Tombland

‘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.’