Tombland

‘I must stress you can only give evidence as a witness, not act as counsel for the accused.’

‘Indeed, my Lord.’

‘You act for John Boleyn?’

‘I do.’

He grunted. ‘Very well. Then let the accused be sworn in.’ Boleyn took the oath in a strong, clear voice. The coroner was asked to give his evidence first, and stepped up to the witness box. He confirmed that he had brought the indictment following the coroner’s court’s finding that Edith had been murdered by her husband. The constable followed, stating that he had gone to search Boleyn’s premises and found a pair of boots and a bloodied club in a stable to which John Boleyn said he had the only keys, and confirmed, too, that there was no possibility that the boots and hammer had been thrown in from the outside. He added, ‘Master Boleyn has an alibi from his wife for most of that evening and night, but nothing for the hours between nine and eleven, when, he says, he was in his study working, but nobody else saw him. These are the boots and the hammer.’ He placed them on the desk; I could see the dark stains on the hammer. ‘I had the devil’s job getting them out of the stable,’ he said. ‘The steward had to help me with the horse.’

Boots and hammer were then taken for the jury to inspect. The entire public gallery turned to look. There was an excited murmuring. Gatchet leaned forward. ‘Silence!’ he called. ‘That hammer is not something to peer at shamelessly; it is the instrument of a foul crime against God and man!’

Next, the shepherd Adrian Kempsley was called, staring fearfully at the judges as he walked to the witness box. Reynberd said, ‘Now, Goodman Kempsley, tell us what happened on the morning of the fifteenth of May.’

In a halting voice Kempsley repeated the story about finding the body, glancing occasionally at his master Witherington. He described how the lower half of Edith’s naked body stuck up in the air, her thin legs standing out at angles, her private parts visible, and how the top of her head came to pieces when she was pulled from the mud. Her face, he said, remained whole and recognizable, her eyes wide as though with shock. Again there was a murmuring from the public benches, though more subdued after Gatchet’s warning. Reynberd released Kempsley and he scuttled back to his seat. John Boleyn stood with his head hanging down. The twins’ faces were tight and red, Barnabas’s scar standing out a livid white on his cheek. Their grandfather sat expressionless.

Then came the sound of a woman sobbing – a loud, desperate, heartbroken sound. Edith’s mother, old Jane Reynolds, sat hunched forward, head in her bandaged hands, weeping as though she might never stop. ‘Edith, Edith,’ she said, ‘God save you, I wanted a boy – I wanted a boy!’ The crowd made sympathetic sounds. Reynberd turned to the tipstaff. ‘I think Mistress Reynolds should leave the room.’ The tipstaff gently ushered her out, unresisting, still sobbing. Her husband Gawen stared at Boleyn. Then the tipstaff returned and called Gawen Reynolds’s name.

The old man, his robes swirling round him, walked to the witness box, leaning heavily on his stick.

Reynberd asked quietly, ‘You wish to give testimony as to the character of your daughter?’

‘Yes, my Lord. I apologize for my wife breaking down just now, but Edith’s death has broken her poor heart. And mine,’ he added, his own voice catching for a moment. It was an act, I was sure, but a very good one. He continued, ‘I was not sure I could bear to come here today, but I decided it was my duty to my daughter and to God.’

A murmur of sympathy rose from the audience. Reynolds took a deep breath, then, in a steady voice, told the court that Edith was his and his wife’s only child and that, sadly, since childhood, she had always been prone to melancholy, for reasons he never understood, but John Boleyn had happily taken her in marriage. ‘Later, though,’ he added, ‘my son-in-law took up with a woman of ill virtue, a serving woman at an inn.’ He stared at Isabella. ‘Word of this – liaison – reached Edith. Perhaps my son-in-law did not care, but in any event, nine years ago, my poor daughter disappeared. When she could not be found I thought perhaps she had been overcome with melancholy, and killed herself. And then she was discovered, murdered in that horrible way, last month. I think her return, after her husband had married the strumpet he had been living with openly for years –’ he stared at Boleyn, who looked back defiantly – ‘drove him to a mad, devilish rage, and caused him to kill her in that shocking manner.’

At this point I stood up. ‘I must object, my Lord. This is speculation, not evidence.’

Reynberd glared at me. ‘I warned you, Serjeant Shardlake, you are not here as counsel. Nonetheless, I was about to make the same point myself.’ He turned to Reynolds. ‘Have you no idea where your daughter was during the nine years since she disappeared?’

‘None, my Lord. I only wish that she had come to me.’ Again his voice broke.