Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Boleyn shrugged, irritated now. ‘I don’t know. I believe he has an aunt around Ber Street. His parents are dead. Someone will direct you easily enough, Sooty Scambler is well known in Norwich. But you will be wasting your time.’

  ‘The key to your defence is finding out who put those things in the stable,’ I said determinedly. ‘I need all the information I can get. I shall spend this week finding it.’

  ‘Serjeant Shardlake has a great reputation for discovering murderers,’ Nicholas stated proudly.

  Boleyn looked at me. Clearly he did not believe it. ‘Well, anyway, I thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Now,’ I continued. ‘What of others with a possible motive? I am afraid I must consider Isabella, and your sons.’

  Boleyn spoke slowly and patiently, but with a deep underlying anger. ‘Isabella, like me, obviously had a motive for killing Edith. But none whatever for leaving her body on gruesome public display, which could only throw suspicion on us.’

  ‘I agree. And that is the strongest card you have. By the way, was Isabella questioned?’

  ‘Yes. And convinced the coroner she had nothing to do with the murder.’

  ‘No deposition was taken from her. Nor from Gerald and Barnabas. What if they had discovered that their mother, whom they had no reason to love, had returned to Norfolk?’

  Boleyn looked me in the eye. ‘I know my sons are ruffianly brutes. But they did not do this.’

  Toby said, ‘Master Shardlake met them. At your house in London.’

  Boleyn looked surprised. ‘What were they doing there?’

  ‘I fear they had come to see what they could steal.’

  Boleyn grunted. ‘They have no love for me. I have always known that. And yet – after their mother left, both of them, believe it or not, were full of sorrow. They cried for weeks. I do believe that in their way they loved her.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘I am their father, but my eyes are not closed to what they are like. Yet I cannot believe they did this.’ He sighed again. I could see he had had enough, yet we had little time, so I pressed on.

  ‘That leaves your neighbour, Leonard Witherington. You and he had a quarrel over the boundary between your lands. If you were found guilty and the lands were to be forfeited to the King, he could buy them.’

  Boleyn laughed bitterly. ‘He’d have to contest that with Sir Richard Southwell, whose land adjoins ours on two sides. He’d lose that battle. No, it’s the boundary Witherington wants changed.’

  ‘Have you had any trouble with Southwell?’

  ‘I’m too small a fish for him to bother with. It’s Witherington; he sees changing the boundary as a way to stop his peasants protesting about his taking their land for sheep, he would use the extra land as common land or waste for them. But my own peasants would make trouble then.’

  ‘I gather there has been a confrontation already.’

  ‘Yes. In March. Witherington’s steward got some of his tenants together to try and enter my land forcibly. I heard about it in advance from one of Witherington’s men who was in my pay, and got my own steward, Chawry, to gather some of my people to throw him off, including my sons. I knew they would enjoy a bit of trouble. They brought some friends, and acquitted themselves well in that little ruffle, broke the head of one of Witherington’s tenants for him. The man’s been in a daze ever since. And that old bastard Witherington will have to think again.’

  Toby said, ‘No doubt the injured man was only trying to protect his livelihood, even if Witherington was making use of him.’

  Boleyn looked at Toby, and for the first time I saw in his eyes the fierce superiority of the lord of the manor. ‘If peasants start making trouble for their superiors, or their superiors’ neighbours, they deserve all they get. Anyway, Witherington threatens to go to law now, but I doubt he will.’

  I said, ‘I understand you have other lands in the county, Master Boleyn.’

  He shrugged. ‘Other manors some way off. I would like to turn them over to sheep. It’s the only way a gentleman can make a profit these days, with the rise in prices killing rents. But there are a lot of freehold farms I cannot touch and my bailiffs there tell me the tenants are prepared to go to law.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t face the costs and trouble of that, on top of Witherington.’

  ‘Your house in London must be expensive,’ I said.

  ‘Too expensive, if that’s what you’re getting at. I thought I could afford it, and planned to go and live there with Isabella, away from these infernal disapproving neighbours. Though I’d never sell Brikewell; my family came from near there.’

