by C. J. Sansom
‘Does she give his name?’
‘No. But it is obviously someone fully qualified, with money and stature.’ He spoke bitterly.
I said, ‘She is leading you a dance. She strikes me as one well versed in such womanly arts, no doubt well trained by her mother.’
Nicholas frowned. ‘You do not know Beatrice. She is nothing like her mother. If you were not so cynical, about women as much as men –’
‘Then I would be married. But not to someone as scheming and superficial as Beatrice strikes me.’ I instantly wished I had not spoken, but I was tired and out of sorts.
Nicholas said, with quiet emphasis, ‘I say again, you do not know her. Alone, she is gentle and kind.’
To my relief, we were interrupted by Toby’s arrival. He looked tired beneath his tan, his black hair and beard uncombed. ‘My apologies for being late. My mother was worse again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should not stay tonight. With Barak we can manage the twins.’
He sighed. ‘There is little I can do, at home or on the farm, save cut down the thistles and watch the crops swelk in the heat. It’s going to be another stonging day. Let’s beard the locksmith in his den before the sun gets too high.’
*
WE WALKED THE short distance to Snockstobe’s shop. I hoped the sight of the warrant would loosen his tongue. The shop was open, but only young Walter stood behind the counter. He looked at us apprehensively.
I held up the warrant. ‘Master Snockstobe?’ I asked peremptorily.
‘He aren’t in yet. I don’t know what to do, there’s a man coming at nine for some keys, and I don’t know where they are.’ He looked despairingly at the rows of keys behind him, each marked with a number. ‘Master hasn’t put them in the book.’
‘Is he often late?’ I asked sharply.
The boy hesitated. ‘Please don’t tell him I said, but since his wife left him last year he spends most evenings bezzling in the inns. Sometimes he comes in late. But he doesn’t miss appointments.’
I nodded and said, ‘We will return in an hour. Tell your master we have the warrant, and that if he has anything to tell us about Boleyn’s keys he had better do it then.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Walter said unhappily. We turned and walked out.
‘God’s death,’ I said as we made our way back into Tombland. ‘Will nothing go smoothly?’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Nicholas said. His tone was frosty; he was still angry over my remarks about Beatrice.
I said, ‘If we’ve got an hour, I suggest we take a look at the Assizes. They’ll be opening soon.’
We set off through the morning heat for the castle.
*
THE SHIRE HALL was a large building with Gothic towers just north-east of the castle, made of the same white stone. A few people stood talking outside the doors, gentlemen by their dress, and I saw Sir Richard Southwell, conferring with a couple of others. He wore his usual haughty, disdainful expression. Catching sight of me, he gave me a brief, unsmiling nod. So he remembered our brief meeting at St Paul’s; but then he struck me as a man who would forget nobody. I remembered Toby saying the twins and some of their young gentlemen friends had done dirty work for him on occasion.
Inside, we passed through a small antechamber into a large courtroom with a high, vaulted roof, the judges’ table on a dais covered with heavy green cloth. I looked at the wooden dock, set on high steps to the left of the courtroom. Black-robed officials had already taken their places at benches before the judges’ table, and more were bringing in papers. Soldiers in royal livery stood guard at the doors and round the walls. Many people, mostly gentry, by their fine clothes, were already sitting on the benches facing the judges; others stood talking. A tall figure detached himself from a group and came over to us. ‘Serjeant Shardlake? Come to see the opening?’
‘Serjeant Flowerdew. God give you good morrow. Yes, indeed.’
Flowerdew seemed in a better mood this morning. ‘I imagine they will start with dressing down the JPs and city officials over lack of enforcement of the proclamations. How goes the Boleyn case?’
‘There have been some interesting developments,’ I answered neutrally.
He looked at me narrowly. ‘Have you found something that may help Boleyn?’
‘One always hopes for justice.’
‘Indeed.’
The bailiff entered and called for silence. Everyone moved quickly to the benches as Judges Reynberd and Gatchet entered the court. Reynberd wore a haughty expression on his plump face, Gatchet looked severe as ever. They sat. Reynberd, the senior judge, nodded to Gatchet. He leaned forward on the bench, bony hands clasped together.
