by C. J. Sansom
The old woman reddened, then, with an expression as though she were chewing a wasp, she stomped off into the boy’s room. ‘Don’t keep a’ long,’ she said. ‘We’ve to get ready for church. I need him to read the words to me.’ She slammed the door.
I smiled reassuringly at the boy, who was looking at us apprehensively. ‘We’ve met before, Scambler. Do you remember, two days ago, in the market square? When those boys tripped you up?’
He looked at me, then Nicholas, and his thin face brightened. ‘Yes, yew tried to help me,’ he said with sudden animation. ‘Those boys, I knew them at school, they keep crazing me . . .’
I studied Scambler, more convinced than ever that he was no idiot. After meeting his aunt, I guessed the boys were not the only ones who made his life hard. Still speaking gently, I said, ‘I understand from Master Boleyn you were the only one who could handle his horse.’
Scambler brightened further. ‘Ay, Midnight was a lovely animal. Never hurt you if you treated him right . . .’
Nicholas said, ‘I have seen his stable, heard him kicking. If you could control him, that is some achievement.’
‘I’ve a way with animals. You have to show them you mean to help them.’
‘But Midnight could be difficult with others, I believe. Like Master Boleyn’s sons.’
Scambler’s face darkened. ‘I think before I came they tried to hurt him. I heard he gave that Barnabas a good hard kick.’
‘Did the twins ever try to hurt you?’
‘Whenever they could.’ His tone was suddenly weary. ‘They punched me, threw things at me – a brick, once. Another time they caught me alone on the road and beat me up, for no reason.’
‘I doubt you were the first,’ Nicholas said.
‘No,’ I agreed, remembering the boy they had tormented in London. ‘But Master Boleyn trusted you, didn’t he? You were the only other person allowed a key to Midnight’s stable.’
‘Yes. He said I was to keep the key with me always, allow no one else to have it, especially not the twins. I gave the key to the constable after the murder.’ He gave me a nervous glance.
‘Maybe that was why the twins set on you?’ Nicholas said. ‘A jealous rage because you had control of the horse and its stable?’
Scambler shook his head. ‘People don’t need no excuse to set on me. My aunt says it’s because I’m on my way to be damned.’
‘Do you believe that?’ I asked.
‘No!’ he answered with sudden force. ‘I do no wrong. Her teachings are wicked . . . !’ He stopped himself and put a hand to his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I meant no blasphemy –’
‘It doesn’t matter. We are not the church authorities. Now, Sooty –’
‘Please, sir, please, don’t use that name. My Christian name is Simon.’
‘Very well, Simon. I’m sure you know how important the key to the stable is for the case, given that a pair of muddy boots and the murder weapon were found in there. Can you swear to me you never let the keys out of your possession?’
‘I never gave them to no one,’ he said, but he looked at me worriedly, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Scambler had no ability to conceal his feelings, which perhaps was one reason why he had such problems in life. I said, still gently, ‘That does not answer my question. Was the key ever out of your possession?’
Suddenly, the boy burst into tears, covering his face with his hands; a desperate, frightened sobbing. Toby said, impatiently, ‘Stop blubbering like a great gal, and answer.’
I raised a hand to silence him. ‘Here, lad, calm yourself. Tell me the truth. I swear that unless you have committed a crime, you will not suffer for anything you tell me.’
Scambler looked up at me, his dirty face streaked with tears. ‘I’ve done no crime.’
‘Then I promise you are safe.’
He looked at me, afraid, then said, more to himself than to me, ‘You helped me before. Nobody does.’
‘I will again, if I can.’
Simon took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I told you the twins set on me one day. I’d been on an errand to Wymondham, and was on my way back. They were waiting for me in a patch of woodland about a mile from home. They just jumped out at me, set on me and started punching and kicking me, calling me – names, cruel things. Then they disappeared into the woods again.’
‘Was there any particular reason for them to set on you that day?’
