by C. J. Sansom
Witherington shrugged. ‘No doubt some deal beneficial to all parties can be negotiated.’ I wondered whether he was in touch with Southwell or Flowerdew already. Yet Boleyn had told me Southwell was not interested in Brikewell.
‘I do not see what such matters have to do with the evidence for Mistress Boleyn’s killing,’ Witherington said, folding his plump hands on his stomach.
‘I am just trying to see the whole picture. Tell me, did you know Mistress Boleyn?’
‘Hardly at all. She disappeared only two years after Boleyn and I bought our lands from the old monastery. She came to dinner here once, and sat at table barely exchanging a word with anyone. When I tried to engage her in conversation, all I got was surly looks. And she ate barely more than a bird. We did not invite them again. Personally, I think she was not right in the head. Those damned sons of hers take after her, I think. Certainly they’re not like their milksop father.’ He curled his lip in contempt. ‘When Edith disappeared and Boleyn took that whore to live with him, a lot of people thought he’d done away with his first wife. I never did, though; he wouldn’t have the balls.’
‘Where do you think Edith Boleyn might have been these last nine years?’
Witherington shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea. Someone must have been giving her shelter, I suppose. Somewhere far from these parts.’
‘Strange that she was found dead on the boundary between your land and Boleyn’s,’ I said.
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Witherington’s voice rose.
‘Nothing. Only that it was a strange way, a strange place, for someone to dispose of a body.’
‘Perhaps Boleyn met her on the bridge by arrangement, then lost his temper and killed her there and then. He does have a temper, by all accounts.’
There was a knock at the door, and the servant he had addressed as Shuckborough entered, followed by a thin, white-haired old man, obviously afraid, kneading a greasy cap in his hands. I guessed Shuckborough was Witherington’s steward, in everyday charge of the estate as Chawry was on Boleyn’s. He was a large, well-built man in his forties, with a square, hard face. He gave the cringing old man a look of contempt, then addressed his master. ‘Kempsley, sir. He was asleep in his shed, like you said. Then he had the cheek to moan all the way here about how there are too many sheep for him to manage; he needs a boy to help him.’
‘If it’s too much for him, he can go out on the road,’ Witherington replied. ‘Is that what you want, old Adrian?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then keep your clack-box shut. These two gentlemen are here about Boleyn’s killing his wife. They want you to tell them what you saw that day.’
‘I made a – what was it called, a deper—’
I smiled at the old man. ‘Deposition. I have read it. You must have had a terrifying experience.’
‘It was, it was. Like something come up from hell. At first I thought it was a sheep trapped in the mud, it was only dawn and the light was dimsy, but then I got close and saw it was that poor woman –’ He shuddered at the memory.
‘And you saw footprints in the mud?’
‘Ay, sir, big ones, leading down from the grass on Master Boleyn’s side. Made by big boots, you could see that.’
‘You are sure the body must have been put there during the night?’
‘Ay. I walked round the sheep just afore it got dark the evening before. About nine o’clock. There was nothing in the stream then.’
‘Whoever did the deed must have known the lie of the land, do you think?’
Kempsley nodded firmly. ‘Yes. Moving in the dark, carrying the poor lady.’
‘And he must have been very strong.’
‘Ay. I doubt one man could have done it alone.’
Witherington interrupted. ‘We can do without your speculations.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘they are most helpful. Tell me, do you think the prints could have been made by two pairs of boots?’
Kempsley frowned. ‘The mud was so pashed up, sir, boot-prints everywhere. All were made by the same type of boots. That’s all I can say, sir.’
‘Thank you. That’s all. I will leave you to your sheep.’ The steward nodded, and Kempsley scuttled from the room. Witherington looked at Shuckborough, then at us. ‘There is one more person I should like you to meet.’ He nodded at Shuckborough, who went out, returning a moment later leading a young man by the arm. He was no more than twenty, tall and athletically built, with tangled brown hair and a scraggy beard. His expression was curiously vacant, and a dribble of saliva ran from a corner of his mouth.
