by C. J. Sansom
Chapter Twenty-six
Toby left us to return to the Maid’s Head, assuring us his arm was well enough to ride to his parents’ farm. I said to Nicholas, ‘I want to see Boleyn alone. I’d like you to go to the coroner’s office, find out if they’ve examined Snockstobe’s body yet.’
‘I’m sure they have, he’ll be starting to stink.’ Nicholas’s tone was sharp. I looked at him. ‘What ails you?’ I asked.
‘It’s that Lockswood, always ready with some remark against me.’
I smiled. ‘Your antrums. Well, he had a point. Laying down morality to a man in poor Bone’s circumstances was not – sensitive.’
‘All right, maybe I was wrong. But Lockswood’s the one with antrums, he’s no more than a clerk, but talks to us more and more as though he were our equal.’
‘Barak is a clerk, too.’
‘But you’ve known him years. Latitude is allowed. And he’s not a resentful complainer like Toby.’
I shook my head. ‘I hoped you two might get on better, particularly after the experience we shared last night. Nick, you and Toby Lockswood may not like each other, but you’re going to have to try and rub along. With luck, we should be away from Norwich in a few days.’
‘I’ll try. But he doesn’t make it easy. You should see the looks he gives me sometimes.’
‘A few days,’ I repeated. ‘Now go to the coroner. I’ll meet you outside the main castle entrance later.’
I was sore tired, and feeling last night’s lack of sleep by the time I had traversed the steep streets of Norwich and reached the marketplace. The market was in full swing and the huge square was crowded; colourful awnings were everywhere and all the different trades – vegetable-sellers, fishmongers, butchers, ironmongers, wool merchants – were in their different sections, calling their wares. At the lower end of the market was an open space for poor folk bringing in goods from the countryside, their wares set out on cloths – cheese and butter, last season’s wrinkled apples and pears. Peddlers displayed a miscellany of small goods – pins, wooden mugs, chapbooks, coloured ribbons. I passed Scambler’s former employer at his stall, reminding me that I must visit the boy later.
I reached the castle, glancing over to the Shire Hall where the civil cases would still be going on. Again I was led down the clanging iron staircase. The gaoler followed me into the cell. ‘Look at him,’ he said derisively. ‘Less than two days to live and there he lies, dozing away.’ I knew that sometimes people under great strain or fear, unable to do anything about their position, take refuge in sleep. He shook Boleyn roughly by the shoulder and he jumped awake, blinking in the dim light. ‘What – what –’
I smiled at him. ‘Good morning, John.’
He ran filthy hands through his tangled hair, then sat up. ‘I’ve asked them to let me have a good wash and shave tonight, before I go to court, but they say they can’t.’
‘I’ll make sure they do. It will be a matter of passing money.’
‘And Isabella is bringing me some good clothes tonight, so at least I will not look like a stinking beggar. She is staying at an inn in the marketplace, the White Horse, with my steward Chawry. They should arrive about seven this evening. Can you meet them, and talk to them about the trial?’
‘Of course.’
‘They are allowing her to visit me this evening.’
‘Would you like me to attend?’
He smiled sadly. ‘No, no thank you. This may be our last chance to be together.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What news?’
I told him about the sudden death of the locksmith, that Grace Bone was dead too and her brother had no useful information, and, finally, about our confrontation with the twins, though I left out that there had been a swordfight. Boleyn shook his head sadly. ‘You know, it is strange, I hope I never see them again. Though I always doubted they were involved in their mother’s murder, as I said.’
‘If only we knew the identity of the man who brought the key – or a wax impression of it – to Snockstobe’s shop. But there is no way of finding out before tomorrow. The apprentice is gone, and even he could not identify the man. He has short sight, or claims he does.’ I shook my head.
Boleyn raised a hand. ‘You have done everything you can, Master Shardlake. I am grateful.’
Strange that Boleyn should end up comforting me. I had decided, on the way, that I would try once more to question him about where he was the evening Edith died, but also that afterwards I would tell him about the Lady Elizabeth’s letter requesting a pardon. In common humanity I could not keep that from him any longer.