‘No sir. But Gerald and Barnabas, they need no reason.’ He took a deep, sobbing breath. ‘When I got home, I found the key was gone. I wore it around my neck, on a chain; it must have broken during the fight. I was frightened, sir. Master Boleyn was not a bad master but he had a temper. So though I was bruised and bleeding, I went right back to where they attacked me, hoping to see the key on the road or the verge. But I didn’t.’ His voice quickened. ‘It was getting dark, so I thought I’d look again next day. I was busy and couldn’t get away till the afternoon. I went back to the place and this time I found the key on its chain, in the grass beside the road. The strange thing was’ – he frowned – ‘I’d looked in just that spot the day before, and I swear it wasn’t there then. The chain was broken,’ he added.
I glanced at the others. I thought, The twins could have set on him to get the key under cover of the beating, taken it for a day and then returned it, sure that Scambler, even if he guessed what had happened, would say nothing. I could tell from the guilty look on the boy’s face that he, too, had hazarded that guess.
‘When was this attack, Simon?’ I asked.
‘The twelfth of May,’ he answered at once. ‘I remember because it was my mother’s birthday, God save her soul.’ I drew in my breath. The twelfth, just before Edith’s murder on the night of the fourteenth–fifteenth. I looked at the boy. ‘You think the twins took the key?’
‘They could have, and returned it. But why?’
‘Did you not think of telling this to the authorities, after what was discovered in the stables when Mistress Boleyn was found murdered?’
He blushed, and lowered his head. ‘I was frightened of what the twins might do. When the constable came, I didn’t tell him.’
‘They didn’t ask you to make a deposition?’
‘No. The constable said to his assistant it wasn’t worthwhile, everyone knew I was sappy-headed.’
‘Were you still working at Brikewell then?’
‘No. When poor Master Boleyn was arrested, and not there to protect me from the twins, I left at once and came back to Aunt Hilda’s.’ He bowed his head again, kneaded his bony hands together. ‘I’ve done wrong, sir, haven’t I? But I couldn’t work out why the twins would steal the keys just for a day.’
Barak spoke up. ‘Do you happen to know whether Master Boleyn ever used a locksmith?’
‘Yes. Not long after I came, the barns needed new locks, and a man came from Norwich. I remember I went to watch him work, I’ve never seen locks fitted before. I asked him questions, but he told me to stop bothering him. Though later I saw him laughing with the twins, drinking beer. He seemed to get on with them.’
‘Do you know if Master Boleyn had ever used this man before?’
‘I think so. Yes, I remember his steward, Master Chawry, told him it was good to see him at Brikewell again.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
Scambler frowned. ‘It was unusual. It was –’ he brightened – ‘Snockstobe.’ He laughed. ‘A silly name –’ He broke off, and looked at me with something like horror. ‘Oh, sir, do you mean the twins took the key to get a copy made?’
‘It is possible.’
His jaw dropped.
‘It is just a possibility,’ I repeated quietly.
‘Then if I’d spoken, Master Boleyn might not be in the castle. Oh Jesu, I’ve made an awful mess again.’ He raised a hand to his mouth and began chewing on his knuckles.
‘If that is what the twins did,’ Nicholas said, ‘we will find out, and put things right.’
‘That we will,
’ Barak agreed firmly.
I took a deep breath. ‘I meant what I said, Simon. No trouble will come to you for this. In fact, what you have said may help us. But one important thing: do not tell anyone what you have just told us. Not even your aunt.’
The boy laughed bitterly. ‘I know they say I’ve a loose mouth, sir, but I’ll tell nobody. And I never tell her anything.’ A flash of anger entered his voice.
I took out my purse again. ‘Here are two shillings to seal the bargain.’
‘Thank you, sir. Since I left Brikewell, we have no money. My aunt used to spin, but her hands are too bad to work now. We’re going to have to plead relief from the parish, see if the great rich men will give us any pennies.’ He sighed.
‘If you remember anything else, I can be contacted at the Maid’s Head Inn. Ask for Master Shardlake.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Scambler attempted a crude bow. ‘Thank you.’
We left the wretched tenement. As I closed the door I heard Scambler’s aunt calling in her shrieking voice, ‘Sooty! Get yourself dressed! We’ll be late for service!’
