by C. J. Sansom
‘All right,’ I said. The boy scuttled back to the workshop and we waited a few moments. Behind the counter were rows of keys on rings, hundreds of them. I was studying them when the outer door opened and a skinny little man in an apron, with long greasy hair and the bulbous red nose of a drinker, bustled in. Like Walter, he drew up short at the sight of us.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked warily.
‘Master Snockstobe?’
‘Who wants to know?’ The response down the ages of a man with something to hide. I repeated what I had told Walter. Snockstobe crossed his arms aggressively. ‘Why should I tell you about my customers?’
I decided on a direct approach. ‘Because if you don’t answer my questions, I will have a subpoena served on you to attend Master Boleyn’s trial on Thursday, and you can answer the judge.’
That shook Snockstobe visibly. He said, ‘I’ve worked for John Boleyn for years. Been to Brikewell many times. You know what a farm’s like, animals always breaking out, smashing locks.’
‘Did you make keys for the stables where he kept his horse, Midnight?’
Snockstobe laughed. ‘That creature. Kick you a hefty culp soon as look at you. Ay, I did a lock for the stable a few years back.’
‘And other work since, I hear.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Who from?’
‘People tell us things,’ Toby answered with a smile.
I said, ‘I hear you got on well with Master Boleyn’s sons. Few do, by all accounts.’
‘They’re not so bad. They can be a laugh. I go to the bear-baiting when there is one, I’ve often seen them there, and at the cockfights.’
I remembered them hunting the small boy at their father’s house in London. I asked, ‘Did they bring you a key to copy, last month perhaps?’
‘No, they didn’t,’ Snockstobe answered flatly. ‘Walter!’ he shouted. The apprentice scuttled back in. Snockstobe glared at him. ‘On your oath, boy, have either of the Boleyn boys been in the shop this last year?’
Walter looked relieved. ‘No, sir, I can swear to that. On a Testament, if you wish.’
Snockstobe inclined his head at the apprentice. ‘There you are. And Walter’s a Bible lad; if he’s not on his knees praying, he’s off to Preacher Watson’s church to hear his endless sermons.’
I looked at him. I felt certain both he and the boy were hiding something. I said, ‘We will have the full truth of this, sir. We shall go now, but will be back later. With a subpoena. Perhaps two.’ Walter’s mouth fell open, while Snockstobe’s set in a hard line. I added, ‘Though, of course, it would go easier for you if you volunteered any information you have now.’
Snockstobe folded his arms again. ‘Nothing to say.’
‘Very well. We shall see you later.’ I motioned Nicholas and Toby to follow me out.
Outside, Toby said, ‘Couldn’t you have pressed them further? They’re hiding something, even if the twins didn’t visit themselves.’
‘I know. But under what authority? No, I need a subpoena. Nicholas, go now to the Assize offices, find Barak, and arrange it. A subpoena for Snockstobe to attend the trial, and to provide money to guarantee his attendance. This could be crucial. Toby, would you start looking for Grace Bone’s family?’
‘I will.’ He bowed quickly and walked away. As Nicholas took the road back to the castle, I stood in the middle of Tombland, conscious that we were clutching at frail reeds. But they were something, and one way or the other I would have the full story of the keys.
Chapter Twenty-one
Standing there, I saw that one of the stone gates to the cathedral precinct was open, and I walked towards it. Perhaps if I sat and reflected inside, some new inspiration would come. And all morning the dead beggar had kept coming into my mind, tweaking at my conscience. His body, I saw, had been removed.
Within the courtyard was a scene both of magnificence and destruction. Ahead of me was the great cathedral, built of white stone like the castle, its high narrow windows vaulting to the sky; an enormous tower topped with its great pointed spire. But to the right, where the former cathedral monastery had stood, the long cloister wall was ruined. More carts of stone were being brought through a gate leading to the interior of the former precinct. Outside, men in sleeveless leather jackets were working through piles of stone, sorting them by shape and size. I looked for Josephine’s Edward among them, but could not see him.
