Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Boleyn asked Chawry, ‘You see that the stream where the body was found is surrounded by boggy ground. What was it like in May?’

  ‘After all the rains? Sore gulshy, lots of mud.’

  ‘And if poor Edith’s body was to be carried to the stream and dropped in, even if she were carried only from the nearby bridge, in total darkness, do you think one man could have done it alone?’

  ‘I doubt it. His feet would sink into the mud with the weight of the body. I doubt even one very strong man could have done it.’

  Boleyn then recalled Kempsley, who still looked terrified. He asked gently, ‘Goodman Kempsley, would you agree with what Master Chawry just said?’

  Kempsley looked at Witherington, who turned his head away. ‘Remember you are under oath,’ Reynberd snapped.

  Kempsley took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir, the ground was sodden. One man carrying a body would sink into the mud.’

  ‘One other question,’ Boleyn continued. ‘In your deposition you said you found boot marks in the mud. Could those marks have been made by more than one pair of boots?’

  Kempsley hesitated. ‘You must answer, fellow,’ Gatchet said sternly.

  ‘There could have been two pairs.’ I saw several people look surreptitiously at the twins.

  ‘Yet only one pair was found in my stable. And nobody has identified them as mine. Whoever wished to point to me as the killer did not think to put two sets there.’ He paused, to let the point sink in. Boleyn was doing well. If only he had not lost his temper with Gatchet . . .

  *

  THEN KEMPSLEY SAID, ‘Master Boleyn could have had an accomplice who took his own dirty boots home with him.’ He looked at Witherington, who nodded slightly. I set my lips. I knew, of course, that that was indeed a possibility.

  ‘We must press on,’ Reynberd said. He looked at his papers, then back at Boleyn. ‘I understand there remains some rather convoluted evidence concerning the key to your horse’s stable.’

  ‘Yes, your Honour. I would like to call Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-law.’

  Reynberd sighed. ‘Very well.’

  I rose in my place, and stepped out. I had never felt so exposed in court; today, instead of arguing from the advocates’ bench, I had to take that lonely walk, under staring eyes, to the witness box.

  I faced Boleyn, in the dock, across the judges’ bench. For a moment Boleyn looked confused, then he pulled himself together, consulted his notes, and said, ‘Serjeant Shardlake, would you please tell the court about the investigations you made on my behalf into the misplaced key to my stable?’

  ‘Certainly.’ I looked at the courtroom. ‘Master Boleyn has a stable at Brikewell set aside for his horse, Midnight. He is a very unruly animal, and could cause damage if he escaped. As the constable indicated earlier, he can be a danger to people. Therefore Master Boleyn had only two keys made by the Norwich locksmith who worked for him for years, Richard Snockstobe.’

  There was a murmur through the court at that; many would have heard about Snockstobe’s death. The judges, though, looked puzzled. I said, ‘Master Snockstobe was found dead in the Wensum two days ago, under Bishopsgate Bridge. Foul play cannot yet be ruled out.’

  Reynberd leaned forward, interested now. ‘Has the body been examined by the coroner?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. It is believed he drowned, but the inquest has not yet been held.’

  ‘Any wounds on the body?’

  ‘I believe not, my Lord.’

  The coroner stood. ‘The man was a habitual drunk, who may have fallen off the bridge.’

  Reynberd grunted. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had visited Master Snockstobe the day before. In order to relate the story in proper order, I must ask Master Boleyn to call another witness.’

  Again, Boleyn hesitated. The strain of the trial was beginning to tell. I smiled encouragingly, and he said, ‘I would ask to call Sooty Scambler.’

  ‘What was that name?’ Gatchet asked incredulously.

  Boleyn flushed. ‘I apologize, my Lord. Simon Scambler, my former stable boy. Everyone calls him Sooty.’

  There was a row of blue-robed apprentices on the public benches, and some giggled. Scambler stood, looking confused. I stepped down from the witness box, noting that the twins’ grandmother, Jane Reynolds, had still not returned to the room. I expected Scambler to come to the box and take my place but instead he walked with his loping stride straight up to the bench and stood facing the judges. They stared back at him. There was more giggling from the apprentices, and Scambler looked around uncertainly. I went over to him. ‘No, Simon, up there. To the witness box. Master Boleyn will ask you some questions.’