‘In the name of our Sovereign Lord King Edward the Sixth, I declare the Norwich Summer Assizes open. We have much business, but I shall begin by telling you of our just anger, on behalf of the King and the Protector, at the lack of proper enforcement of the laws and proclamations. The returns for the sheep tax are late and inadequate. Unauthorized preaching by self-styled prophets and rabble-rousers continues; godless pamphlets are found in the streets and pinned to doors.’ He banged a fist hard on the table. ‘Though the justices and constables have been lax in finding and punishing the authors of these activities. I remind you, gentlemen, of the words of Master Calvin, who is much favoured by the King, that the common people must be kept on a short bridle. Which brings me to the unrest, the resistance to the law and the right order, which have recently been seen in southern as well as western parts. They must not spread here. Stirrers of trouble must be sought out and dealt with, as they were in the spring commotions. Now, though, the Protector is arranging for commissions to look into illegal enclosures to travel the country, and they will see to it that any injustices are remedied. That is enough! So get to your duties, get your informers working. And I tell you we intend the strictest justice to be done on the criminal matters coming before this Assizes. Those found guilty will be publicly hanged in the market square on Saturday, and the executioner has been instructed that all those sentenced will be given the short drop, so their slow strangling may be a lesson to the populace. And nobody will be allowed to approach the guilty and pull their legs to break their necks.’
‘When are the commissioners coming?’ someone shouted from the well of the court. ‘We hear no word of them!’
Gatchet went puce. He pointed to the interrupter, a young man in a fine doublet with a fierce, angry face. ‘Arrest that man! He is in contempt of court!’ Two soldiers hurried across, hauled him from his place, and led him from the room. Gatchet shouted after him, ‘Contempt of this court will be severely punished. You’ll lose your ears for this!’
Such a penalty could not be imposed for such a minor offence, but nonetheless the court stirred uneasily. Gatchet leaned back, and Reynberd sat up. ‘I hope you have all taken note of the learned judge’s words.’ He shifted the papers on the bench with his plump hands. ‘And now, we shall proceed to the first civil case. In the matter of the will of the late Gerald Carberry –’
I said to Nicholas, ‘A disputed will. I’ve had enough of those, come on.’ We bowed to the court, and went out.
*
WE WALKED BACK to Snockstobe’s shop. ‘The short drop,’ Nicholas said. ‘The condemned will strangle slowly, rather than breaking their necks.’
‘They mean to make a harsh example.’
‘The judges in the red robes of blood indeed,’ Toby said quietly.
We had come to the top of the marketplace; beside the gallows that already stood next to the Guildhall carpenters were working, digging holes in the cobbles. Newly carved posts of various sizes lay on the ground beside them. They were preparing for a multiple hanging. A little knot of poorly dressed people stood watching. As we passed I heard snatches of conversation.
‘– he was in the water right under Bishopsgate Bridge. A boatman coming up the river found him stuck in the waterweed.’
‘Must’ve fallen off. Draahnin’
, that’s a bad way to go –’
‘He was always bezzled by nine. Don’t know how he kept the shop going –’
‘He was a good locksmith though.’
I stopped dead, and turned to the group. ‘A locksmith has drowned?’ I asked.
They looked at me suspiciously. ‘Ay, master. What of it?’
‘What was his name?’
‘Richard Snockstobe. Found dead in the Wensum this morning.’
‘We must go there. Now.’ For a moment I felt quite faint, and leaned on Nicholas’s arm. The nearest to a key witness we had tracked down, and yet he had been found dead the day we were due to serve the subpoena on him.
‘Bishopsgate Bridge. It’s quite a walk,’ Toby said, looking at me dubiously.
‘Now,’ I repeated, setting a fast pace.
