Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘I told your husband, the outcome is not a certainty.’

  She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘But it gives him hope, even if he is found guilty. Forgive me, I am a weak woman, and thus ever prone to tears.’

  Nicholas said, ‘I think you have shown rare courage and strength given your terrible trials, madam.’

  She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Indeed you have,’ I agreed. I took a deep breath, then added, ‘There is one matter where I have been unable to move your husband. I think he went out on the night of Edith’s murder. Have you any idea where he might have gone?’

  Nicholas added, ‘If you do, you must say so now, or it will be too late.’

  She met my gaze. ‘I know nothing. If John went out of the house, he left silently, without telling me.’ A note of exasperation entered her voice. ‘Given what is at stake, do you not think I would tell you if I knew?’

  ‘Very well. Now, before you visit your husband, I must go through what will happen tomorrow. I want to call Goodman Chawry as a witness. Your husband says he would speak in his favour, say he was a good master.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure. Daniel and my husband like each other, he is a good man, the only servant who has stayed loyal to us. I had to travel with him today, as I have no maid to accompany me. He has taken the room next door. No doubt people will gossip about that,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘Can you call him in? There is something I wish to ask him.’

  Isabella went out, returning a couple of minutes later with Daniel Chawry, also dressed well and soberly in a black doublet, his red hair and beard recently cut. I thought, He would answer the apprentice Walter’s description of the man who had come to see Snockstobe, but then, as I had said before, so would half the men in Norwich.

  ‘God give you good evening, Goodman Chawry,’ I said.

  ‘Master Shardlake,’ he answered in a quiet, respectful voice. ‘I am glad you and Master Nicholas are here to help us.’

  ‘We have no new evidence, I fear. Save on one matter. I wonder if you remember being at an inn near the cockpit in Coslany, shortly before Edith Boleyn was murdered, where Gerald and Barnabas were present, and there was a ruffle about Gerald losing his purse.’

  ‘I remember that well enough. They were telling everybody that they had a plan that would cause some fun and games at Brikewell.’

  ‘Those were their words?’

  ‘Indeed. Their friends were laughing.’

  I thought, Whatever those fun and games were, they did not mean murder, for that they would have kept a tight secret.

  ‘Do you visit that inn often?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I attend the cockfights at least once a week. Then I go for a drink afterwards.’

  Personally, I could not stomach the baiting of animals, the cruel shouts from the crowd as they bled and died: most people saw it as an eccentric weakness, which perhaps it was. I said, ‘I have discovered that in the purse was a key to Midnight’s stable, which the twins had stolen from Simon Scambler.’

  Chawry shook his head. ‘Young Sooty, always getting into trouble.’

  ‘This was not his fault,’ I said sharply. ‘There is a question as to whether someone may have taken the key to make an impression of it. Did you see anything?’

  ‘I remember the twins saying something about a purse, and then rushing over to a bench. I was watching because I hoped someone had stolen it, but it was still there. That’s all I remember. I’m sorry. How does it affect the case?’

  I told him the story of the locksmith, and our encounter with the twins. ‘So far as the locksmith and the apprentice are concerned it is hearsay evidence, but I shall try to raise it tomorrow.’

  Chawry nodded, then looked at Isabella, forcing a smile. ‘Perhaps in a few days Master Boleyn will be back, riding Midnight.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She smiled wryly. ‘That horse has been a headache. Missing his master, kicking the doors of his stable. Daniel has managed to feed him, but I fear he takes his life in his hands.’

  ‘He’s coming to accept me,’ Chawry said.

  I took the two of them through what would happen tomorrow; Chawry readily agreed to give evidence for his master, though we both knew it would count for little. Then we left them to cross the market square together to visit Boleyn, Chawry carrying another parcel of food which Isabella had made up. Nicholas and I walked slowly back to Tombland.

  ‘You think she will make a good impression?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, she is no fool. Quite a remarkable woman, considering she was once only a barmaid, and must have no education.’

  ‘How old is she, do you think?’

  ‘A good bit younger than Boleyn, around thirty perhaps.’

  ‘She looks younger than that.’

