Tombland

Isabella stepped down, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

Daniel Chawry leaned across and whispered to me, ‘I didn’t expect that.’ He looked distressed, as well he might if he was attracted to Isabella. Isabella returned to the bench and sat down, wiping her eyes. ‘You did well,’ I said quietly.

Boleyn called Chawry next. He was still struggling with emotion, but with an effort he gathered himself. He confirmed that he had worked for Boleyn for five years, and had always found him amiable, decent and honest. He did not believe he could have been capable of a savage murder.

‘And yet,’ Boleyn said, ‘I am sure you would not say I was a paragon of virtue.’ This was a point I had asked him to make, in case the jury became bored by paeans of studied praise. ‘What faults have I?’

‘As your wife said—’

‘As Goodwife Heath said,’ Gatchet snapped.

‘I beg pardon, my Lord. As she said, people have taken advantage of you. On property matters, for example.’ He, too, looked at Witherington. ‘And –’

‘Go on, Chawry,’ Boleyn said.

‘You are perhaps a little unworldly over financial matters. In this fiercely acquisitive age.’

A couple of people ventured to give an approving murmur. That point would play well with the poorer classes; but there were none of them on the jury.

Gatchet said, ‘We have seen the accused has a temper.’ Reynberd nodded sagely. ‘You must have seen signs of that.’

‘Master Boleyn is not a man of choler,’ Chawry answered carefully. ‘Sometimes he can become angry, even lose his temper. But only when he is sore vexed, as over a bad harvest or the misbehaviour of his sons.’

‘The reappearance of his wife must certainly have vexed him,’ Reynberd said pointedly.

Glancing quickly at his notes, Boleyn said, ‘To turn to another point. You know the place where my wife’s body was found?’

‘Naturally I know every foot of your estate, sir.’

‘With the court’s permission, I should like to pass your lordships and the jury copies of a sketch plan of my estate. I would also ask that a copy be given to the shepherd, Goodman Kempsley, whom I wish to question.’ At this poor Kempsley stared at him in horror. Judge Reynberd held out a hand, and Boleyn passed up copies of the plans Toby had drawn – I had got him to make copies. Reynberd looked at them, nodded, and passed them to the tipstaff who handed them round. ‘Hurry up,’ Gatchet said as a juror dropped his copy. ‘Other cases are waiting.’

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?’