Witherington said, ‘This is Ralph, who works my lands with his father and brothers. They are my serfs. Last April, he was one of those I sent to stake my claim to the lands Boleyn says are his.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Ralph was a good strong lad, said he’d give a good account of himself. You couldn’t do that now, could you, Ralph?’
The boy stared at him. ‘I – am – Ralph,’ he said slowly. Then he smiled and said, ‘I know a rhyme. Ring-a-ring-o-roses—’
‘Shut up.’ Shuckborough shook his arm. Ralph fell silent. Witherington said, ‘Show the gentlemen your head, Ralph.’
‘Don’t want to,’ the boy said, then squealed as Shuckborough pushed him down roughly, so that we could see the top of his head. I recoiled. On the crown was a large bald patch with scarring and an actual depression in the skull where he had been hit with something heavy.
‘Not a pretty sight, is he, Master Shardlake?’ Witherington said. ‘Gerald Boleyn did that to him, when they led some of their friends and Boleyn’s men to throw my men off the land. You’d expect a bit of punching, perhaps a couple of broken bones in such a tussle, but the Boleyn twins each had a great club and the one without the scar hit Ralph over the head with it. Amazing he wasn’t killed; as it is, his wits are gone.’ He waved a hand. ‘Take him away, Shuckborough, before he starts blubbing.’
As the steward took the boy out, Nicholas said, ‘If there were witnesses, surely Gerald Boleyn should have been prosecuted. He could hang for that.’
Witherington shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I didn’t want that. Not when my men had been on what Boleyn claims is his land. Ralph’s family are taking care of him, I give them some money.’ He looked at me. ‘But I warn you, Master Shardlake. I make sure my house is well guarded, especially at night. Master Boleyn may be one kind of man, but those sons of his are something else.’
Chapter Eighteen
We arrived back at Tombland late in the afternoon. During our ride from Brikewell the sky had gradually turned darker, ‘greasy’, as Toby called it. It looked as though a thunderstorm was coming. Outside the Maid’s Head I saw, lying inside an alcove in the outside wall, a man covered in a large, ragged blanket. A little trail of vomit spilled from beneath the blanket onto the street; he was either drunk, or ill. People passing, especially those of the richer sort riding into the Maid’s Head courtyard, gave him looks of disgust.
After leaving the horses, Barak and Nicholas were keen to go on to see Scambler, and I wanted to visit Josephine, but I had pulled a muscle in my back on the ride home, and could not face going out again. I said I needed an early night, and suggested we take dinner soon, so that Toby could return to his farm.
The place was busy with new arrivals, servants carrying heavy baggage upstairs, the innkeeper Master Theobald directing them with a self-important air. All the newcomers wore fine clothes, and some lawyers’ black robes like ours, though I saw nobody I recognized. ‘People coming for the Assizes,’ Barak observed.
‘Ay,’ Toby agreed. ‘All the Justices of the Peace and royal and county officials will be gathering.’
‘Will we see Sir Richard Southwell, or John Flowerdew?’
‘Yes, they’ll be here,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll point them out.’
‘I’ve met Southwell briefly. He seems a formidable man.’
‘He’s a brute,’ Toby answered, ‘and the greediest man in Norfolk.’
*
THE FOUR OF us sat down to dinner. Candles were lit, for the evening sky continued to darken, and we heard the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Quietly, we discussed the case.
Nicholas said, ‘Isabella clearly loves Boleyn. I think Chawry likes her, but who would not?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I think he does.’ I pondered. ‘When she said she wouldn’t give Boleyn a child until they were married, it certainly doesn’t sound as though he tried to force her.’
‘Witherington’s a different matter from his neighbour,’ Barak observed.
‘Yes, a grasping bully.’
Toby said, ‘Already he’s got land that once supported dozens of villagers, which is worked now by one old shepherd, and he can’t even treat him decently. So much for all the old nonsense about ties of honour and loyalty between landlord and tenant.’
Nicholas said, ‘I agree with you about Witherington, but there are honourable men among the landowners, too, who recognize their obligations.’
‘When it’s a matter of making a profit, they’re all the same. Bully, threaten, steal, enclose.’