  ‘There is one more thing I must ask you about, Master Boleyn,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘On the night of the murder you said you spent two hours in your study, going over the papers relating to your estate. Between nine and eleven in the evening, according to your deposition. Unfortunately, neither your wife nor anyone else saw you during that time.’

  ‘I needed quiet. I told her to leave me undisturbed.’

  ‘What papers were you studying?’

  ‘Old documents. Deeds and suchlike. If Witherington was going to law, I needed to study the papers myself before employing my own lawyer.’

  When a witness has been clearly speaking the truth, as I believed Boleyn had been up to now, it is often easy to tell when he begins lying. His eyes would not meet mine, and he shifted uneasily. I said quietly, ‘But I have all those documents. We found them at your London house.’

  Boleyn’s head jerked up. For a moment he hesitated. ‘I took some of the papers to London because, as I said, I was going to consult a lawyer myself. I remember now, it was the old estate books I was looking at that night, records of the tenancies and so forth.’

  I thought of challenging him further, but then decided, no, go to Brikewell first, let him think on it. ‘I see,’ I said, my tone intentionally doubtful. ‘Well, I am sure we must have tired you. We shall come back and see you soon, but tomorrow I want to visit Brikewell. I might try to see Master Witherington.’

  ‘He’s a savage old brute.’ Then Boleyn’s expression changed, became imploring. ‘Will you give Isabella my love? Tell her I think of her constantly. And thank her for the food she has sent me. Though the gaolers take their share, damn them.’

  ‘I will.’

  Then he said quietly, ‘When he came before, Toby said the Lady Elizabeth has taken an interest in me. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. She has.’

  ‘Is she paying your fees?’

  ‘She would see justice done. But I would ask you to keep her involvement quiet.’

  ‘I shall, believe me. Norfolk is Mary’s territory now.’

  I stood up carefully, my back creaking. Toby banged on the door and the gaoler came to let us out. It was a relief to walk out of the cold, dank castle into the sunshine. The three of us stood on the castle steps for a moment, looking over the city. I had never seen so many church spires.

  ‘Well,’ I said quietly. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘He was lying about what he did on the night of the murder,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Yes. We must try to find out why.’

  ‘So, he may be guilty after all,’ Toby said.

  ‘Indeed he may be,’ I replied. ‘And I think he has a temper, but whether that would be savage enough to do what was done to his wife is another matter. A ruthless streak, too, from the way he described that fight at Brikewell. And yet – in some ways he strikes me as a weak man; frightened of his tenants of his other manors taking him to court, and Witherington, too. He appears to me a man who would rather have a quiet life if he could. In either event, his lying is the most important matter we need to resolve. And we need to find Master Sooty Scambler.’

  Nicholas shivered slightly. ‘I’ve never been inside a prison. ’Tis a doleful place.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to do with the criminal law?’ Toby asked.

  ‘We are land lawyers,’ I said. ‘Though I myself do hav
e experience of visiting clients in prison.’ And two short spells in the Tower, I thought grimly. I looked at the sun, almost overhead. ‘And now, to the Guildhall, and the coroner.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the marketplace, the preacher had gone. I saw one of the boys who had tripped Scambler, and wondered where he had fled to.

  We walked up to the Guildhall. It was an impressive three-storey building, its doors guarded by two men in city livery. The flint facing of the wall was knapped smooth, the mortar between the flints inset with thin flint chippings. I was about to run my fingers over the surface when Toby warned, ‘Careful, those gallets can tear your hands.’

  I became aware of a faint crying sound from ground level. I saw a tiny grille through which dirty fingers waved. A voice called, ‘Alms, for food, merciful sirs.’

  ‘This place has a prison,’ Toby said. ‘The mayor’s court and the justices sit here. Only Assize prisoners go to the castle.’

