by C. J. Sansom
‘Did you kidnap her?’ I asked sharply.
He looked at me, his eyes prominent in his thin, lined face. ‘No.’
‘Did you kill her?’
He spoke angrily. ‘If I knew who did, then I would kill them with this.’ He produced a knife from his belt and held it up.
‘Give that to me,’ Barak said quietly. Reluctantly, Bone passed it over.
I said, ‘If what you say is true, I promise there will be no trouble. Now please, for Edith’s sake, tell me what you know.’
Peter Bone leaned back against the wooden wall. I thought at first he was not going to speak, but then he said, ‘My father was a weaver, and farmed a small plot of land towards Wymondham. He had three children, first me, then my sisters Mercy and Grace. Some weavers are wealthy, others just small men, like my father. He died, God save his soul, in 1531, the year after our mother. The lease on his house and bit of farmland ended with his death, and my two sisters and I were left only with his equipment and a little money. I had learned the weaving trade from him and the three of us, who were young then, agreed that I should come to Norwich and try to make my way in the trade, while Mercy and Grace, who had been trained in the skills of serving women by our mother, would try to find employment as ladies’ maids in gentry houses. So, I came to Norwich, rented a house, and for a while I was successful, employing my own spinners and cloth finishers. I moved to the house where you first met me. I married a good Norwich girl.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That was a happy time, but it didn’t last. She died of the smallpox. Trade became more difficult – the great men of Norwich were taking more and more of the cloth-making processes into their own hands, limiting what small men could do.’ He closed his eyes, and sighed. ‘But I worked on, I kept a-doing. Everyone knew that I had two sisters away in service. Serving the gentry families, Grace and Mercy had to behave, though by nature both were noisy, friendly, sometimes a little provoking.’ He smiled sadly.
‘Would you like some beer, Goodman Bone?’ I asked gently.
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. What you want me to do is get on with my story, isn’t it? Well, my sisters served in various houses. Grace, as you know, eventually went to serve Edith Boleyn. That was in ’thirty-eight. But it was Mercy who had the sadder story.’ He wrung his thin hands together. ‘I told you my sisters were alike in their ways, and both had lovely dark hair and large blue eyes. But in one way they were different – Grace seemed to have no interest in men, while Mercy – well, she liked them. She was working for a family on an estate over near Cromer, and in ’thirty-three, only two years after our father died, I was summoned there by the owner. He told me his son had got Mercy pregnant – oh, I don’t doubt she’d encouraged him – and she had had a baby son. She died in childbirth.’ He was quiet again for a moment, then said, in little more than a whisper, ‘I saw my nephew just once, a little newborn, in the hands of his wet-nurse. I saw his father, too, a good-looking young man. I could see he, too, was grieving. For the boy’s father, though, it was all about business.’ His tone darkened. ‘He said he had already had Mercy quietly buried. His son would look after the boy and see to his education; it’s a common enough arrangement. But what I can never forgive is him saying I must never come near his family, nor mention what happened, or he would cut the child off. Mercy, after all, had shown herself a wanton and a sinner.’
Then suddenly he was crying, sobbing like a child. I asked him gently again if he would like something to drink, but he shook his head, wiping his face angrily, and continued, ‘I agreed, for the child’s sake. He will be in his teens now. I don’t even know his name. And when people asked where Mercy was, I said she now worked up in Yorkshire, so far away she could not visit. After a few years, hardly anyone remembered her. Grace was a comfort to me, living nearer she came and visited often. Then, in ’thirty-eight, she went to work for the Boleyns. The pay was good, and needed to be for the family was known to be very difficult. But Grace became attached to Edith Boleyn, more, I think, than she had been to anyone save Mercy and me, despite her strange ways. Edith confided in Grace that she could not give her husband affection, nor any man.’ He looked up at me. ‘She told Grace her own father had interfered with her as a child.’ Nicholas made a sound of disgust, but Peter said, ‘You’d be surprised how often such things happen, in rich houses as well as poor.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed grimly, remembering Thomas Seymour and the Lady Elizabeth.