The main door to the cathedral was open, and I entered one of the most extraordinary spaces I had ever seen. Westminster Abbey, even York Minster, paled beside the vast arched space within, the relative narrowness and enormously high vaulting of the nave somehow adding to its magnificence. Looking up, I saw, far above, decorations of extraordinary beauty. Yet here, too, work of destruction was going on. Workmen were dismantling a chantry in a side chapel, while in another, men were attacking a richly painted shrine with hammers, the noise echoing around the cathedral. At the far end of the nave an ancient rood screen still stood, and stained glass remained in the windows, though, I imagined, not for long. At the far end of the nave an enormous wall painting was being whitewashed over, men standing on a rickety arrangement of scaffolding and boards. I remembered the man removing the wall painting at Whetstone. Only twelve days ago; it seemed much longer.
It was too noisy to sit and think, so I walked quietly out again. I returned to the Maid’s Head, my back aching. Feeling suddenly exhausted, I lay down on the comfortable feather bed. At once I fell asleep, and when I was woken by Nicholas knocking at the door, I was surprised to see the sun low in the sky. ‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘Near six.’
‘I have been asleep five hours,’ I said wonderingly.
‘I think perhaps you needed it, sir.’
‘Yes. This case – and the atmosphere in the city –’
He shook his head. ‘I know. Somehow one is always – on edge. I have had success,’ he said. ‘The subpoena ordering Marcus Snockstobe to appear at the trial. It took Barak and I half the afternoon to find a justice of the peace and get him to sign it, but we did.’
‘Did you mention the Lady Elizabeth’s involvement?’
‘No, I said only that I was working for Boleyn.’
‘Well done.’
Nicholas produced a folded paper from his knapsack and handed it over. I examined it closely.
‘This is what we need,’ I said with satisfaction. ‘A surety of two pounds for his attendance, plus the threat of contempt of court if he does not. Damn, his shop will be shut now. We’ll go first thing tomorrow. Have you seen Toby?’
‘He’s waiting to take us to the judges’ procession into Norwich. They’ll be riding up from St Stephen’s Gate to the market square; the city fathers will meet them at the Guildhall. They’ll be here in an hour.’
‘Did he have any luck with tracing Grace Bone’s family?’
‘I fear not. He says he has been working on it all afternoon, but has found nothing.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not surprised, after nine years.’
‘He will try again tomorrow morning.’
‘Good. If anyone can find them, it is Toby. He is a persistent fellow.’
‘Rough in manner, but certainly a good worker. I fear we got into a little argument downstairs.’
‘Again?’ I asked.
‘He said he hoped the peasant risings would force the commissioners to take serious action against the landlords’ and officials’ abuses. I told him it was a disgrace to rise against the government while we are at war. He said the war in Scotland was a barbaric invasion, and everyone knew it had failed.’
I smiled wryly. ‘Well, there at least I agree with him.’
‘I’m glad the Protector is preparing a new army against them. It is a matter of England’s honour.’
‘Honour can sometimes just be another word for prestige and status. Between, and within, nations.’ He opened his mouth to protest, but I said, ‘No antrums, Nick, remember? Now, let us go and see what t
hese judges look like.’
*
WE MET TOBY outside. His round face was sunburned now with all the outside errands he had run, the blueness of his eyes more marked than ever. We walked to the bottom of the market square. I was grateful the heat of the day was ebbing, and envied Nicholas’s and Toby’s apparent tirelessness. Men with swords, the city badge on their coats, were positioned around the square. The crowd that had turned out to watch the processional entry was sparse given the size of the city, no more than one or two deep. We took places outside the church of St Peter Mancroft at the side of the square. At the top, outside the Guildhall, stood a group of men in brightly coloured robes. Toby pointed to a small stout man in robes with white silk sleeves. ‘That’s this year’s mayor, Thomas Codd.’
‘I heard him called a wet fish this morning.’