  ‘I am sorry, Master Shardlake.’ Scambler turned and, tripping on a loose board, almost went flying. The apprentices shrieked with laughter.

  Gatchet banged his gavel on the desk. ‘Silence! Tipstaff, remove those apprentices!’ The boys, still giggling, were led out, the tipstaff whacking one of them on the shoulders with his stick. I went and sat next to Isabella, resisting the urge to bury my head in my hands.

  Scambler, in the box, looked expectantly across at John Boleyn, who said, ‘Sooty – Simon – do you remember working for me as a stable boy? You looked after my horse, Midnight?’

  Scambler’s face lit up. ‘Yes, Master Boleyn. I got him to like me, didn’t I? I handled him well.’

  ‘You did. And do you remember I gave you the second key to Midnight’s stable, told you it was the only one apart from mine, and that you were to let no one else take it?’

  ‘Ay, master. An’ I never did, except –’ He fell silent.

  ‘Except when?’ Gatchet snapped. ‘Come on, boy!’

  ‘Except when Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn set on me one day, and beat me up. On the road to Wymondham. Afterwards, I found the key, which I kept on a chain round my neck, was gone.’ He looked fearfully across at the twins, whose faces remained expressionless. There was a murmur of interest from the court, and I saw two jurors lean forward.

  Boleyn asked, ‘Do you remember the date of this?’

  ‘May the twelfth, sir. My poor dead mother’s birthday.’

  ‘What did you do when you found the key missing?’

  ‘I looked and looked for it. Then I went back to your house. I said nothing, I feared you’d be angry. But next morning, in case I’d missed it, I went back to look again. And there it was.’ The boy’s voice rose with excitement. ‘By the road. But I’d swear by the Holy Cross I’d looked just there the day before.’

  There was definite interest in the faces of the jury now, and several looked at the impassive twins. So, for a moment, did Boleyn. Then he asked Scambler, ‘Do you think it could have been taken by my sons, perhaps to have a copy made, and returned?’

  Scambler nodded. ‘It might have been, sir.’

  Judge Reynberd coughed. ‘Master Boleyn, that is speculation. When Serjeant Shardlake briefed you, did he not tell you about the rule against it?’ He interlaced his fingers and looked sternly at Scambler. ‘Why did Master Boleyn’s sons attack you?’

  ‘They said they were tired of my singing. I used to sing while I worked.’

  ‘That can hardly have been reassuring for a difficult horse.’

  Scambler looked back at him. ‘Ah no, sir, Midnight liked melodies, like this –’ Then he began to sing, softly: ‘Alas, my lady, lady whom I love so greatly –’

  Gatchet snapped, ‘What are you doing? This is a court!’

  Scambler looked downcast. ‘I just wanted to show you what I sang,’ he mumbled, glancing at his aunt, who looked as if she could have bitten him. Gatchet frowned at Boleyn. ‘Is this boy in his wits?’

  Boleyn said, ‘In truth he has a reputation for – eccentricity. But he was a good, honest worker, and treated my horse well.’

  Gatchet sighed. ‘Have you any other questions for this witness?’

  ‘No, sir. I would like to recall Serjeant Shardlake.’

  Gatchet raised a weary hand. ‘Very well.�
��

  Scambler stumbled unhappily back to his bench, and I returned to the dock. Many in the courtroom were smiling openly, including a couple on the jury, although others were frowning. The impact of poor Scambler’s evidence had been undermined by his behaviour. Some people, though, were still looking curiously at the twins. I stared at Boleyn, willing him to return to the narrative of the stolen key.

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Serjeant Shardlake, I understand that after you spoke to Sooty – to Scambler, you visited the locksmith Snockstobe’s shop.’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked at the judges. ‘It is in Tombland. On the seventeenth of June, I spoke to his apprentice, one Walter, to ask whether Gerald or Barnabas Boleyn had visited the shop recently. He said they had not. Snockstobe himself refused to answer any questions. Next day, after the locksmith’s body was found, I returned to the shop and Walter told me that someone else, whom he could not identify, had brought a key from Brikewell for copying. He said his master had seemed very concerned by my visit, and had gone out immediately afterwards. He returned looking worried, and that night he died.’

  There was a definite murmur in the court now. Reynberd looked at me. ‘Where is this apprentice?’

  ‘He has fled. I understand his home is in the Sandlings.’

  ‘Does he have a last name?’

