s favour at the trial?’
Isabella set her mouth firmly. ‘Yes. I shall say he was the best of husbands, and that I cannot believe he murdered Edith.’
‘One final question. Have you any idea who could have killed her?’
She shook her head. ‘Believe me, I have thought and thought on it but I can find no answer. Leonard Witherington wants part of our land, but surely not enough to put himself under suspicion of murder.’
‘And the twins?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Bad as they are, I believe that those boys loved their mother.’
‘They seem to show no sorrow at her death.’
‘That is their way. They would think it weak.’
‘I see.’ I smiled at her. ‘Finally, let me give you a little advice. I admire the forthright way in which you have answered me. But in court you should be – perhaps a little more humble in manner, a little more subdued. And do not be afraid to be tearful. A tearful woman can make a jury sympathetic.’
‘You think me too bold? Believe me, facing people down has been my lot these last nine years.’
‘I understand, Mistress Boleyn. But remember, the jury.’
‘I will. And when I come to think of what will happen to my husband if he is found guilty, the tears will come soon enough.’ She bowed her head, then looked up. ‘Find the murderer, please. For the sake of my husband, and that poor wretched Edith.’
Chapter Sixteen
I told Isabella that I was going next to visit the scene of the murder, and asked if Chawry might accompany us. She agreed readily, and went to find him. Nicholas and I returned to the hall, and brought Barak and Toby, who were chatting amiably, up to date.
‘She is a woman of courage and spirit,’ I said. ‘And obviously devoted to her husband.’
‘A little too bold for her own good,’ Toby said. ‘I’ve heard she can be as fierce as any fine lady in dealing with complaints from the tenants. The jury may think her a hussy.’
‘I have advised her to be humble. And I do not forget she had as good a motive as her husband to get rid of Edith, but not for displaying her body like that.’
Nicholas asked, ‘Did you notice the look Chawry gave her?’
‘I did. But she seemed not to.’
‘If Boleyn hangs, it would be an opening for him. Then he, too, may have a motive.’
I sighed. So far, my visit to Brikewell had produced only another suspect.
Chawry appeared, and said he would take us to the stream forming the boundary between the Boleyn and Witherington parishes, where Edith was murdered. He had brought three pairs of heavy working boots. ‘It’s very gulshy by the stream,’ he said.
‘Muddy,’ Toby explained.
I looked at the boots. They were all heavy, large in size. ‘They belong to the twins and Master Boleyn,’ Chawry explained. ‘The pair found in the stable were taken as evidence.’
We thanked him, put on the boots, and he led us out of the house.
*
WE WALKED DOWN the path through the middle of the Brikewell estate, ploughed fields on either side of us.
‘Your mistress is very loyal to her husband,’ I said to Chawry.
‘She is a fine woman,’ he answered stoutly, ‘and a good mistress.’
‘Do you believe Master Boleyn to be innocent?’
‘I do. I have worked for him these five years past. He gets frampled sometimes, I mean he is a worrier, but a good master. I think all he has ever wanted is a quiet life.’
‘Do you live at the manor house?’
‘No, I have my own cottage a little way off.’
‘Ah,’ I said with apparent lightness. ‘Enough space to bring up a family?’
‘No, I am not wed yet.’
‘Did you hear anything on the night of the murder?’
‘No.’ His mouth set. ‘I have no alibi, if that is what you mean.’
I saw that most fields were divided into strips, but in one place several acres had been consolidated into larger fields, and a modest stone house built next to the road. Chawry looked at it and grunted. ‘Yeoman Charlesworth’s land. He exchanged his strips with those of other tenants, bought some others. One of those new-risen peasants who pays to send his children to school.’
I said, ‘As my father did me. He was a yeoman, too, in the Midlands.’
Chawry looked embarrassed, and I saw Barak and Toby exchange a wink. I noticed that the people in the fields had stopped working, and, leaning on their implements, were staring at us.
‘We’ll be out of their sight soon,’ Chawry said. ‘Nosy knaves.’
A little further on, the fields ended, divided by a fence from an area o
f common pasture on both sides of the path. A few sheep grazed there, but many more bullocks and cows. Away to the right, beyond a pond, was some woodland, while to the left lay a marshy, reedy area dotted with trees. The sun blazed down; it was hotter today.
Toby halted, leaning over the fence, and looked at me. ‘The commons, Master Shardlake. Which the landowners seek to enclose in many places. Each of those cows belongs to one villager, and provides a family with milk. The bullocks and horses pull their ploughs. The woodland provides timber, and foraging for the pigs in season. The marsh provides reeds, and waterfowl for the pot. Without the common land, no village can survive.’
Chawry said, ‘True, though some villages have more commons than they need. Here it is Master Witherington who seeks to enclose his lands for sheep, and to make up the difference by taking some of my master’s land.’
‘Isn’t common land protected by the customs of the manor?’ Barak asked.
‘Ay,’ Toby retorted. ‘But who runs the court, and keeps the books of record? The lord of the manor.’
Chawry turned on him. ‘You sound like one of these radical Commonwealth men, Goodman. If you want to find a bad landlord, look to Master Witherington.’
I said, ‘Goodman Chawry, do you see over there, a narrow strip through the commons where the grass is darker – is that the course of the old stream, which Witherington claims for the boundary?’
‘Ay, it is,’ Chawry said. ‘No water flows there now, though the old watercourse fills in when it rains.’
‘And down there, a third of a mile off, I see a stream, and a bridge.’
‘That marks the boundary. Where poor Edith Boleyn’s body was found.’
‘Then let us go there, and see.’