‘In any case, Grace stayed with the family, despite all the mutual hatreds. Edith said her husband could never understand why his wife would not sleep with him.’
‘Did Edith tell him what her father had done?’
‘No. She was ashamed. She told only Grace. Grace felt sorry for John Boleyn, even if he was liable to outbreaks of temper, and savage over his quarrel with his neighbour. And those twins were already violent and unmanageable, though not yet ten. Perhaps it was partly because Edith felt nothing for them, not since their birth. You’ve probably heard the story of Gerald scarring Barnabas to try and get their mother’s attention. Grace saw that happen. Afterwards, Edith felt guilty and, as she did sometimes, refused to eat. The trouble Grace had then, trying to persuade Edith to take just enough to stay alive.’ He shook his head wearily.
‘Was she mad?’ Nicholas asked.
‘She was punishing herself,’ Peter said in sudden anger. ‘If that is madness, so be it.’
I said, ‘And then came the affair between John Boleyn and Isabella.’
‘Yes. When Edith learned of it through local gossip, she stopped eating again. Grace told me she thought that, too, was from guilt, because her husband had been driven to another woman.’
Peter sighed wearily. ‘Between Edith learning about her husband’s affair with Isabella and starving herself, Grace felt things could not go on. What happened next was her idea. Grace proposed she and Edith leave Brikewell, and come to me in Norwich, where Edith would pass herself off as Mercy come home. Remember, nobody knew she was dead. Grace put the idea to me. I took some persuading, I may tell you, but Grace was –’ he smiled ruefully – ‘forceful.’
I was about to ask whether Edith and Grace were the type of woman attracted not to men, but other women. But such matters did not affect the case, and were not my business.
Peter continued, ‘Edith got what she had never had before, peace and security. And she and Grace were as close as any two people I have seen. And I liked Edith; when she was freed from the bonds of the Boleyn family she blossomed, put on weight, even showed a sense of humour. She worked hard, too.’
I said quietly, trying to keep the tremble from my voice, ‘So Edith did, after all, have people who loved and valued her. I always feared that she never did.’
Peter Bone nodded, his face working.
Nicholas said, ‘Our friend Josephine Brown told us both sisters were alike, dark and buxom. But was not Grace blonde?’
For the first time, Peter smiled openly. ‘When Edith came to us, the first thing Grace did was dye her hair black, as Grace’s was and Mercy’s had been. Then we made her eat – Grace made it a condition that Edith must never starve herself again. She readily cooperated, and soon regained a buxom figure.’
‘And what did you get out of all this, Goodman Bone?’ Barak said quietly.
Peter looked at him steadily. ‘Helping my sister rescue a poor woman who otherwise would probably have died. And with two women in the house again – sometimes it felt almost as though Mercy had returned to life. And, yes, getting one over on the rich masters.’ He laughed. ‘You know what Edith found the most difficult part of her – disguise – even though it was the most necessary one? Wearing the apron and wadmol dress of a poor woman, letting her face get dirty. Wearing cheap shoes. Disguising her accent, that mark of those who rule.’ He looked at me. ‘You have tried to do the same thing here.’
‘Yes, I have. It makes life easier.’ And I thought, That is what the puppet show had brought to my mind, the possibility that in
our society a woman might turn into someone different just by changing her clothes. But I had been too tired to think it through, then.
Peter went on, ‘Edith knew she must do it, to survive. And she got used to our ways, quite quickly. Oh, the three of us had some merry times together. Edith tended to stay in the house on market days, and avoid the richer parts of town, but occasionally people of her own class she had known before passed her in the street. And none ever gave her a second glance. She was just another poor woman, you see.’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘So. That is where Edith was all those years.’
There was silence in the hut, as we tried to take it all in. Peter Bone gave a wry smile. ‘There’s a newdickle for you, eh, Master Shardlake. Someone giving up being rich and turning themselves into someone poor.’
‘Yes. I would never have guessed that.’ I smiled sadly. ‘How did Edith come to leave you?’