He looked at me intently. ‘There is one more thing I should tell you, Master Shardlake.’ He paused. ‘I have a goodly store of money, which I have kept at Brikewell. Just in case things got to the stage where my creditors tried to bankrupt me. Twenty old sovereigns of good gold.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘A goodly sum indeed.’
‘I will tell Isabella where it is – if things go badly with me, she will be short of money, and should have it now.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It is in a hole in the brickwork at the back of Midnight’s stable. A good hiding place, hey? With my fierce horse for a guardian. And nobody knowing it is there but me.’
‘But Master Boleyn,’ I said urgently. ‘This could throw a whole new light on the taking of the key. What if someone in your household – the twins, or Chawry, or a servant, had observed you hiding it there, that would give someone a whole separate motive for taking the key.’ I dared not say, it could even have been Isabella.
Boleyn answered impatiently. ‘Do you think I did not consider that? But my cache of gold has been hidden for a year. Nobody knew of it, and nobody dared go in that stable except me and Scambler. And even if the key was taken so that the money could be stolen, how does that advance my case that I am innocent of my wife’s murder? On the contrary, it makes the taking of the key irrelevant.’
I thought hard. ‘You are right. But Master Boleyn, if I am to help you I need to know all the circumstances. I am the one qualified to decide what is relevant. And there are a couple more things I must ask.’ I took a deep breath, and saw him clench his shoulders. ‘First, Witherington’s raid on Brikewell. Did you know that your sons were bringing a gang of gentlemen roughs associated with Sir Richard Southwell?’
He shook his head. ‘I knew they were bringing friends, but not their connection with Southwell.’ His voice took on an angry tone. ‘I hope you are not going to criticize me again for defending my land.’ The sight of the boy with a broken head, reduced to idiocy, came back to my mind, but I said nothing. I spoke, though, in a sharp tone as I said, ‘That brings me, again, to the question of your alibi. I have never believed you spent all that night alone in your study. If you went out to meet someone, they could give you an alibi.’
He looked me straight and hard in the eyes. ‘I was in my study all night.’
‘And you will say that tomorrow at trial?’
‘Yes.’
I sighed. ‘Then, though I shall do all I can to help you, I have to tell you that you may well be found guilty.’
He bowed his head again and spoke quietly. ‘The gaoler says the judge has ordered those sentenced to death to suffer the short drop.’
‘So Judge Gatchet said at the opening of the Assizes.’
Boleyn looked up. ‘Will he be trying the case?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe him, or Reynberd, or even both, given its controversial nature.’
He was silent a moment. I thought that now, at last, he would explain where he was that night, but he only said, ‘I hear you can hang strangling twenty minutes before you die.’
‘Not always so long as that.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Very well, then, how should I conduct myself at the trial?’
‘Criminal cases are short, it should not last more than half an hour. Answer the judges’ questions truthfully and honestly. The coroner will give evidence about finding the body, then the constable who discovered the axe
and the boots in Midnight’s stable.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Gawen Reynolds and your sons have decided to appear, and no doubt will say that Edith was of good character, while you are not.’
He closed his eyes, then exhaled sharply. It struck me that in an odd way it signified his last breaking of any link with his sons. He said quietly, ‘And Isabella will be my only witness.’
‘Her evidence that you are a good husband will be important. But I am calling Simon Scambler to give evidence about the stolen key, and your steward, Chawry. Do you think he will also say you were a good master?’
‘I’m sure he would. But Chawry never knew Edith; he has only worked for me five years.’
‘And I will also give evidence, though I am not allowed to represent you, about the stolen key and the locksmith – though that is, I fear, only hearsay which the judge may not allow. If the coroner’s examination of the body uncovers evidence that he was murdered, which I should find out shortly, that will help us. And I will give evidence that I visited the site of Edith’s murder and saw how hard it would be for one man to do what was done alone. But the fundamental point which I shall make, and which you should make too, is that to leave the body publicly displayed would be a mad act for you, placing suspicion on you and ending your marriage to Isabella.’