  ‘Too old for you, Nick lad,’ I said, taking refuge in banter – although, in truth, Isabella Boleyn had made an impression on me as well. ‘Besides, I thought you preferred demure women like Beatrice Kenzy.’

  ‘Too young for you, also,’ Nicholas said, with a smile.

  ‘And,’ I added sombrely, ‘she is still a possible suspect. As is Chawry.’

  ‘I caught Chawry looking at her,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think he likes her, too.’

  ‘Recent events will have driven them closer. But she is devoted to John Boleyn, you can see.’ I sighed. ‘It is strange, we have spent the last week talking about John Boleyn, his sons, his servants and neighbours, and somehow in it all, Edith gets forgotten. Yet she suffered more than anybody, and met that terrible, hideous end.’

  ‘She is somehow – elusive,’ Nicholas said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. Nobody seems ever to have thought to ask why she behaved as she did. If we could find that out, perhaps we might have the answer to the case.’

  He took a deep breath, and said, ‘Is Boleyn innocent?’

  I looked at him. ‘Frankly, I do not know. But from all we have found out so far there has to be reasonable doubt.’

  We crossed the marketplace. Behind us, the castle loomed over the city like a gigantic sentinel.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  To my surprise I slept well that night. I woke, as often on the morning of important cases, with questions buzzing in my head. If John Boleyn had not killed his wife, who had? I had no clear idea of a suspect, certainly none with a rational motive – or indeed, an irrational one. The twins seemed to have a cast-iron alibi, and Gerald’s furious rage over the suggestion two nights before that they had killed their mother had seemed genuine.

  I descended the staircase to the dining chamber, dressed in my serjeant’s robe and coif, without any of the excited animation I often felt on the first morning of a civil case. Here a life was at stake, and our chances not strong. I had the application for a pardon in my pocket, but remembered William Cecil’s words to me, back in January: warn the Lady Elizabeth to be careful no breath of scandal touches her again. And if it should come out that Edith Boleyn had been at Hatfield ten days before her death –

  Nicholas and Toby were waiting for me. Both looked solemn. Nicholas, though, made an attempt at a smile. ‘Well, the day has come.’

  ‘Yes. The twentieth of June.’ I looked at Toby, the bulge of a bandage visible under his green doublet. His black-bearded face looked tired. ‘How is your arm?’

  ‘A bit painful, the stitches stretch when I ride, but it’s improving. No sign of poison in the wound.’

  ‘Thank God for that. How fares your mother?’

  ‘A little better. Keeping to her bed.’ He grimaced. ‘Another hot day, I see. The crops are swelking in the heat, becoming dry. I never thought I would say it after the wet spring, but I wish for some rain. That thunderstorm only batted down the crops. Still, today should be interesting.’ I looked at him, noting again his emotional detachment from the case.

  The waiter brought bread and cheese. I said, ‘I want to get down to court as soon as possible, be ready for the witnesses to arrive – Isabella, Chawry, Scambler and –’ I took a deep breat
h – ‘the twins.’

  Nicholas said, ‘The prosecution witnesses will go first – the Brikewell constable, shepherd Kempsley as first finder, and Gawen Reynolds with his grandsons. The evidence of the constable who found the boots and club in the stable is the biggest hurdle.’

  ‘Yes. And we have the general prejudice against John Boleyn living with Isabella. I dare say there will be some professional pamphleteers in court, ready to scribble down the gruesome details, exaggerate them, and have them printed and sold around the country.’

  ‘As it’s a criminal trial,’ Toby said, ‘the judges will want the case over as soon as possible. In the London Assizes they sometimes try twenty capital cases a day. And if Judge Gatchet is in charge, he’ll likely be looking for a conviction, to make a moral example.’

  I said, ‘Normally, I would agree with you, Toby, but since this is such a notorious case I think the judges will want to take more time and care. And be more active in questioning witnesses than they usually are.’ I drained my mug of ale. ‘Come, let us go. Sometimes the early bird may surprise a worm.’