‘He’s better than some of them. Organized the parish collection for the poor earlier this year. That tall fellow by his side is Augustine Steward, one of the wealthiest men in the city. It’s just a few merchant families who run this place, and have for years. They’ve cornered the processes of turning wool into cloth. And sometimes selling it abroad illegally, too.’ The bitterness I had heard before had returned to his voice.
There was a murmur in the crowd, and heads turned towards the approaching sound of hoof beats and jingling of harnesses. A group of armed men came first, followed by the two judges in their bright red robes trimmed with white fur. I studied them, remembering Barak’s description. The lean man with a hard, frowning face and a long grey beard must be Judge Gatchet, who, Barak had told me, was a Calvinist. He certainly looked as though he would be stern in his judgements. Plump old Judge Reynberd, in total contrast, sat heavily in his saddle, his red, heavy-featured face impassive. Nonetheless, his sharp grey eyes moved from side to side, weighing up the crowd, whose expressions were mostly hostile. I had appeared before Reynberd in the past, and knew he was fair in most cases, though if there were political implications, he would side with the powers that be. Neither, I guessed, would be easy on Boleyn. Behind the judges rode a retinue of black-robed assistants and clerks. I saw Barak; though, like his fellows, he stared straight ahead, at the judges’ backs. Behind followed a group of richly robed gentry, many of whom would be justices of the peace and royal officials, each with an armed and mounted retinue of perhaps half a dozen men. Among them I recognized the hatchet face of John Flowerdew, and, in a particularly resplendent robe, the burly, haughty figure of Sir Richard Southwell. The group, perhaps fifty in all, rode up to the centre of the marketplace, halting outside the Guildhall where the Norwich aldermen descended the steps, bowing deeply. The crowd had watched the display of power in complete silence, and now began drifting away. I turned to thank Toby for all his work, and asked how his mother fared.
‘A little better, but it is hard to hear how difficult it is for her to breathe, the rasping sound she makes.’ He stroked his beard, his face sad. ‘I fear she will not be with us long. And then I think I must return to help with the farm; I doubt my father will be up to supervising our two labourers.’
‘Have you no other family who might help?’
‘I have a brother who went to Suffolk and has his own small place now. It will be up to me. I should not be sorry to leave Master Copuldyke. And if I can get things settled on the farm, I’m sure I could find a new master in Norwich. Provided I keep my mouth shut.’ He smiled ironically.
‘Perhaps your mother will recover,’ Nicholas said.
Toby shook his head. There was an uncomfortable silence. Then a voice at my shoulder said quietly, ‘Master Shardlake?’
I turned to see the burly figure of Michael Vowell, Master Reynolds’s steward. He bowed. ‘Excuse me for troubling you, sir,’ he said. ‘But I left Master Reynolds’s house yesterday. After Gerald and Barnabas wrecked my room because I argued with them about their treatment of the female servants. I wonder, sir, do you know anyone who may be looking for a steward, or even an upper servant?’
‘I am a stranger in Norwich. Might you know anyone, Toby?’
‘I fear not.’
I looked at Vowell. ‘I should tell you that I visited Master Boleyn earlier today. You should know that he denies trying to force himself on Edith.’
Vowell took a firm stance, his face set. ‘That is what I heard said. I will swear it on the Testament.’
‘Master Boleyn said Edith was capable of making up the story she told her father, and Reynolds of telling her to get back to her wifely duties.’
Vowell looked relieved. He glanced up at the assembly in front of the Guildhall. Servants were taking mugs of beer to the newcomers. ‘Were it not for the murder, Master Reynolds would be up there, getting himself seen, hoping to be the next mayor.’ He spoke bitterly; his detestation of his former employer clearly ran deep. It occurred to me that Vowell, if anyone, might know the twins’ routine. I said, ‘We are keen to ask the twins some questions.’
He looked serious. ‘Be careful, sir.’