‘That is clear,’ Boleyn said, a new strength in his voice. ‘I shall do all you say.’
I took a deep breath. ‘One more very important thing I must tell you. I did not mention it before, because I was ordered not to.’ I looked at him sternly. ‘Also because, to be frank, I had hoped that facing trial, you might still change your story about your whereabouts that evening of the murder.’
‘There is nothing to change.’
‘Very well. It is this. If you should be found guilty, the Lady Elizabeth has instructed me to apply immediately for a pardon. I have a letter signed by her. She will grease the wheels with money.’
He stared at me, his eyes wide while I continued. ‘I have no doubt that the Lady Elizabeth’s name would be enough to grant a stay of execution if it came to it, but I cannot guarantee a pardon will be granted. Elizabeth is still in bad odour with the Protector after the Seymour affair, her brother the King sees her seldom, while as for her sister Mary –’ I did not need to finish the sentence.
I had expected Boleyn to be angry with me for concealing this news, but he only nodded. ‘Then perhaps I was wrong,’ he said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I was married to Edith, and the twins were growing up, I felt my family was under a curse, perhaps some evil lingering from Anne Boleyn’s execution. When I married Isabella, I forgot such notions, but then this happened.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps Anne Boleyn’s daughter will save me after all.’
‘There will certainly be hope.’ I remembered that according to Peter Bone, Edith too had talked of a curse.
He smiled sadly. ‘I see your reasons for not telling me about the pardon before. Hoping I would confide in you that I was out that night. You are very much the lawyer, Master Shardlake, are you not?’
‘Yes. That sometimes lays hard courses upon us.’
He held out his hand for me to shake.
I spent some time going over how he should comport himself in court, and call witnesses – this would be his job as I could not represent him. He seemed attentive and alert. At the end I said quietly, ‘I shall see you tomorrow. Have courage.’
‘I shall. After what you have told me I may even say prayers tonight. I turned my face from God, you see, thinking him my enemy.’
I left Boleyn, and walked slowly upstairs and out into the sunshine, blinking. Nicholas stood waiting for me, his face grave.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘They examined the body yesterday. There were no wounds, and his lungs were full of water. Snockstobe drowned.’
‘He would, if he was pushed in.’
‘The inquest will be next week, and the clerk told me death by misadventure will almost certainly be the verdict.’
‘So another door closes on us,’ I said quietly. I thought again of Boleyn and Edith, each believing they were under a curse.
*
THERE WAS A little more to do before tomorrow’s trial. Nicholas reminded me that, according to the twins, Boleyn’s steward Chawry had been present at the cockfighting on the night they were there with the key. ‘He might have seen something.’
‘We can ask him at least,’ I agreed. ‘And we should see Scambler.’
We lunched at an inn crowded with market traders, then walked down to Ber Street and Scambler’s house. To my surprise, as we approached the rundown building I heard cheerful singing from within. A group of small boys stood outside, peering through the half-open shutters, giggling. They ran away at our approach.
We looked through the shutters. Scambler, again dressed only in a long nightshirt, was dancing clumsily around the room, waving his arms, singing a song I had never heard:
God and his angels, they will save,
Poor souls below who Christ do crave . . .
I was surprised by the purity and melody of his voice, though I could see how strange his antics must have looked to the local children.
‘What on earth is he doing?’ Nicholas asked.
I shrugged. ‘Singing and dancing. He has a good voice, I’ll warrant it’s had some training.’
We knocked at the door. The singing stopped immediately, then Scambler’s aunt Hilda put her sour face cautiously round the door. ‘Yew again,’ she said, then led us into the main room to see Scambler. Immediately she screeched at him, ‘Sooty, I told you to keep those shutters closed. An’ stop crazin’ me with that singin’ and jumping around.’