  *

  HOWEVER, WHEN WE arrived at the Shire Hall and made our way to the anteroom of the court where the criminal trials were being heard, the only worms we found were the escheator’s representative John Flowerdew and that of the feodary Lady Mary – Sir Richard Southwell. Flowerdew’s tall, thin frame in its black robe reminded me of a perching crow, while Southwell, his stocky figure swathed in a long dark robe with a fur collar, a black cap encrusted with tiny diamonds on his head, wore his usual expression of haughty contempt. They were talking together quietly, but turned as we came in. Beside Southwell was a well-built young man with a narrow face disfigured with two large moles, a hard face and bright, angry-looking eyes. Leaving Nicholas and Toby, I approached them and bowed. Southwell was saying to Flowerdew, ‘Are you staying for the whole Assizes?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I must, given my duties as the escheator’s agent. Though I have business back in Wymondham. That wretch Kett may be making trouble for me again.’

  ‘You really ought to deal with him.’ Southwell turned at my approach and gave me his cold, intimidating stare. ‘Serjeant Shardlake,’ he said in an unfriendly tone.

  ‘God give you good morrow, Sir Richard. And you, Brother Flowerdew.’

  ‘Brother Shardlake,’ Flowerdew answered cheerfully. ‘The Boleyn case is first on. Judge Reynberd is taking time off from the civil cases to sit with Gatchet on this one.’

  ‘That is unusual.’ I wondered whether Reynberd might have chosen to sit in order to soften Gatchet’s harshness, if need be.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Flowerdew continued, ‘I think Boleyn will lose. The evidence of the items found in his stable is very damning. But we shall see. Sir Richard and I are attending as the feodary and escheator’s representatives.’ His cheerfulness had a mocking undertone.

  Southwell, who had been watching grimly, said, ‘I see you have exercised yourself on this case. Your own name is on the witness list.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You will remember, of course, that this being a criminal trial, you cannot represent Boleyn. I hope you are not seeking to worm your way into the role of advocate under pretence of being a witness.’

  ‘Certainly not, Sir Richard. I have first-hand evidence to give.’

  He leaned closer, looking down on me. ‘I see you have not heeded Master Cecil’s suggestion to keep a low profile.’ He shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Well, be it on your own head.’

  Beside him, the young man laughed. Southwell turned to him with a smile. ‘This is my faithful servant, John Atkinson. He is friendly with the Boleyn twins. They believe their father guilty, don’t they, John?’

  ‘That they do.’ He smiled unpleasantly, showing yellow teeth. So this was the young man who, the year before, had abducted a teenage heiress and tried to force her into marriage, with Southwell’s help.

  More footsteps echoed in the high antechamber. Isabella entered, accompanied by Daniel Chawry. I excused myself and went over to where they had joined Toby and Nicholas. Isabella looked pale but composed. I asked, ‘How are you, Mistress Boleyn?’

  ‘Don’t you mean Goodwife Heath?’ It was John Atkinson who had called out. Isabella reddened.

  ‘Neither good, nor wife, from what I hear,’ Southwell added with a laugh. Flowerdew turned aside, but I saw him smile first.

  Isabella shot back, ‘You pair want John’s lands, and the twins’ wardship, I know!’

  Southwell frowned mightily at her insolence, and took a step towards her, but checked himself. I said, urgently, ‘Be quiet, mistress, please. You must not respond to any provocation.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Chawry said gently. Isabella set her lips, but nodded.

  Other witnesses arrived, mostly poor folk involved with other criminal cases, looking nervously around the stone antechamber with its high, vaulted roof, and at those like Flowerdew and me in legal robes. A familiar trio entered; Boleyn’s neighbour and rival, the plump, red-faced Leonard Witherington, and his hefty steward Shuckborough, who held the old shepherd Adrian Kempsley firmly by the arm: the old man looked terrified. I thought, He must lead a lonely life in his shepherd’s hut; he would be unused to such crowds and, no doubt, had been told by Witherington exactly what to say. Witherington looked at Isabella, curled his lip, and grunted. She turned away.

  Just afterwards Simon Scambler entered with his strange, loping walk. His aunt, her grim face framed by a black coif, accompanied him. Scambler looked less frightened than puzzled by it all, his mouth gaping like a fish. I heard someone in the crowd laugh. Seeing us, Scambler hastened over, his face brightening. ‘Master Shardlake. Master Overton.’