  ‘He ran away before I could get it, my Lord.’ I felt myself redden with embarrassment.

  ‘Then any evidence of what he said is hearsay, and inadmissible. Really, Serjeant Shardlake, you should know better.’

  ‘Master Snockstobe is dead, my Lord. When a person is dead, the hearsay rule does not apply, and weight may be given to words he said to a third party.’

  ‘The third party, this Walter, is not present.’

  Gatchet asked, ‘Did this apprentice describe the man who came to the shop?’

  ‘He could only say that he was a big man, with a beard. Apparently, Walter suffers from shortsightedness.’

  ‘Very convenient,’ Gatchet said dryly.

  I addressed him directly. ‘No, my Lord, it is very inconvenient. We wish nothing more than to identify this man.’ I paused. ‘I do not necessarily believe the apprentice’s tale of his shortsightedness. There is nothing I would like more than to have him here. Indeed,’ I ventured, ‘I would ask whether this case might be adjourned, so that efforts to find the apprentice Walter may be made.’

  Reynberd leaned forward. ‘Serjeant Shardlake, you are acting as an advocate, which I told you not to do! You have had over a month to gather evidence –’

  ‘I only came to Norwich last week –’

  He waved a hand. ‘That is not my problem. This case will be considered today, on the evidence brought before us.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, my Lord.’ I had expected a refusal, but it had been worth a try. ‘If I may proceed with my evidence, I believe I can show the key may have been stolen in turn from Barnabas and Gerald Boleyn during the evening of the day when it was first missing, to an extent that should open the matter to reasonable doubt.’ I turned to Boleyn; it was he who must call the next witness. His face set. ‘I would like to call my sons, Barnabas and Gerald Boleyn.’

  Again the twins returned to the witness box, walking confidently, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘Why did you attack my stable boy, Scambler?’ Boleyn asked them, bluntly. ‘I saw his bruises the next day.’

  ‘Because we saw him mistreating your horse, sir,’ Gerald answered smoothly. ‘Once, through the open door of the stable, we saw him jab Midnight with a pitchfork, and another time he prodded the horse with a nail.’

  ‘Perhaps he was made so ill-tempered because of how the boy handled him,’ Barnabas added snidely.

  Next to me, Isabella bunched her fists. ‘Liars,’ she whispered. ‘Filthy liars.’

  ‘Quiet,’ I said, placing an arm on hers.

  Boleyn looked at them incredulously. ‘You know Midnight. He would never submit to such treatment.’ His voice rose, trembling a little. ‘Did you steal Scambler’s key?’

  ‘No,’ Gerald answered. ‘We did not.’ They were still, controlled. I wondered if they had been briefed by their grandfather, as Boleyn had been by me, to answer questions as briefly and directly as possible.

  ‘It was never in our hands,’ Gerald said. ‘Sooty Scambler is not in his wits. It is a matter of common fame in the city. He could have missed the key on his first search.’

  Barnabas looked meekly at Gatchet. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘may I say something, on behalf of myself and my brother?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Only that we loved our dear mother very much. Nobody can say we did not. On the night of her cruel murder we had an alibi for the whole evening.’ He paused. ‘Unlike our father.’

  Boleyn, who had been staring at the twins, came to himself and asked if he could briefly recall his steward, Chawry. Judge Reynberd assented, and Chawry walked back to the witness box, passing the twins; neither looked at the other.

  Boleyn said, ‘I understand that you frequently visit the cockpit at Coslany, and afterwards the tavern nearby.’

  ‘I do, sir. Most Saturdays.’

  ‘Were you there on the twelfth of May?’ Boleyn was back in his stride now.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you remember my sons being there that night?’

  ‘I do. I did not speak to them, but they were there with some friends. I remember them talking and joking, and something was said about a trick with a key. Later there was a panic because Gerald had left his doublet with his purse on a bench. The place was crowded and they pushed and shoved to get to it, knocking a couple of people’s drinks over. But they said nothing had been taken. They looked relieved.’

  ‘They definitely mentioned a trick with a key?’

  ‘They did. They and their friends, when they get to drinking, they talk loudly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Boleyn said, almost sorrowfully.

  ‘One more thing, if I may,’ Chawry said. ‘The horse Midnight has always been difficult. Several stable boys have come and gone, but Simon Scambler was the only one who could handle him. Now Midnight is back to the way he was.’