Scambler stood still, head bowed. His aunt turned to us. ‘Well, I’ve kept him in the house. Not put my nose out of doors, asked my neighbours from the church to guard the house, and had to pay one to fetch some vittles to chaw!’ With the same mercenary boldness as before, she extended a palm. I laid a groat in it. She grunted. ‘It’s not right, people stuck in their houses, old women frightened. An’ Sooty keeps crazin’ me about wanting to go out.’
Scambler gave us a puzzled look. ‘Why be frightened? I’ve been beaten by the twins before.’
I forbore to say this might be more than a beating, and was again distressed that I had not been able to offer more guardianship. At least if anything untoward appeared, Aunt Hilda would screech the house down. I said, ‘Just one more day.’ I drew a deep breath and added, ‘Simon, I would like you to come to the trial, to give evidence about what happened with the key.’
The boy looked scared. ‘Speaking in court, in front of all those people? The judges?’
I said, ‘You will be quite safe. I intend to be with you all the time. It is important to get your evidence into court.’
‘Will he get paid?’ Aunt Hilda looked at me greedily.
‘No.’
‘Then don’t go, Sooty.’
But Scambler took a deep breath, and said, ‘I’ll go, Master Shardlake, if you and Master Nicholas will be there with me.’
‘Thank you, Simon,’ I said quietly.
Aunt Hilda pursed her lips. ‘I suppose that means I’ll have to go too,’ she grumbled, ‘to keep an eye on him.’
‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘But Simon, your aunt is right, you should keep the shutters on the windows closed and locked. Just in case.’
‘It’s hot,’ Scambler pleaded.
‘I know. But better safe than sorry.’
Scambler’s aunt led us back to the door. She said, ‘I sometimes think that boy’s been sent by the devil himself to torment me.’ And with that, the door slammed in our faces.
*
WE RETURNED TO the Maid’s Head and caught up on some much needed sleep for the rest of the afternoon. At seven we had a hasty bite to eat, then set out to walk to the marketplace again, where Isabella’s inn was situated. As we crossed Tombland we saw a tall, richly robed man standing in the doorw
ay of one of the prosperous-looking, three-storey houses, enjoying the afternoon sun. He was in his fifties, with a handsome face and grey hair worn long. He had a full-lipped mouth set in a stern expression, and large, watchful eyes. Some of the people passing bowed to him. I remembered Toby pointing him out among the city fathers who had welcomed the judges to the Guildhall on Tuesday; Augustine Steward, one of the foremost men in Norwich. I remembered what Peter Bone had said about the rich merchants cornering the commerce of the city.
In the marketplace a great clearing-up was going on, men reloading unsold goods onto carts, ragged children ferreting on the ground for scraps amid rotten fruits and bad meat. We entered the inn where Isabella had booked a room. We were jostled by merchants, and lawyers from the Assizes, drinking after the day’s work. We asked for Mistress Isabella Boleyn’s room. Hearing her name, several people looked at us curiously. We were directed to the first floor.
Isabella answered the door. She wore a green dress with a high collar, of good quality but not ostentatious, just right for the trial, her blonde hair under a matching hood. Her pretty face looked strained, but set. She smiled with relief at the sight of us. ‘Thank you for coming, Master Shardlake. We got here half an hour ago. People are looking at us.’
‘I’m afraid that will continue until after the trial.’
‘Have you seen my husband today?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is there any new evidence?’
‘I fear not.’ Her face fell. I told her about what had happened to Snockstobe.
‘Dear God,’ she said. ‘Someone else dead. Was he pushed off the bridge?’
‘I suspect so, but cannot prove it.’ I told her of my visit to her husband earlier that day, and that he had money secreted away for her in a hiding place, which he would tell her about. I watched for her reaction, but it seemed one of genuine surprise and delight. ‘Thank God John was so careful,’ she said. Finally, I told her of the request for a pardon from Elizabeth, because I was sure Boleyn would do so anyway, and stressed it was important to keep it quiet until after the trial. At that she sat down, her whole body shuddering with relief, tears pricking her eyes. ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’