We returned to Tombland, then again followed Holme Street, past the hospital with the beggars outside and towards the Blue Boar Inn. We passed under the high gatehouse, onto a stone bridge spanning the Wensum. The escarpment of Mousehold Heath loomed up beyond. Several curious people stood on the parapet of the bridge, looking over. We joined them. A couple of men were pulling something from the river, straining against the reeds wrapped around the corpse’s feet, while the coroner we had met at the Guildhall stood on the bank looking on. I recognized the thin form of Snockstobe, his red face now white with the pallor of death.
‘How do we get down there?’ I asked Toby.
He pointed to where, just beyond the gatehouse, a square was sunk in the earth, with steps leading down to it; that way we could get to the riverbank.
‘What’s that?’ Nicholas pointed to the depression.
‘The Lollards’ Pit,’ Toby answered. ‘Where heretics were burned. Thomas Bilney was burned there by More.’
We scrambled down the steps, across the pit and down to the bank. The body lay there, the coroner and a couple of constables looking at it.
‘Fell off and drowned hisself when he was drunk, I reckon,’ a constable said.
‘Looks like it,’ the coroner agreed. ‘Can’t see any marks on the body.’
I knelt with some difficulty and examined the head. Edith Boleyn had been killed by a blow to the head, and I remembered what the twins had done to Witherington’s man with a club. I brushed Snockstobe’s long hair aside, but could see no sign of any injury.
‘Hey, Master Lawyer,’ the coroner asked indignantly, ‘what are you doing?’
I stood and bowed. ‘Forgive me, but I knew this man slightly. I spoke to him only yesterday, about a key. What happened?’
For answer the coroner called over a frightened-looking man in a wool jerkin and white hat. ‘This is Sedgley, the first finder. Tell this lawyer what happened.’
The man swallowed. ‘I was punting my boat downstream early this morning, with a load of spun wool. As I came to the bridge I spotted something in the water, then saw it was this poor fellow’s head and hands. He must’ve fallen in, and got his feet caught in the waterweed, it’s foul thick this year.’
The coroner considered, then turned to me. ‘Looks like an accident, gentlemen, the man was a well-known toper.’
I looked back at the gatehouse, then across to the heights of Mousehold, dotted with sheep, the high splendid edifice of Surrey Place at the top. ‘Why should he be on the heath at night? I understand that apart from Surrey’s mansion there is nothing up there.’
The coroner shrugged. ‘Who can tell what notions drunks get into their minds?’
‘Will there be an examination of the body?’
He sighed. ‘I suppose there will have to be. They’ll find his lungs full of water.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Did you bring a cart?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then take Snockstobe to the cold-house. You, boatman, come with me, I shall need a deposition.’
The constables lifted up the locksmith, releasing a stink of river-bottom decay. The coroner shouted up at the people on the bridge, ‘Get home now, you nosy lubbers! Show’s over!’
Chapter Twenty-three
We returned to Tombland. The locksmith’s death was a bad blow, the subpoena in my pocket now worthless. More than that, I feared I might be indirectly responsible for his death; his plunge from Bishopsgate Bridge coming the day after I told him I would have him in court was too much of a coincidence.
‘It could have been an accident,’ Nicholas said. ‘He wasn’t hit on the head, there was no blood on the body.’
‘He could have been stabbed, and the blood washed away by the river. They’ll find out when they examine the body.’
Toby said, ‘There’s still the apprentice. He may not yet know of Snockstobe’s death. We have to press him now, see what he knows.’
*
WHEN WE RETURNED to the shop, Walter was still behind the counter. He peered at us, his face falling.
‘Master’s not back,’ he said wearily.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ I said, gently. ‘Your master was found dead in the Wensum early this morning. It appears he fell from Bishopsgate Bridge last night.’
The boy’s mouth fell open. His expression was not one of grief – perhaps unsurprisingly from what I had seen of his master – but fear. I recalled he had looked anxious when we questioned Snockstobe yesterday, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. I said, ‘Walter, what did your master do after we visited the shop yesterday?’
He swallowed. ‘He said nothing, though he seemed worried. He left the shop, telling me to mind things for an hour. When he came back, he acted afraid, spent the day snapping at me or staring into space. We shut the shop at five as usual. He went back to his house, and I to my room above the shop. I think master was afraid. God save his poor soul.’
