Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  The steward did not move. He glanced across the courtyard to the house, then said, ‘For whom are you acting, sir?’

  ‘That is something for me to discuss with your master. Is he at home?’

  A man’s angry voice called from the interior of the house, loud enough to reach us. ‘God’s death, Vowell, who is it? Get rid of them!’

  The steward hesitated. ‘Wait here, please.’ He closed the door.

  ‘Doesn’t want to see us,’ Nicholas observed.

  ‘He’ll be curious,’ I replied. ‘A serjeant’s robes can sometimes be useful.’ Though hot, too, I thought, even my silken summer robe.

  A minute later the steward returned. ‘You may come in. Please wait in the hallway a moment.’ He led us inside. The house was well furnished, a large vase of flowers on an expensive Venetian table. He left us and went through an inner door. I caught a faint murmur of voices. At the end of the hallway a door opened and a maid looked out. Seeing us, she quickly closed it again.

  Looking round, I started slightly. A thin elderly woman was descending the staircase, moving so quietly we had not heard her. The three of us doffed our caps and bowed. She stood on the bottom step, examining us with cold, still blue eyes, her hands clasped together on her black dress. I saw that she wore white bandages on them. Under a black hood her hair was silvery. Her face was pale as parchment.

  ‘Why have you come?’ The old woman’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘We are helping to investigate the murder of Edith Boleyn.’

  ‘My daughter is dead and gone.’ She spoke in a voice of utter weariness. ‘In a few days her husband will be tried. What is there to investigate?’

  The steward reappeared. ‘Alderman Reynolds will see you, sirs, but I warn you he is much distressed since his daughter’s death.’ We approached the room. The steward raised a hand to bar Toby’s progress. ‘I am sorry, Goodman, he will see the lawyers only. You must wait here.’ Toby shrugged. Mistress Reynolds still stood at the foot of the staircase, one hand grasping the banister.

  Nicholas and I were shown into a large reception room. With the shutters drawn it was dim, candles alight on a large table. A tall, stringy man stood there, dressed in a long black robe. He, too, was elderly, about seventy. His white hair was worn long, almost to his shoulders, in an old-fashioned style. The lined face was long-nosed, square-chinned, the severe mouth turned down at the corners, the eyes dark and fierce. I guessed that Gawen Reynolds would be a hard man to deal with in business. His wife had come to stand in the doorway, looking apprehensive. The steward stood behind her.

  Reynolds waved a hand at them. He said, his voice angry from the start, ‘My wife, Jane, and my steward, Goodman Michael Vowell. They can stay there, we will not be long. What have you come for?’ He stepped forward and I saw that he carried a gold-topped walking stick. Even with its aid he limped badly.

  I said, ‘We wondered if you might help us with a little information. We are investigating the death of your daughter—’

  Reynolds’s voice cut in sharply, ‘That investigation is done. Who are you working for?’

  ‘My instructions come from Master Thomas Parry—’

  ‘Who the fuck is he?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Cofferer to the Lady Elizabeth.’

  Reynolds’s lips tightened. ‘Elizabeth. Of course, trying to save a Boleyn from the gallows. But it is too late, Master Hunchback Serjeant, John Boleyn is guilty, and in a few days will be dangling from the Norwich gallows.’ He spoke this last sentence with satisfaction.

  ‘We have been asked only to review the matter,’ I answered quietly. ‘Will you be giving evidence, sir?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Reynolds said, in a tone of quiet, fierce anger. ‘I can hardly bear even to go out, to see all the nosy glances. As for my hopes of the mayoralty next year, those are finished.’

  I thought, Was that all his daughter’s death meant to him, but Nicholas said sympathetically, ‘What happened must have been a great shock to you, sir.’

  ‘A great shock?’ Reynolds’s voice rose in anger. ‘Nine years ago my only child left her husband and disappeared without trace. She did not come to me, or anyone else, just – vanished.’ He waved a hand angrily. ‘Then last month that terrible discovery at Brikewell. Do you wonder we are shocked?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I answered, ‘it must have been all the worse after hearing nothing for nine years.’

  ‘Yes. Nine years,’ he repeated, angry still.

  I turned to Jane, hoping she might be more cooperative. ‘Did she have any other relatives in Norwich? Or elsewhere? Or friends that she might have gone to?’