  ‘Thank you, Chawry,’ Boleyn said. ‘And now –’ he took up his notes, which trembled in his hands – ‘I would like to recall my sons one final time.’ Eyes followed the twins as they returned once more to the witness box, now looking a little put-upon. Boleyn swallowed, and again was silent a moment.

  ‘We must proceed,’ Reynberd said, irritated. ‘We have been here near forty-five minutes already.’

  ‘I apologize, my Lord.’ Collecting himself, Boleyn looked at his sons. ‘My steward has shown you lied about Scambler’s treatment of my horse.’

  ‘His word against ours,’ Gerald said flatly. ‘And he is your employee.’

  ‘Do you deny you were at the Coslany cockpit on the twelfth of May, and afterwards in the tavern joked with some friends of yours about a trick with a key?’

  ‘We were staying the night with our grandfather, and we had lost the key to his house. That was all we were talking about.’

  Barnabas said, ‘And we realized Gerald had left his purse, with his money, on the bench. Like you said, he got it back. And found Grandfather’s key there.’

  ‘How long was it missing, out of your sight?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Perhaps half an hour or so.’

  Boleyn said, ‘Is it not true that you stole the stable key because you intended to let out the horse and have Scambler blamed? That you told your friends so, and also your grandfather?’

  Gerald turned to Barnabas. ‘He’s dreaming.’

  ‘And did not your grandfather advise you that your father would realize you had done it if Scambler had marks of injury? He dissuaded you, and you returned the key. But someone could have briefly stolen it, or made a wax impression to take to Snockstobe later, could they not?’

  Both twins stared directly at me. I took a deep breath. If they were to tell the c
ourt that we had got this information out of them in the course of a fight, Nicholas and I would be in serious trouble with the Bar. But they would look like fools, and their pride would not allow that. Reynberd asked Boleyn, ‘How can you possibly know what your sons’ grandfather said to them?’

  Boleyn took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, your Honour, I may not reveal the source of that information.’

  Reynberd raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Yet more hearsay.’

  ‘My Lord, my sons have not yet answered my question.’

  Gerald spoke then, quietly and intently, but with a vicious undertone. ‘None of this is true. It is a story made up by Chawry and our father. Our grandfather will confirm we had no conversation about any key.’

  Reynolds rose in his seat. ‘Certainly I do,’ he said.

  ‘For the rest, our friends will confirm that there was no talk of a jest with a key.’

  ‘Yes,’ Boleyn said heavily. ‘The same friends who gave you an alibi for the night of your mother’s death.’

  Barnabas leaned forward and snarled, ‘You won’t trap us, Father, into being hanged for what you did! Our mother came back and you killed her. You’ve got Chawry, and that crazy Scambler, to lie for you.’ He looked at Scambler. ‘Eh, Sooty? I hear you got sacked recently.’ Scambler shrank away and Barnabas looked back at his father. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow, to see you take the short drop.’

  ‘We’ll enjoy every minute!’ Gerald laughed shrilly.

  The twins, as I had hoped, had lost control – but not when confronted with the story about the key. The jury and the public nonetheless looked at them with disgust; even the judges were taken aback by their outburst. ‘Enough!’ Gatchet shouted. ‘You are in contempt of this court; were it not for your bereavement, I would have you in the cells! Step down, now!’

  Without another word, the twins walked side by side, back to their seats. Their grandfather’s eyes followed them; he looked worried. There was a pause, then Judge Reynberd leaned forward, intertwining his fingers. ‘That concludes the evidence.’ He looked at the jury. ‘You have heard the evidence regarding the discovery of the body, and of the boots and hammer found in the stable of the accused, where a horse that could be controlled only by him and the stable boy was kept. The accused had means, opportunity and motive to kill his wife. The suggestion from the defence that more than one man was involved is circumstantial, and even if true, would not necessarily mean Boleyn himself was not one of them. As to the question of the stolen key, I have never heard such a mingle-mangle of hearsay and supposition. However, it is for you to decide whether it constitutes reasonable doubt that John Boleyn killed his wife, together with the undoubted fact that while he had a motive for killing her, that motive – to preserve his marriage to Isabella Heath – would also have caused a sensible man to bury the body, not display it. However –’ he paused for effect – ‘we have seen that Master Boleyn has a temper. Remain in your places while the next criminal cases in this batch are called. Hopefully, they will be shorter and simpler.’