  I passed some pennies through the grille. They were quickly snatched away, and more desperate fingers appeared from the gloomy interior. I straightened up with difficulty, and sighed. Turning to Toby, I said, ‘But the city council meets here too?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the largest Guildhall in England, outside London. Built a hundred and forty years ago using forced labour from the city. My own forebears among them.’ He moved to the porch and spoke to one of the guards, who bowed and waved a hand to usher us inside.

  The building was lit by large windows, probably once colourfully decorated but now plain glass. The guard led us to a staircase. ‘The coroner will meet you in the Swordroom, sirs,’ he said.

  ‘Swordroom?’ Nicholas asked, interested.

  ‘There aren’t any swords on display,’ Toby said. ‘It’s the council meeting chamber. But there’s a false roof, and weapons are stored above in case the city constables ever need to deal with trouble.’

  ‘Has that ever happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  The guard took us upstairs and knocked on a big wooden door. A voice within called us to enter and a servant opened the door, bowing.

  We entered a sizeable chamber, with benches and chairs set in a semicircle. On a raised dais at the front a plump middle-aged man with a grey beard was leafing through a pile of documents. He stood and bowed. ‘Serjeant Shardlake?’

  ‘Yes. And Master Overton, and Goodman Lockswood.’

  He studied us with shrewd blue eyes. ‘I am Henry Williams, coroner for Norwich. My district includes Brikewell. I do not often meet a lawyer of your rank, sir. Do you know Serjeant Flowerdew, agent of the King’s escheator?’

  ‘No. Though I gather he is keen to have John Boleyn’s family out of his property, even though the trial has not yet taken place.’

  Williams grimaced. ‘Perhaps he is interested in acquiring the land, for himself or another. He is a man who – well, let us say that his name does not suit him. Anyone less like the dew on a flower would be hard to conceive.’ He laughed mirthlessly, then looked at me sharply again. ‘You have taken over the Boleyn case from Master Copuldyke, I believe.’

  ‘To act on his behalf in the matter, yes.’

  ‘Copuldyke acts for Thomas Parry, the Lady Elizabeth’s cofferer.’ He looked at me narrowly.

  I continued, ‘I am instructed merely to look into the facts, with a fresh eye. I make no presumption about Boleyn’s guilt or innocence.’

  ‘That is for the jury to decide.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I smiled reassuringly, knowing the coroner would want his own court’s verdict to be upheld. ‘You will be giving evidence at the trial?’

  ‘Of course. As the one responsible for the initial investigation. Where the jury’s verdict was that Edith Boleyn was murdered by her husband John,’ he concluded with emphasis.

  ‘I understand. The evidence of the boots and hammer in Boleyn’s stables?’

  ‘Taken with the fact that only he had keys, apart from his wantwit stable boy. And nobody else could have gone into that stable, the horse he kept there was quite uncontrollable, as he admitted in his deposition.’

  ‘That is indeed strong evidence. But could someone else have thrown the boots over the top or under the bottom of the stable door?’

  Williams frowned. ‘The constable did not mention it.’

  I changed the subject. ‘I cannot help wondering what motive John Boleyn could have for displaying his wife’s body in such a public way? Have you any thoughts on that, Master Williams?’

  The coroner shrugged. ‘Who knows what went on in his mind, what rage he could have fallen into if Edith suddenly turned up? He certainly had a motive to murder her.’

  ‘I agree. But I think that usually, if something does not make sense, it is unlikely to be true.’

  Williams grunted. ‘The older I get, the more I find that much of what men do makes little sense.’ He smiled wryly, then looked at me sharply again. ‘Have you been down to Brikewell?’

  ‘I go tomorrow. Another thing that puzzles me, Master Coroner. Does anyone have any idea where Edith might have been these last nine years?’

  He shook his head in genuine puzzlement. ‘Nobody. I investigated that matter both recently and two years ago when John Boleyn applied to have his wife declared dead. And my predecessor investigated it thoroughly in 1540 after she vanished. But nobody could tell us anything.’

  ‘Not her parents?’

  ‘No. She never contacted them. It is as though she hid in a hole for nine years.’ He considered a moment, then added, ‘I remember when I took over from my predecessor – dead now, God save his soul – he told me about the case. There was one person then whom he wanted to interview, but could not trace.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Edith Boleyn’s maid, Grace Bone.’