  Her husband answered. ‘Relatives, friends? You may as well know, Master Serjeant. My daughter was never normal, right from when she was a child. She did not like mixing with other people – she did not like other people. The trouble we had getting her even to play with other children, let alone attend social functions when she grew up, pretty girl though she was then. I hoped marriage might tame her, but she treated her own poor children badly, and probably Boleyn too.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘We were glad when John Boleyn showed an interest in her, for Anne Boleyn was on the rise then and we all hoped this could bring a link to the Royal Court. But John Boleyn had no real go in him, he was all at sea when he went to London and failed even to get to meet Anne Boleyn. As for Edith, she refused point-blank to go.’ His voice rose again. ‘And then Boleyn murdered her! Set up a damned common barmaid in her place! I shall see that bitch out on the road once this is over!’ His eyes were almost wild with rage. Glancing at his wife I saw fear in her eyes.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then to my surprise I heard the faint sound of a woman’s scream from the back of the house. Jane Reynolds frowned. ‘What are those boys doing now?’ she asked.

  To my surprise Reynolds gave a barking laugh. ‘Something with young Judith, by the sound of it.’

  Jane left the room. A moment later I heard familiar mocking tones outside the room. ‘Fucking hell, Lockswood, not you again. You’d better not have come to trouble Granfer, you prick.’

  Nicholas and I glanced at each other. Barnabas and Gerald, the twins.

  ‘What have you been doing in the kitchen?’ The steward spoke angrily.

  ‘Sticking our hands up young Judith’s skirts. But she started squealing.’

  ‘Your grandmother asked you to leave the maids alone.’

  ‘Mind your business, if you don’t want your cap knocked off.’ The scarred boy, Barnabas, swaggered into the doorway. He saw us and for a moment stood still, frowning, before recovering his bravado and calling out, ‘Hey, Gerry, the hunchback and the streak of piss are back.’ Gerald came in, and looked at us threateningly.

  Reynolds turned to us. ‘You have met my grandsons?’

  ‘They were at their father’s house in London last week.’

  ‘Just sniffing about,’ Barnabas said.

  Reynolds turned to us. ‘I am protecting my grandchildren, they are all I have left. When their father is dead, I shall apply for their wardship.’ He smiled with real affection at the twins. ‘Find a pair of rich wenches for you to marry, eh?’

  ‘Not yet, Granfer. We’re having too much fun to settle down.’

  Reynolds looked at me. ‘By the way, in case your thoughts were tending in that direction, my grandsons have an alibi for the night my daughter was killed. Carousing with their friends, weren’t you, lads? All drinking at John Atkinson’s house, and they stayed the night there. A dozen witnesses. The coroner had that checked.’

  Gerald flexed his broad shoulders. ‘Do you want us to throw these two and Lockswood out, Granfer? It’d be a pleasure.’

  Reynolds looked at us. ‘I think it is time for you to go. Now, before I let them loose on you.’

  Nicholas looked fiercely at the twins. Barnabas winked at him. I touched Nicholas on the arm and led him from the room. There was nothing more to be gained here. One of the twins called after us, ‘I hear
there’s gypsies in town, Master Crookback. Take care they don’t steal you for their exhibition!’ Their grandfather guffawed. I thought, He had no grief for his daughter, none at all.

  Outside Toby stood with the steward. Vowell was frowning, looking towards the kitchen door, from which a faint weeping could be heard. Jane Reynolds had gone.

  He opened the door for us. Nicholas and Toby and I went out. To my surprise, Vowell accompanied us outside. He glanced quickly back into the house, then took my arm and said quietly, ‘You should know, sir, my master did not tell you the full story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His face twitched with anger. ‘There is evidence he could have given, but did not. I was with him nine years ago, and I know that a few months before she disappeared Edith Boleyn came here to seek aid from her father. John Boleyn wanted more children, but she would not lie with him. Boleyn tried to force her, and beat her. She wanted her father to intervene. But you have seen what sort of household this is. He refused, and sent her on her way, saying she must settle her own affairs with her husband.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘Because I would have you know what sort of man Gawen Reynolds is, how what really troubles him is that he is unlikely to become mayor, after this scandal. And now the twins are here – well, soon I too may disappear.’