‘How strong do you think Witherington’s case is over the boundary issue?’ Barak looked at me, changing the subject, then speared a piece of meat from his plate with the knife on his metal hand.
‘From the old deeds and the map we took from Boleyn’s London house, pretty weak. I think it was because he knows his case was poor that he tried that bit of self-help in the spring.’
Nicholas asked, ‘But would he go as far as setting up John Boleyn for his wife’s murder?’
‘What if he’s in debt?’ Barak suggested. ‘That can make men desperate.’
Toby shook his head. ‘I went into that for Master Copuldyke. Boleyn’s finances may be in a poor state, but Witherington’s aren’t. Greedy snudge that he is, he knows how to turn a profit.’
‘He didn’t strike me as especially sharp,’ Barak observed.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Witherington struck me as stupid and obstinate. You could argue such a man might be so stupid that he would think he could get away with murder, but I can’t see him facing a capital sentence over a small piece of land. Though we can’t entirely discount the possibility.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘So we’re no further forward. Except that Isabella, and Chawry who has no alibi, must be added to the list of suspects.’
‘Except for what we saw at the scene of the crime,’ I said. ‘The killer was local, knew the area well. And if it was one man, he was very strong.’
‘Or two other people acting together,’ Barak replied.
I said, ‘Remember the twins have an alibi for the whole night in question. Carousing with a group of friends.’
Nicholas considered. ‘Friends can be intimidated. Those two would be good at that.’
I winced at a twinge from my back. ‘I wish I could see a way through this tangle.’ I looked at Toby. ‘Could you try and trace Grace Bone’s family, see if anyone has heard of her in all these years? That has to be followed up.’ I considered. ‘And we should talk to those twins about their alibi.’
Nicholas said, ‘They’ll not do that willingly.’
‘We need to get them off their own ground,’ Barak said. ‘Four of us to two of them.’
I nodded. ‘Yes. But it needs thought.’
‘They’re dangerous,’ Toby said warningly.
‘Come on, they’re just a couple of lads,’ Barak said impatiently.
Outside, the thunder rolled nearer.
*
DURING THE NIGHT the storm came, and I was wakened by a great crash of thunder and white flashes of lightning that lit up the room, followed by the sound of torrential rain. I wondered about the poor man lying in the alcove outside.
By morning, the storm had passed, and the air was fresher. Toby, Nicholas and I had arranged to meet Barak for breakfast at eight. None of us had expressed a wish to go to church; I suspected that Toby’s commitment to religion was as distant as that of Barak, Nicholas and I. Yesterday, Barak had said he particularly wanted to see Josephine again, but I saw he had also become caught up in the thrill of the chase. From tomorrow, Monday, he would be busy with Assize duties, which eased my conscience a little. I dared not imagine how Tamasin might react if she discovered that her husband had ended up assisting me again.
Barak was last to arrive. He had an air of excitement. ‘I called at the office they’ve set up for the Assize clerks,’ he told us. ‘The word from London is the rebels in the West Country have refused the Protector’s offer of a pardon, and chased away some Reformist preachers he sent to them. Troops are to be sent down there.’
‘Any more word of what the West Country rebellion is about?’
‘They don’t like the religious changes down there; they’re calling for the return of the practices of King Henry’s time. But they’re attacking landlords as well. The Protector’s been caught on the hop.’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘Demands for reform are one thing, but this is rebellion – in time of war, too. They’ll smart for this, and rightly.’
Toby was silent, thoughtful. I said, ‘Well, that’s nothing to do with us. I suggest we look for the lad Scambler first, then visit the address we have for Josephine. Toby, if you want to go back to your farm after we’ve seen Scambler, please do. Our other visit is a personal matter, and with riding back and forth you cannot have seen much of your parents.’
‘Thank you. I should like to do that.’
*
THE HOT WEATHER returned later in the morning. The air, though, was less sticky, and some of the city stink had been washed away by the rain. As we left the Maid’s Head, I saw that the man covered by the blanket was still there. As I looked I heard a groan, and the blanket twitched.