  ‘Yes, Master Boleyn mentioned her earlier. He said that before her disappearance Edith was the terror of her servants, even her loyal maid left her employ.’

  Williams shook his head. ‘That is not the full story, according to what my predecessor told me. When Edith’s disappearance was investigated back in 1540 – with the marriage in trouble and Boleyn having a mistress, there was naturally fear of foul play – the story he got from the servants was different. Apparently, Edith and Grace had been very close, as is sometimes the way with women and their maids, and when she learned of her husband’s adultery, Edith could often be heard weeping in her room, with Grace Bone trying to comfort her. If anything during those last months they became closer than ever. So when she left with only a week’s notice, the servants were puzzled. Edith seemed more distraught than ever, and herself disappeared shortly after.’ Williams looked at me seriously. ‘My predecessor even wondered whether the maid had secretly been done away with, like her mistress.’

  ‘By John Boleyn?’

  Williams shrugged. ‘I know only that she was never traced. She vanished as completely as her mistress. She had a brother in Norwich, it was said, but he could not be traced. Of course, it is too late to raise that matter now.’

  I said incredulously, ‘You mean a second woman disappeared at the same time as Edith, and the matter was never investigated?’

  The coroner frowned. ‘It was investigated, sir, by my predecessor, as I told you, but nothing was found. Possibly Grace Bone knew that Edith planned to leave her husband, and left herself before trouble blew up.’

  ‘That could be. But where did she go?’ I looked at Williams. ‘There may be two murders here.’

  Williams shook his head. ‘There is no evidence. And without evidence there is nothing to be done. But as for Edith’s death last month, there is clear evidence, and it points to John Boleyn.’

  I said quietly, ‘I see there is a very brief deposition from Edith’s father, Gawen Reynolds, saying only that he never saw his daughter again after 1540 until he was called to identify her last month.’

  Williams shrugged. ‘That was all he had to say.’

  ‘And no deposition has been taken from Sim
on Scambler, the former stable boy.’

  Williams laughed suddenly. ‘I remember now, mad Sooty Scambler. He wouldn’t have the balls or brains to murder a chicken.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ I said, ‘I shall be speaking to him. And also to Master Gawen Reynolds.’

  Williams looked me in the eye. ‘Be careful with that old man, he is not to be trifled with.’

  *

  WE LEFT THE Guildhall. ‘What thoughts on the meeting with the coroner?’ I asked.

  Nicholas replied, ‘He told a slightly different story than John Boleyn about the maid’s departure.’

  ‘Though with the state of the marriage, Boleyn may have assumed that when Grace left it was because she was tired of Edith’s ways. We must question him again. And press him about where he was that night.’

  *

  WE WALKED UP to Tombland. The sun had passed its zenith, and the tall houses in the prosperous central areas of the city provided welcome shade. We noticed a great Italianate mansion, the doors closed and secured with wooden bars. ‘The Duke of Norfolk’s former palace in the city,’ Toby observed.

  ‘The King’s property now,’ I replied. ‘Or has it been sold to the Lady Mary like the Duke’s other lands?’

  ‘I think it is still in the King’s hands.’

  ‘And managed now by his escheator.’

  *

  THE REYNOLDS HOUSE in Tombland looked lifeless, the shutters on the upper windows closed and the courtyard gates firmly locked. Toby knocked loudly on the door and we heard footsteps slowly approaching. The door was opened by a handsome, strongly built man in his thirties, with brown hair, a short beard and sharp green eyes. He wore a madder-red doublet and green cap. When he saw Nicholas and me in our lawyers’ robes his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is this the house of Master Gawen Reynolds?’ I asked.

  ‘Alderman Reynolds, yes,’ the man answered cautiously. ‘I am his steward. He and his wife are seeing no visitors at present, they have suffered a bereavement.’

  ‘It is about that we have come.’ I introduced myself and the others. ‘We are investigating the tragic death of your master’s daughter.’