Peter’s face sagged. ‘By the turn of last year, times were getting hard. I had to let my workers go. Edith and Grace helped me with spinning and weaving, but Edith had developed pains in her hands, and her knuckles had become swollen.’ He sighed. ‘She was often in pain, couldn’t work. Then last spring the influenza came, and carried off poor Grace. It was a terrible shock to Edith and me. By that time we could no longer afford the rent on the house, and Edith still could not work. Then she said there was one thing left she might try, a distant but very rich relative of her husband’s, who she could appeal to for help. I didn’t know then it was the Lady Elizabeth. She left in March, with a little money for the journey. She promised to return within a few weeks, but never came back. Then I heard her body had been found at Brikewell.’
‘You lied, then, saying both your sisters had died of influenza.’
His expression became clouded. ‘I told you Boleyn’s people sought out Grace after she and Edith disappeared from the Boleyns’ estate. When I heard of Edith’s murder I was bereft; I wasn’t going to say where she had been. It wouldn’t have helped; I had no idea who could have murdered her.’ He looked at me. ‘It would not have helped your friend Master Boleyn’s case to discover that Edith hated living at his house so much that she fled and changed her very identity. Besides, Edith and Grace were both now dead, nothing I could do would bring them back.’
I asked quietly, ‘Have you no idea who might have killed her?’
He shook his head. ‘None. Except that it was done with an unbelievable hatred.’
I added, ‘But she kept her wedding ring.’
‘Yes, in a drawer, as I said. Then I brought it here, it was the only keepsake I had of her. I don’t know why she kept it – but with that inscription she could hardly sell it in Norwich Market, could she?’
I said, ‘We hope to find out who killed her, but there are many suspects.’
Peter sighed again, and tears began trickling down his face. ‘Let me know if you find out, but otherwise, please, leave me alone. Every day I try to put it all behind me, and work to build a new and better Commonwealth, perhaps even one where such things may no longer happen.’
Chapter Seventy
I sat on my favourite grassy hummock, on the crest overlooking Norwich. It was a rare sunny day – with the frequent showers of rain, Kett’s forces stationed in the city had occupied some of the churches as well as the cathedral, to the ire of the more pious citizens. It was the sixteenth of August, nearly ten days since Peter Bone had told me where Edith had been all those missing years.
In the camp, I was largely at leisure. Kett had decided there would be no trials of the Norwich gentlemen at the Oak; some who had agreed to cooperate had been freed, others were still held in the castle and Guildhall prisons. Apart from the occasional thief or brawler, there were no more cases to try. As my life became quieter, I realized how much strain I had been under, and for how long; in recent days I had spent a good deal of time asleep. As for my friends, Nicholas was helping with the horses along with Simon; Natty’s arm was better; Barak, though, I was concerned about. Although he still had clerical work, dealing mainly now with materials brought up from Norwich – everything was still meticulously recorded – like me, he had less to do and spent much of his free time wandering around the camp, watching the ceaseless military training, stopping to gossip but also, I noticed, to drink. I knew he felt anxious and guilty about Tamasin, from whom nothing more had been heard.
Looking over the city, I sat mulling over the issue of Edith yet again. Logically, after her rejection at Hatfield, she would have returned to Norwich and Peter Bone. But before she reached him, someone had murdered her and I was no closer to finding who that might be. The twins, Chawry, Boleyn himself – his lack of an alibi still preyed on me – or Isabella – all were possible candidates, and there was also the whole murky issue of Southwell and Flowerdew’s interest in the Brikewell estate to consider.
I reflected on the other mystery in which I had become involved – who had betrayed the whereabouts of Captain Miles’s wife to the authorities in London? Was it someone from the capital? I began to think it was. I did not think I was seriously suspected, and had no sense of being watched. That left as suspects the increasingly unstable Toby Lockswood, Edward Brown, Michael Vowell, Peter Bone and the old soldier, poor dead Hector Johnson. But I could not think it was any of them. Lockswood I had not seen since the day I had showed him Edith’s ring, which I now kept in my purse. I heard he had been given a job felling trees over at Thorpe Wood. His demotion would have hurt him and I imagined him taking his rage out on the trees with his axe.
