Tombland

He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Whatever will be, will be.’

* * *

I WAS SO EXHAUSTED I slept deeply until I was called at six. I had promised to write again to Parry and Elizabeth, and I wrote saying that I had uncovered some new evidence – the key – and had another possible lead which I would also follow up before the trial started tomorrow.

At breakfast I told Toby that once he had taken us to where Grace Bone’s brother lived, he could go back to his parents’ farm, though I would need him at trial tomorrow.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He still looked pale, and his bandaged arm, concealed under his doublet, no doubt pained him.

I said, ‘I am deeply grateful for all the help you have given us, especially last night, and I am sorry you were injured.’

‘It was good to get at the little bastards,’ he said quietly.

Soon afterwards, the three of us retraced our steps of the previous night, across the river then on up Oak Street, a broad avenue leading to St Martin’s Gate, one of the northern entries to the city. In the distance we could see the city wall. It was another hot day; the fine weather seemed to have set in for a long spell. It was Wednesday, market day, and the dusty road was busy with carts. We passed an open area surrounding a large church, then entered a complex of houses near the gate. To my surprise the house where Peter Bone lived was a moderately large two-storey dwelling, though the paint was flaking from the exterior and the wooden beams were exposed, not painted over, and looked afflicted by rot. The door was opened by a tall, lean, beardless man in his thirties, well-favoured, with dark brown hair. He had intelligent brown eyes which looked at us very keenly. Unexpectedly he carried a spindle with wool wound around it.

‘Master Peter Bone?’ I asked.

He took a deep breath. In a resigned tone he said, ‘Ay. I heard a Lunnon lawyer was looking for me, ’bout when my sister worked for John Boleyn that’s on trial. I suppose you’d best come in.’

We followed him into a chamber which was large and well-lit, though the furniture was sparse, just a table with a hank of wool on it, four chairs, and a bed and trunk in a corner. He asked us to sit. ‘Can I get you some beer?’

‘No, thank you. We were sorry to hear that Grace and your other sister have passed away.’

‘The bad winter weather went on so long into the spring, many were taken.’ His eyes seemed to go blank for a moment. ‘Poor Mercy caught a fever of the lungs, then Grace right after. I didn’t even have the money for a funeral, they were buried in the common pit like most others who died around here.’ He looked at me, and now there was anger and, I thought, defiance in his expression. ‘Though it be a sin to say so, I wish I’d gone with them. There’s nothing left.’

‘The house must seem empty,’ Toby said quietly.

Peter sighed. ‘I’ve let out Grace’s and Mercy’s rooms, and my old bedroom, to bring in a little money.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘The owner doesn’t know, it’s against the lease.’

‘We shall tell nobody. We have not come to add to your troubles, I promise, we thank you for talking to us.’

He studied us keenly again, then looked down at the table. ‘This used to be my weaving shed. Only two years ago my loom was here, my sisters helping me. But the masters of the city have concentrated everything in their own hands, squeezed people like me out. I had to sell my loom. Grace and Mercy helped us get by with some spinning; but now it’s just me, doing this woman’s work.’ He threw the spindle down on the table with sudden anger.

Toby said, ‘I gather one of the big wool men is Gawen Reynolds, father of Grace’s former mistress, Edith Boleyn.’

‘Ay, he’s one a’ them. His family have been wool merchants for years, and he’s one who’s made a pile by taking all the processes, from buying raw wool through to tanning and dyeing, into his hands. Many’s the poor man been squeezed out by greedy snudges like Reynolds.’ He looked up at me. ‘But you didn’t come to hear me howen’ and mowen’, sir. Probably you think me an insolent fellow.’

‘No. I am sorry for your troubles.’

He looked at me with eyes which had suddenly narrowed. ‘Well, what have you to ask about Grace? God rest her soul.’

‘I know she left the employ of Edith Boleyn shortly before Edith disappeared nine years ago. Did she come straight home?’

‘Yes. She lived with me and Mercy till she died.’

‘Do you know why she left so suddenly? Was she discontented with Mistress Edith, or Master Boleyn?’

‘She always said that whole household was full of trouble. She served them five years. She said Edith had a strong dislike of her husband. They slept in separate rooms and she told Grace she could not bear the sight of him, nor of their sons.’

‘Did Edith say why?’