Tombland

Without another word, the twins walked side by side, back to their seats. Their grandfather’s eyes followed them; he looked worried. There was a pause, then Judge Reynberd leaned forward, intertwining his fingers. ‘That concludes the evidence.’ He looked at the jury. ‘You have heard the evidence regarding the discovery of the body, and of the boots and hammer found in the stable of the accused, where a horse that could be controlled only by him and the stable boy was kept. The accused had means, opportunity and motive to kill his wife. The suggestion from the defence that more than one man was involved is circumstantial, and even if true, would not necessarily mean Boleyn himself was not one of them. As to the question of the stolen key, I have never heard such a mingle-mangle of hearsay and supposition. However, it is for you to decide whether it constitutes reasonable doubt that John Boleyn killed his wife, together with the undoubted fact that while he had a motive for killing her, that motive – to preserve his marriage to Isabella Heath – would also have caused a sensible man to bury the body, not display it. However –’ he paused for effect – ‘we have seen that Master Boleyn has a temper. Remain in your places while the next criminal cases in this batch are called. Hopefully, they will be shorter and simpler.’

I sat down, and looked at the jury. ‘That was a biased summing up,’ I said to Isabella.

‘Are we then lost, sir?’

I looked at the jurymen. ‘All depends on them now.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

Reynberd left the courtroom; everyone rose and bowed. Evidently Gatchet was being left to try the other cases alone. The gaoler led Boleyn from the dock to the prisoners’ bench, the chains round his ankles clanking, as two more gaolers brought in a ragged procession of half a dozen prisoners – the remainder of this batch of criminal cases – and sat them on the bench. One, a wild-haired woman in her twenties, was coughing incessantly. People on the public benches looked at her apprehensively; attending the criminal Assizes meant the risk of catching ‘gaol fever’ from the bad humours of the prison. Several poor citizens, relatives of the accused, entered and took places on the public benches. Gatchet lifted a pomander to his nose. The tipstaff announced, ‘The King against Fletcher. Theft of six loaves of bread.’ A painfully thin old man rose. He was shaking; the bread would be worth more than a shilling; this was a capital offence. Gatchet glared at him. I whispered to Isabella, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

She followed me, together with Chawry, Scambler and his aunt, and Nicholas and Toby. We stood in the antechamber. I saw the twins’ grandmother, old Jane Reynolds, sitting on a bench, hands on her lap, the white bandages standing out against her black clothes. I remembered what Parry had told me about Edith’s twisted hands – perhaps the condition was hereditary. Her face under its black hood was like paper in the sunlight, her eyes staring ahead unseeingly. I wondered what she had meant when she said in court, ‘Edith, God save you, I wanted a boy.’

We found a bench and sat down. ‘It does not look good, sir, does it?’ Isabella said, in a small voice.

‘Well, the test in criminal cases is that the jury must find the accused guilty beyond reasonable doubt . Perhaps we might have done that with the key at least, although the twins did not break under questioning as I had hoped.’

Chawry looked at Isabella, a strange expression on his face – it seemed to me part sympathy, part longing. He turned to me. ‘I have heard that in hanging cases juries will find someone innocent if they can.’

Toby grunted. ‘Unless they are prejudiced against the accused. And there are several fat Norfolk gentry on the jury.’

Isabella looked at him in distress, and I frowned at him. Saying that now did not help. ‘Churl,’ Nicholas muttered audibly.

On Nicholas’s other side, Scambler looked at me. ‘I didn’t help, did I, sir? Made a nonny of myself again.’

‘Singing in the witness box.’ His aunt shook her head despairingly.

Scambler said, ‘Something always happens. I never mean it to.’

His aunt spoke with quiet intensity. ‘You don’t listen, you don’t think. You’re hopeless.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘Simon was clear over what he said about the beating up and the missing key. It was obvious he was telling the truth.’ Yet his confused behaviour in court would have lent credibility to the twins’ speculation that he had simply missed the key on his first search.

The door swung open and old Gawen Reynolds marched out, followed by the twins. He went to his wife and said, ‘Come, Jane, we are going home. I have arranged to be informed of the verdict.’ Jane rose meekly and followed. As he passed us, Gawen Reynolds glared, but said nothing. The twins hung back for a moment, looking down at Scambler. Nicholas moved closer to him, glaring back defiantly. Barnabas smirked, and slowly drew a finger across his throat.

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