Chapter Nineteen
We walked a little way up Ber Street, then stopped at a corner to confer. Church bells were still ringing, and people were hurrying to service in their best clothes, mostly Protestant black.
‘So,’ Barak said, ‘this could put it squarely on the twins. We have to find this locksmith.’
‘The Maid’s Head innkeeper will know the Norwich locksmiths,’ Toby said. ‘That snivelling little runt,’ he added sharply. ‘If he’d told his story weeks ago, Boleyn might never been arrested. I’d swear he was protecting his skin; he guessed what the twins had done.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He didn’t think it through. He’s only – what – fifteen or so? And – not normal, though in a way which I do not understand.’
‘Crying like a gal. I’d have given him a good culp, got it out of him that way.’
‘I expect he’s well used to that.’ I looked at Toby sharply. I was getting to see more and more that, despite his radicalism, he had a hard, unsympathetic side.
‘There’s certainly something amiss with Scambler,’ Barak said. ‘The tears, the way he speaks so fast. And his aunt says he goes about singing. He can’t seem to – control himself.’
‘But he’s not a wantwit,’ I said. ‘Did you notice his voice? He speaks with less of a local accent than you’d expect. And he talked of going to school.’
‘Maybe they chucked him out,’ Toby said.
‘Or maybe after his parents died there was no money for the fees,’ Nicholas said, raising an eyebrow at Toby. ‘If the twins planned this,’ he went on, ‘they must have known their mother’s whereabouts when she returned to Norwich, and killed her despite everyone saying they were miserable when she left them as children. Killed her, and set up their father.’
‘But what would they gain?’ I asked. ‘If their father is hanged, the lands they would have inherited go to the King’s escheator, and they become wards of court till they reach twenty-one.’
‘They’ve got their grandfather’s protection.’ Barak looked at me.
‘We must find that locksmith tomorrow,’ I said.
‘The twins could have used another one,’ Nicholas said.
‘We’ll try every locksmith in Norwich if we have to. I can say I have an expensive chest that needs mending. Now, Toby, take us to Conisford to find Josephine. Then go back home. Come to the Maid’s Head again at seven tomorrow.’
*
THE DISTRICT OF Conisford lay south of the castle. The main road, Conisford Street, contained some fine buildings as well as a rubbish-strewn open space, surrounding the ruins of a friary. Further south, though, the houses were all poorer, with glimpses into yards behind in which ramshackle wooden dwellings had been erected. Toby led us through an archway leading to one such yard, where the ground was bare earth with a malodorous piss-channel running through the middle. We looked at the dozen or so wooden shacks in what had once been the central courtyard for the large house built around it, its walls cutting off light from the sun. The shacks looked of recent construction; they were unpainted, some with only rags at the windows instead of shutters. Chickens pecked about in the muck, where some filthy children were also playing. One pointed at Barak. ‘Lookit yin hand! Yew bin fightin’ the Scotch?’
Barak raised his hand. ‘No, just naughty little boys!’ The children giggled.
Toby said. ‘This is the yard. See how the poorest live in Norfolk.’
‘It is the same in London,’ I replied. I was horrified, however, that Josephine could have ended up here.
‘Ask the people which place is hers,’ Toby suggested, ‘but make clear you’re nothing to do with the authorities. They’ll be wary of lawyers.’
‘I will, Toby. Thank you for bringing us. Now, go see how your mother is.’
He bowed and left us. ‘God’s death,’ Barak said. ‘This is a shithole.’
*
AS TOBY PREDICTED, when we knocked at doors to ask for Goodman Brown and his wife, we were met with suspicion. The first was slammed in our face, the second answered by a thin young woman holding a crying baby who was immediately pushed aside by her husband. He said loudly, ‘If you’re come from Master Reynolds looking for rent from the Browns, don’t try any of your bullyragging ways here, or we’ll throw you out.’
I looked around and saw several doors were open, men in ragged smocks or sleeveless leather jerkins looking at us threateningly.