‘We plan to be. There are three of us, and we have another man who will help us. What we need is to get the twins on their own.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’ He thought a moment. ‘Today is Monday. Every Tuesday and Saturday evening the twins go to the cockfighting over in Cosny, with their young gentlemen friends. That was where they were the Saturday of their mother’s murder. Afterwards, they usually get drunk then come back to their grandfather’s. I used to hear them come in, sometime between two and three in the morning. If you were to wait in a neighbouring street, around that time, you would likely catch them alone.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you. That is very helpful.’
‘Watch out. They carry swords, and are good with them, even when drunk.’
‘So am I,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I shall be sober.’
‘I can give a decent account of myself with a sword too, if you permit,’ Toby said.
‘Then tomorrow night it shall be,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Goodman Vowell, and good luck with your search for another employer.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve heard of a prospect in Wymondham, I may go down there.’ And with that he bowed, and walked away.
‘There you are, sir,’ Nicholas said. ‘Perhaps our luck is turning. And Barak may help us; we shall see him tomorrow evening, when we meet Josephine and her husband at his inn.’
‘You do not mind staying overnight to help us?’ I asked Toby.
‘No, sir,’ he answered determinedly. ‘I should not be sorry to settle accounts with those young villains.’
Chapter Twenty-two
That night I slept badly again. It was very hot and, once, I woke in a sweat from a dream of the dead beggar’s face. Then I began thinking about the twins. We needed to talk to them, but not in a way in which they could say we had threatened them. At last I fell asleep, only to be jerked awake by the servant knocking on the door, saying it was six o’clock.
He brought in letters on a silver tray, fetched by the post-rider who had accompanied the judges the day before. Both bore the Lady Elizabeth’s seal. The first was from Parry; it was brief:
I thank you for your letter, and hope you have made some further progress and have been able to keep matters as discreet as circumstances allow. Please let me know how things stand, by return. The Lady Elizabeth is anxious; although I have stressed to her that little new may be found at this stage, and justice must take its course. Your loving friend, Thomas Parry.
The second letter, from Elizabeth, was quite different:
I have received your letter, which in effect says nothing. Kindly reply immediately, telling me exactly what progress you have made in my cousin’s case. Time is short, and you are now instructed, should a guilty verdict transpire, to use the request for a pardon which I gave you, whatever your own thoughts about the matter.
And then the large, elaborate signature: Elizabeth.
I caught my breath. Not only was she angry that I had not made rapid progress, but she was
also now instructing me, should Boleyn be found guilty, to apply for a pardon whether I thought the verdict justified or not. Should I tell Parry? But if that was what Elizabeth had decided, he would be unable to countermand her orders. He and Blanche might argue with her, but her mind was clearly set. I considered whether to wait until we had served the warrant on the locksmith and spoken to the twins. If new evidence emerged then, I could write back more positively tomorrow. But she demanded a reply by return. I therefore wrote identical letters to her and Parry, outlining my progress and saying that I would write again on the morrow. I sealed the letters and took them down to the innkeeper, paying over the exorbitant charge needed to pay the fastest post-rider, who, he assured me, would reach Hatfield the next day.
I was therefore in a worried frame of mind when I descended the broad staircase to the breakfast chamber. To my surprise Toby Lockswood had not yet arrived, but Nicholas was there, also reading a letter, frowning slightly.
‘From Beatrice Kenzy?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘I have also had one, from the Lady Elizabeth. She is angry at what she considers my lack of progress.’
‘I’d like to see her come and tramp the streets of Norwich for days on end.’
I looked at him; such a disrespectful remark was not like Nicholas. ‘Bad news from Beatrice?’ I ventured.
He put the letter down. ‘She talks about the state of things in London, the new security measures and how a drunk beggar called words after her in the street that a lady should not be suffered to hear. As for me –’ he smiled wryly – ‘she hopes that through the Lady Elizabeth I am making worthwhile contacts in Norfolk society.’
I could not forbear a laugh. ‘Write back and tell her about the twins, and the man who knocked you on the head at the tavern.’
‘She cannot be expected to understand,’ he said more gently. ‘What really concerns me is that she says she has met a young barrister at church, and he is paying her court. She said I had better hurry back.’