Tombland

THERE WAS A little more to do before tomorrow’s trial. Nicholas reminded me that, according to the twins, Boleyn’s steward Chawry had been present at the cockfighting on the night they were there with the key. ‘He might have seen something.’

‘We can ask him at least,’ I agreed. ‘And we should see Scambler.’

We lunched at an inn crowded with market traders, then walked down to Ber Street and Scambler’s house. To my surprise, as we approached the rundown building I heard cheerful singing from within. A group of small boys stood outside, peering through the half-open shutters, giggling. They ran away at our approach.

We looked through the shutters. Scambler, again dressed only in a long nightshirt, was dancing clumsily around the room, waving his arms, singing a song I had never heard:

God and his angels, they will save,

Poor souls below who Christ do crave ...

I was surprised by the purity and melody of his voice, though I could see how strange his antics must have looked to the local children.

‘What on earth is he doing?’ Nicholas asked.

I shrugged. ‘Singing and dancing. He has a good voice, I’ll warrant it’s had some training.’

We knocked at the door. The singing stopped immediately, then Scambler’s aunt Hilda put her sour face cautiously round the door. ‘Yew again,’ she said, then led us into the main room to see Scambler. Immediately she screeched at him, ‘Sooty, I told you to keep those shutters closed. An’ stop crazin’ me with that singin’ and jumping around.’

Scambler stood still, head bowed. His aunt turned to us. ‘Well, I’ve kept him in the house. Not put my nose out of doors, asked my neighbours from the church to guard the house, and had to pay one to fetch some vittles to chaw!’ With the same mercenary boldness as before, she extended a palm. I laid a groat in it. She grunted. ‘It’s not right, people stuck in their houses, old women frightened. An’ Sooty keeps crazin’ me about wanting to go out.’

Scambler gave us a puzzled look. ‘Why be frightened? I’ve been beaten by the twins before.’

I forbore to say this might be more than a beating, and was again distressed that I had not been able to offer more guardianship. At least if anything untoward appeared, Aunt Hilda would screech the house down. I said, ‘Just one more day.’ I drew a deep breath and added, ‘Simon, I would like you to come to the trial, to give evidence about what happened with the key.’

The boy looked scared. ‘Speaking in court, in front of all those people? The judges?’

I said, ‘You will be quite safe. I intend to be with you all the time. It is important to get your evidence into court.’

‘Will he get paid?’ Aunt Hilda looked at me greedily.

‘No.’

‘Then don’t go, Sooty.’

But Scambler took a deep breath, and said, ‘I’ll go, Master Shardlake, if you and Master Nicholas will be there with me.’

‘Thank you, Simon,’ I said quietly.

Aunt Hilda pursed her lips. ‘I suppose that means I’ll have to go too,’ she grumbled, ‘to keep an eye on him.’

‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘But Simon, your aunt is right, you should keep the shutters on the windows closed and locked. Just in case.’

‘It’s hot,’ Scambler pleaded.

‘I know. But better safe than sorry.’

Scambler’s aunt led us back to the door. She said, ‘I sometimes think that boy’s been sent by the devil himself to torment me.’ And with that, the door slammed in our faces.

* * *

WE RETURNED TO the Maid’s Head and caught up on some much needed sleep for the rest of the afternoon. At seven we had a hasty bite to eat, then set out to walk to the marketplace again, where Isabella’s inn was situated. As we crossed Tombland we saw a tall, richly robed man standing in the doorway of one of the prosperous-looking, three-storey houses, enjoying the afternoon sun. He was in his fifties, with a handsome face and grey hair worn long. He had a full-lipped mouth set in a stern expression, and large, watchful eyes. Some of the people passing bowed to him. I remembered Toby pointing him out among the city fathers who had welcomed the judges to the Guildhall on Tuesday; Augustine Steward, one of the foremost men in Norwich. I remembered what Peter Bone had said about the rich merchants cornering the commerce of the city.

In the marketplace a great clearing-up was going on, men reloading unsold goods onto carts, ragged children ferreting on the ground for scraps amid rotten fruits and bad meat. We entered the inn where Isabella had booked a room. We were jostled by merchants, and lawyers from the Assizes, drinking after the day’s work. We asked for Mistress Isabella Boleyn’s room. Hearing her name, several people looked at us curiously. We were directed to the first floor.