  I nodded. ‘How did he damage his leg? Old as he is, I thought he might come at us, till I saw he was lame.’

  ‘Slipped in the mud in Tombland during the spring rains. I was with him at the time. He’s not been able to walk properly since. Anyway, I have had enough of this household. I thought you should know.’ And with that, he stepped back and closed the door. I went over to Nicholas and Toby. ‘What was that about?’ Nicholas asked.

  I told them. ‘If Reynolds says that Edith complained to him of violence from her husband, it would damn Boleyn further.’

  ‘Why does he not do so?’ Toby asked. ‘He wants Boleyn hanged.’

  ‘Because he ignored his daughter’s appeal. If that became public, his reputation would suffer further. And that is what matters to him. Poor Edith,’ I concluded heavily. ‘What sort of life did she endure?’

  *

  THAT EVENING, I made notes of the evidence we had gathered so far. There was no doubt, it all seemed to damn John Boleyn even further. Yet still the picture of a violent, brutal husband did not, to me, accord with the man in Norwich Castle. It was time for me to write to Parry and Elizabeth. I considered whether to tell them things were looking bad, that a guilty verdict looked likely and that the application for a pardon might be needed, and that I myself was unsure of Boleyn’s guilt. However, though the trial was only a week away, there were still leads to follow. Tomorrow we would go to Brikewell. So I merely wrote to say I was investigating as thoroughly as I could, and would write again shortly. I sealed the letters, put them in a bag, and took them down to be given to tomorrow’s post-rider to London. I wondered what reception the letters would get at Hatfield. Parry, I guessed, would not be too concerned at the lack of progress, but the Lady Elizabeth was a different matter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, another fine sunny day, Toby again joined us for breakfast punctually at six. His mother, he said, was a little better. Scarcely had he sat down than Barak appeared in the doorway. The man waiting on the breakfast tables looked askance at his arm and cheap clothing, but Barak ignored him and came to sit with us. I said, ‘You remember Toby Lockswood? He was with us when we rode in on Thursday.’

  ‘Ay.’ Barak shook Toby’s hand. ‘You’re the local knowledge on the case.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Ears and eyes on the ground, that’s what you need.’ Barak added approvingly.

  ‘Yes, and my Norwich contacts provided me with useful information yesterday evening.’ Toby turned to us. ‘I have an address for Scambler’s aunt, down in Ber Street, and have also managed to trace Josephine and Edward Brown.’

  ‘Josephine,’ Barak said. ‘Of course, she’s here now. How is she?’

  ‘Her husband works for a stonemason, she as a spinner. They have moved to a place in Conisford, south of the castle.’ He hesitated. ‘A poor area.’

  I said, ‘We shall go and see her, and Scambler too, when we return from Brikewell this evening. Thank you, Toby. How did you manage to trace Josephine?’

  ‘My friend discovered that the retired lawyer, Henning, and his wife both died of smallpox last year. The executors sold his house and put the servants out. My friend got in touch with their old steward, who is living little better than a beggar now, but he was able to tell me about Goodman Brown and his wife. They had kept in touch until a few months ago.’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘You mean the servants were left with nothing? That’s hard.’

  ‘Happens more often than you’d think,’ Toby replied.

  Barak said, ‘Good work.’

  Toby gave him a careful look. ‘I believe you are also acting as eyes and ears for the judges, weighing up the public mood in Norwich.’

  I said, ‘Jack did similar work for Lord Cromwell for many years.’

  ‘Cromwell.’ Toby looked, impressed. ‘They say he would have been a friend to the poor, had Parliament or the old king let him.’

  ‘Very true,’ Barak agreed.

  ‘But that is not so of the judges,’ Toby said, his blue eyes still keenly on Barak’s face.

  ‘I’m just here to see what the general mood is. The judges have to report back to Lord Chancellor Rich and the Protector after the Assizes.’

  ‘And what would you say the mood is?’

  ‘Very discontented.’ Barak smiled enigmatically. ‘It’s been the same all along the circuit, but especially here. I’ve never come across anything like it.’