I had promised Peter Bone I would tell only those who needed to know about Edith. I was duty bound to tell Parry; apart from anything else, it would choke off further enquiries around Hatfield by the Lady Elizabeth. I wrote to him, telling him about Edith. Regarding my present whereabouts, I said I was detained in the rebel camp but under comfortable conditions. And then, of course, I had to tell Robert Kett. Unless he agreed the letter could be sent with a covering note from him saying the seal was not to be broken, Edith’s visit to Elizabeth would become common gossip throughout Norfolk, the very thing I had been asked to avoid.
He read the letter, which I took to him at St Michael’s Chapel, shaking his head in amazement over the story. His face seemed more lined these days, more worried. He frowned, though, at one word on the letter. ‘Surely,’ he said indignantly, ‘it is untrue you are “detained” in the camp. You gave your oath to serve me.’
I had expected this. ‘It is only that I do not think Master Parry or the Lady Elizabeth would be pleased to learn I was here voluntarily.’
He looked at me with those large brown eyes that seemed to pierce the soul. ‘Insurance, then, for future employment with the Lady?’
‘Yes. And her protection.’
He smiled wryly. ‘But if we achieve our goals, you could return to working in the Court of Requests, aiding the poor against the landlords. There will be more cases, and life will be easier for the defendants.’
‘In truth I would prefer that, but I will never be allowed to return there while Richard Rich is Lord Chancellor.’ I remembered that terrifying January day when I had found him waiting for me in Parry’s office. ‘Indeed, it is from him that I need the Lady Elizabeth’s protection.’
Kett said, ‘Perhaps we may be able to get rid of Rich, when our cause wins.’
‘Amen to that. But – if you agree, I would like my – insurance.’
Kett said, ‘Cross through the word detained. Just say you are in the camp.’
I hesitated, then took the quill Kett offered me and crossed out the word, so thickly it could not be read at all. He nodded, and sanded the letter. ‘I will ensure it gets to Hatfield unread. Through one of my couriers who brings information from London.’
*
FINALLY, JOHN AND ISABELLA Boleyn had had to be told. I had visited them the day after Peter Bone told me his story, Nicholas accompanying me on the now familiar walk down the escarpment, through the remains of Bishopsga
te Bridge gatehouse, along the streets where so much blood had been spilt, and down to the castle. In Norwich those going about their business looked nervous if they were of gentleman status, more confident and sometimes cocky if they were poor. The walls, I knew, were now patrolled by men loyal to Kett.
Norwich Castle was quieter today, though the prison stink was strong as ever with so many held there. John Boleyn’s cell, with its space, furniture, and now with Isabella in residence, was like an island in a sea of gloom. The two seemed happy enough. I told them of my discovery of where Edith had been those nine years. I watched them closely as I recounted the story; both seemed genuinely shocked. Boleyn said bitterly, ‘And she never thought to send even a note that she was alive.’
Isabella said gently, ‘Perhaps she thought in time her silence would give you freedom to marry again.’
‘You did not know her as I did, my love. God save her soul, but the only person Edith ever thought of was herself.’
I said, ‘Would you like her ring, John?’
His eyes flashed with anger for a moment. He shook his head vigorously.
Nicholas said, ‘Have you heard any more from Chawry?’ Isabella gave me a quick look, and I saw from Boleyn’s face that she had not yet told him of the attempted rape. Perhaps she thought he already had too much to bear. ‘Nothing,’ Boleyn said. ‘But it has not been long, I hope for some news soon. Jesu knows what state Brikewell is in.’ So he believed Chawry had gone there.
We left after taking a glass of wine and began the walk back to camp. As we passed through Tombland, I saw a familiar couple walking past the cathedral – Gawen Reynolds and his wife, Jane. He walked slowly, bent over his stick, she with an arm through his, white bandages on her hands. I hesitated; surely if anyone had a right to know what had happened to Edith it was her parents.
‘Leave them,’ Nicholas said warningly.
‘That poor woman at least should know.’
‘Then try and get her on her own again, as you did before.’