I said, ‘That fellow must be ill. We should do something.’ I took a step towards him but Toby, surprisingly, put a hand on my arm. ‘I wouldn’t, sir. If he is sick, you might catch whatever he has. There will be many coming to service at the cathedral this morning; if the name of Christ means anything, someone will show him charity. There are hundreds such as he in the doorways of Norwich,’ he added bitterly.
I hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, and we walked down into Tombland. The cobbled square was full of puddles, and water still dripped from the roofs of the fine houses round the square, glinting in the sunshine. Opposite, I saw that the great doors of the cathedral precinct were open, making the body of the great building visible, as well as the ruined buildings of the former monastery attached to it. Most of the walls were down, and carts full of rubble stood by. The cathedral doors were open, too, giving a glimpse of a huge, vaulted space within. Toby led us past, down into the town.
*
NORWICH WAS QUIET on the Sabbath, save for the ringing of church bells; Toby was right, many destitute figures lay sleeping in the doorways of shops and houses, more noticeable now few others were around. We passed the castle on its great mound, and I wondered whether the rain had penetrated John Boleyn’s subterranean cell. I would visit again tomorrow. People were cleaning up the marketplace, which, after yesterday’s market, was full of rubbish; rotten fruit, animal entrails, abandoned sacks. Beyond, we passed into a long street with houses and shops on either side, which Toby said was Ber Street. Some houses looked prosperous enough, but others had been divided into tenements. Toby stopped before one which was painted yellow, the paint peeling, exposing the lath and plaster and beams beneath.
‘Yellow house, next Hunter’s Yard, ground floor. This is it.’ He rapped on the door. It was opened by a short, plump woman with a round, wrinkled face, a black coif covering most of her grey hair. Her little mouth was pursed in an expression of disapproval; small grey eyes studied us, widening momentarily at the sight of Barak’s hand.
‘What is it?’ she asked boldly. ‘I want no lawyers here.’ Then she added, ‘Why yew abroad on the Sabbath?’
‘We wish to speak to Simon Scambler,’ I said. ‘Are you his aunt, Goodwi
fe?’
She sighed. ‘What’s Sooty done now? You can’t’ve come to arrest him, else they’d have sent the constable. If he’s damaged something, we’ve no money.’ She planted herself more firmly in the doorway.
‘He’s not in trouble. I represent Master Boleyn; I only wish to ask some questions about the time he worked for him at Brikewell.’ My hand went to my purse. ‘We will pay for access to him.’
At once she put out a hand, and I put a shilling into it. She closed her fingers on the coin, and I noticed the joints were twisted and swollen, as Parry had said Edith Boleyn’s had been.
‘Come in, then,’ she said, ‘though there’s scarce room for four o’ you.’ She gave us another disapproving look. ‘Doing business on the Sabbath, ’tis against God’s law.’ She waved us into a room furnished only with a table on which a much-thumbed Testament stood, a chest, a couple of stools and a wooden settle against the wall. The open shutters, I saw, hung loosely from their hinges. She went to the closed door of a neighbouring room and yelled through it, so loudly I jumped, ‘Sooty! Get through here, you grub!’ She shook her head. ‘That boy, he may be my poor dead sister’s child, but he’ll drive me sappy with his yammering on, his godless singing –’
I took one of the stools while Toby, Barak and Nicholas crowded uncomfortably onto the settle. A moment later the boy we had seen in the market square appeared, dressed in a dirty nightshirt, skinny legs bare, brown hair untidy. When he saw us, his mouth fell open. He turned to the old woman. ‘Who are these people, Aunt Hilda?’
She pointed at me. ‘He wants to ask about when you worked for John Boleyn.’ She turned to us, laughing mirthlessly. ‘I thought I’d got rid of Sooty when he went to Brikewell, but no, he has to find a place where murder gets done.’ The boy hung his head.
Toby leaned forward, speaking quietly. ‘Shut your clack-box, Goodwife. You’ve been paid, and we’re here to talk to your nephew, not listen to your howen’ and mowen’. And I’m not interested in your newdickle religious notions. Leave us alone.’