  *

  WE RODE OUT shortly after. My back was much better and I hoped the five-mile ride would be bearable. To avoid the marketplace, we rode out of St Benedict’s Gate to the west of the city before joining the road south. Early as it was, the road was busy with people bringing goods to market, ranging from carters with loads of butter and cheese to peddlers with huge packs on their backs. There were also several gentlemen and lawyers riding in for the start of the Assizes, now only three days away, each with a small retinue of servants. Two elderly lawyers in black robes, surrounded by mounted servants, rode up to where a group of teenage lads heading for town were strung out across the road, talking loudly and cheerfully.

  ‘Make way there, churls,’ the lawyer shouted.

  Normally the boys would have made way for such as they, especially as their servants were large men with long knives at their belts. This time, however, although they moved to the side of the road, the lads then promptly turned their backs, lowered their netherstocks, and presented the lawyers with a view of six skinny white arses. The face of the man who had shouted at them reddened with fury, all the more since many other travellers laughed and there were shouts of, ‘Well done, bors!’ and ‘Now shit on him!’ Barak and Toby laughed too, although Nicholas and I, both also dressed in lawyers’ robes, exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Nobody had better try that with us,’ Nicholas said.

  The crowds thinned as we continued south. The land was flat, the cloudless blue sky wider than any I had seen. On a piece of pastureland a little group of men was busy shearing, hurdles drawn together to pen in the sheep. The animals were pulled out one by one, thrown on their backs on a trestle table, and the long, curled fleeces removed with amazing dexterity by the shearers with their big shears. It was late in the season for shearing, but the cold winter and spring had doubtless delayed everything.

  I was riding with Nicholas, Toby and Barak behind. I had not seen Barak ride since he lost his hand but he managed well enough, mainly using his good hand on the reins though the end of his prosthesis was curled over them, too. I caught snatches of his conversation, and was glad Toby seemed to be getting on well with him, if not with Nicholas.


  ‘Never seen so many sheep,’ Barak said.

  ‘More land turned over to them every year. And more unemployed villagers as a result.’

  ‘So I’ve heard around the taverns.’

  I glanced back at them and asked, ‘Have either of you heard any more about the rebellions in the West?’

  Barak said, ‘Some say they are against the new Prayer Book, others against the local gentlemen. I don’t know, I’m not sure Protector Somerset does either. But it sounds as though it’s spreading.’

  We rode deeper into the countryside, then turned right into a sandy lane.

  Behind me, Barak asked Toby if he was married.

  ‘Me? No, I’m not ready to tie myself to a wife and children yet.’

  ‘I’ve been tied down for seven years,’ Barak laughed. ‘It’s good to get away now and again.’ He called out to Nicholas. ‘What about you, lad? How’s your love life?’

  ‘I am wooing the daughter of a Gray’s Inn barrister. Her name is Beatrice.’

  ‘Nice-looking, is she?’

  ‘Fair as a rose, gentle as a dove.’

  ‘Will there be wedding bells?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  I leaned back to join in. ‘Beatrice’s mother is dazzled by the range of people I have worked for. I think she dreams of one day meeting the Lady Elizabeth.’ I would not have dared criticize Beatrice in front of Nicholas, but a dig at her mother would do no harm.

  ‘A snob, then?’ Barak answered, ever direct.

  ‘All the better for me to advance my suit,’ Nicholas said shrewdly.

  We passed a small chantry church, where until last year a priest would have said Masses for the dead; the church and lands had now been appropriated by the King. Many of the stained-glass windows had been broken by stones, and someone had chalked Death to the Pope on the door. A little beyond, we saw a church steeple rising in the distance, and Toby pulled to a halt. ‘We’re nearly at Brikewell now. That’s the Brikewell church. It may be useful, sir, to have the plan I gave you to hand.’

  I pulled it from my pouch, looking at it as we rode on. The ploughland to our left belonged to the old chantry. I wondered if someone was negotiating to buy it, and noticed that Sir Richard Southwell owned the land beyond. We arrived at a small, poor-looking hamlet. Ancient cottages, most of them tiny, were clustered round a small pond. Again, to our left was ploughland, while to the right was green pastureland, dotted with the grey-white local sheep. ‘That’s demesne land, belonging to the manor,’ Toby said. ‘Boleyn farmed it directly till he put it to sheep. And beyond is his manor house.’