  ‘God give you good morrow, Simon. Mistress Scambler.’

  Aunt Hilda pursed her lips even more tightly than nature had intended. ‘Mistress Marling, if you please. Sooty’s mother was my sister.’

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Scambler said to me. ‘I feel safer now.’

  I spoke seriously. ‘You must be ready for some strong questioning in court, Simon.’

  ‘They may be harsh with you, Sooty,’ his aunt said. ‘But you must answer honestly, remembering that God watches all.’

  ‘I am sure you will, Simon,’ Nicholas added encouragingly.

  The doors opened again to admit the twins, accompanied by their grandfather in his aldermanic robes. Barnabas had one arm in a sling under his fine slashed doublet. All three glared at me like snakes. Old Mistress Jane Reynolds followed her husband and grandchildren, her coifed head held low. Scambler shrank away from the family, Isabella too. Nicholas laid a protective hand on her arm.

  The twins and their grandfather jostled their way through the crowd, the old man impatiently shoving aside a young woman who stood in his path. Barnabas looked back at Scambler and called out loudly, making everyone look round, ‘Come to tell the court we beat you, have you, you dozzled spunk-stain!’

  There was silence. To my surprise, the sharp tones of John Flowerdew broke it. ‘Don’t you shout out like that, young Boleyn, or you’ll be in charge of the court bailiff!’

  The twins scowled and took a step towards Flowerdew, but their grandfather said sharply, ‘No! He’s not one to make an enemy of! He could be in control of your lands.’

  The twins halted, still glaring at Flowerdew. Then they spotted John Atkinson next to Southwell, and went over to him. ‘Come to see the show, Johnny?’ Gerald asked.

  ‘Ay. What you done to your arm, Barney?’

  ‘Just a fight. You given up trying to get that cheeky cow Agnes Randolph to marry you?’

  Atkinson frowned. ‘We are married.’ Gerald nudged him and winked, so that Atkinson smiled wryly.

  I looked at the twins. I was sure they would say nothing about attacking us and losing their swords to us. An inner door opened, and a black-robed man bearing a white staff came out. He called, ‘Witnesses in the case of the King against John Boleyn, come into court!’

  *

  THE
PUBLIC BENCHES were already crowded with people of both sexes; some looked like gentry folk, serious-faced at the trial of one of their own. There was a large number of common people too, looking eager to see the game of law played out. Both judges already sat on the raised dais, Gatchet looking serious and Reynberd, as usual, deceptively half-asleep. Below them, at the clerks’ table, a row of black-robed men sat, a sea of papers before them. The tipstaff guided us to a bench left vacant for witnesses, showing Nicholas and Witherington, old Mistress Reynolds and Scambler’s aunt Hilda to the public benches. The twins and their grandfather sat at one end of the long witness bench, with Kempsley next to them. He cast a worried glance at the twins; he would know what they had done to the boy I met at Witherington’s house. Chawry sat at the opposite end, then Isabella, then me, while Scambler rushed to sit next to me. There was a gap in the middle of the bench. Scambler looked round for his aunt; seated a little way off, she stared straight ahead at the judges, her face like a wrinkled white prune. I looked at the jury box next to the dais. Twelve middle-aged men, all soberly but finely dressed. Eight had tanned faces, and I guessed they were rural gentry or respectable yeomen; likely to be prejudiced against Boleyn because of his name, and Isabella. There were also four who looked like prosperous Norfolk merchants.

  Two middle-aged men came and took up the vacant space in the middle of the witnesses’ bench; I recognized Henry Williams, the coroner, who bowed slightly as he passed me. His neighbour, I guessed, was the constable for the Brikewell area.

  A murmur went around the court as John Boleyn was brought in by a gaoler. He had managed to shave and get his hair cut – I had paid the gaoler the previous day – and wore a fresh grey-coloured doublet and white shirt. For the first time he looked like the respectable gentleman he was, but his feet were chained together, the metal rattling on the wooden floor as he mounted the steps to the dock. He held a little sheet of prepared notes. He stood staring straight ahead at the witnesses and the audience; perhaps my news of the pardon, the prospect that today was not necessarily the end, had given him new confidence.