‘Master Reynolds is your landlord?’ I asked. Edith Boleyn’s father, the twins’ grandfather.
‘Ay, he built this whole stinking yard, and others like it, to leech off the poor. Yew his men?’
‘No. I used to employ Josephine Brown. I am in Norwich on business, and wished to see her. My companions know her, too.’
‘Master Shardlake here gave her away at her wedding,’ Barak said, placatingly.
The man’s wife nodded. ‘That yin’s a Lunnoner, like the Browns.’
‘Two doors up,’ her husband said. ‘But be careful, master, we’ll be watching.’ He slammed the door.
I had last seen Edward Brown two and half years ago, just before he and Josephine left for Norwich. Then he had been a well-set-up, good-natured fellow in his late twenties, with the confidence of an upper servant. When he opened the door, I saw he had lost perhaps a stone in weight; his face and body thin. He wore an old smock tucked into dirty leggings, his face was unwashed and his brown hair and beard were bedraggled. He had several half-healed cuts on his hands, and his right little finger was twisted out of shape. His eyes were angry, but seeing me his expression changed to amazement. ‘Master Shardlake? What are you doing here?’ A moment later Josephine appeared, holding a baby at her breast. Once plump-faced, like her husband she too had lost weight. She wore a patched grey dress; a white coif which had seen better days covered her greasy blonde hair. Her mouth fell open for a moment, but then she smiled spontaneously. ‘Master Shardlake. And Master Nicholas and Jack Barak. What are you doing in Norwich?’
‘We are here on business,’ I said. ‘I have been worried about you, Josephine, since I had no reply to my last letter.’
‘How did you find us?’
‘A legal contact in the city found Master Henning’s steward.’
Josephine turned to her husband. ‘I told you we should have written again, I said Master Shardlake would help us.’
‘We got no help from Master Henning’s children when he and his wife died,’ Brown said bitterly. ‘They sold his house and threw us on the streets. I say, a pox on lawyers and gentlemen.’
‘Edward!’ Josephine chided him, almost in tears.
Nicholas said angrily, ‘We have taken much time to find you. Your last letter spoke of trouble, you know Master Shardlake will help you if he can. He does not deserve this!’
Edward looked a little ashamed, and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Ay, well, I’m sorry.’ He took a deep
breath. ‘Come in, if you like, though ’tis a sorry place.’
Inside, dim light from the single window showed a room with an earthen floor, with a puddle in the corner from last night’s rain, which had entered through a hole in the roof. In one corner was a sagging truckle bed and a home-made crib; some cracked crockery stood on a rickety shelf, and there was a table scored with much use on which a wooden drop-spindle lay beside a little pile of wool. A pair of old chairs and a battered clothes chest made up the rest of the furnishings. Josephine sat on a chair, hugging the sleeping baby – a fair-haired little girl perhaps three months old.
‘Ay,’ Edward Brown said. ‘It’s a poorhouse, all right.’
I asked quietly, ‘How did this come to be?’
Josephine answered. ‘As Edward said, when Master Henning died eighteen months ago, his children put us out on the street. Gave us not so much as a spoon as a keepsake. There’s little work in Norwich, and we’d no training except in service. I get a little work spinning, I turn wool on that spindle day in, day out, till I could scream with boredom. Edward has some work as a stonemason’s labourer, helping sort stone at the old cathedral monastery.’
‘At fourpence a day, and only when unskilled labour is needed,’ Edward added bitterly. ‘While prices rise by the week. When I began I was good at the job, they hinted they might move me up the ranks to labourer’s mate, but then a piece of stone fell on my finger and broke it, so that was that. Since April the city has started collecting money through the parishes for the poor, but as we have work we do not qualify. We only manage by dipping into the rent. Then our landlord sends his men to threaten us. But we are all standing together in this yard, we’ve seen them off twice.’
‘Your neighbour said your landlord was a Master Reynolds. Gawen Reynolds?’
‘Ay, whose daughter was murdered a few weeks back. And good riddance, if she was anything like him.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve met him,’ I said. ‘A nasty old man.’
‘That he is.’