‘You remember yesterday, we asked about his work for John Boleyn, and whether he’d had a visit from his sons, Gerald and Barnabas, since the spring. You said they had not been here, and he said the same.’
‘I did, sir. I told no lie.’
I nodded. ‘But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?’
Walter lowered his head and gave a long, shuddering sigh. He was silent a moment – perhaps he was praying – then he looked up again. ‘A man came,’ he said nervously. ‘In May. He brought a key and asked for a copy to be made. He said he came from Master Boleyn. Snockstobe recognized the key, of course. It had his mark on it, if the man had taken it to another locksmith, he would have sent him back here under the guild rules.’
‘Who was this man? Did you recognize him?’
Walter shook his head. ‘I had never seen him before.’
‘What did he look like?’ Toby asked.
‘He was quite a big man, not old. He had a beard.’
‘That would fit half the men of Norwich,’ I said impatiently. ‘Come, was his beard fair, or red, or dark?’
‘Dark, I think. Maybe red. I don’t know.’ He blushed suddenly. ‘You see, sir, I don’t see well. Things close to are all right, or I couldn’t do my work, but at any distance I don’t see so well. And the man – Master Snockstobe, he was in the other room and he came out at once and took him straight through to the back. But as they went through, Master Snockstobe asked the man which key was it, and I heard him say it was for the horse Midnight’s stable, Master Boleyn’s key was lost.’
I closed my eyes. How like our cursed luck for the boy to be shortsighted. But he could testify that someone had come in, and asked for a copy of a key to the stable. His evidence could still be crucial. I looked at Walter, who had begun shivering.
‘Why are you afraid of this man?’ I asked.
‘It’s not him. It’s those sons of Master Boleyn I fear. Sir, Master Snockstobe was sore worried yesterday. Do you think he could have been killed?’
‘I don’t know. Walter,’ I said. ‘I want you to come to court on Thursday. But we will protect you until then –’
‘No!’ the boy shouted. ‘Mistress Boleyn was murdered, and now perhaps my master. I won’t go
to court!’
‘Do you have any relatives in Norwich, where you would be safe?’
‘No. My family live out in the Sandlings, I’ve nobody here.’
‘The people at your church?’
‘No! I’m not safe in Norwich!’
I kept my tone calm. ‘Listen, Walter, you can come back with us to the Maid’s Head, we can put you in our room, lock you in, if you wish. Then, after the trial, we can arrange safe transport to your family.’
‘The Maid’s Head?’ His eyes widened. ‘They won’t let the likes of me in there! I’ve got to get out of Norwich!’
‘They will let you stay if I say so. And if you are in danger, do you think you will be any safer on the road?’
Walter groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘I must go home.’
‘By telling the truth in court you may save an innocent man. You are a Christian, is that not the Christian thing to do?’
Walter bowed his head, rats’ tails of hair hiding his eyes.
‘Now, this is what I want you to do. Go upstairs, pack all you need, and we will take you to the Maid’s Head. You will be protected there, Walter, I promise. Then all you need to do is tell the truth on Thursday, and then we will ensure you get home safely.’
He looked up, a desperate expression on his pale face.
‘Go on, lad,’ Nicholas said encouragingly.
Walter nodded. He mounted a flight of wooden stairs at the side of the shop. Toby shook his head. ‘Another little cringer like Scambler. Once England bred strong, honest farming people, now they’re all gone to seed scraping a living in the towns. No wonder we’re losing the war in Scotland.’
‘You can be harsh, Toby,’ I said.
‘’Tis the truth.’
After a few minutes Nicholas stirred restlessly. ‘He should be down by now.’
‘Let’s go up,’ Toby said.
We mounted the steps quickly. Upstairs was a small bedroom, with a rickety bed and a cheap edition of the new Prayer Book on a table. The shutters of the window were wide open.
‘Fuck!’ Toby shouted. ‘He’s gone!’ We ran to the window. Outside the sloping roof of an outhouse allowed easy access to a yard. Walter had vanished.