Tombland

‘There is another man who might have an interest in seeing Boleyn dead.’ We all looked at him. ‘Daniel Chawry, Boleyn’s steward.’

Toby looked at him, puzzled. ‘But what does he stand to gain?’

Nicholas answered, ‘Isabella.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Toby burst out laughing. ‘Isabella? God’s death, boy, I could see she makes you hot, and she’s a fine buxom woman, even though she does run her mouth off more than a woman should, but anyone can see she’s devoted to her husband. Christ’s wounds, he even proposed to her in court and she accepted him!’

I remembered how Chawry had looked upset at that. Nicholas said quietly, ‘Even if she does not love him, he could be blind with love for her. And they are from the same class.’

Toby laughed again. To prevent yet another argument between the two I said, ‘I think Chawry is perhaps in love with Isabella, and possibly she even knows and uses it. But she loves John Boleyn.’ I looked at Barak. ‘What do you think, Jack?’

‘I can’t see Chawry as the murderer, but it’s possible. It’s even possible it was he who took the opportunity to make an impression of the key. I suppose both their names should go on the list.’

I nodded, then said heavily, ‘And there is one more who has no alibi.’ I wrote down, John Boleyn .

We looked at the list. Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn. Gawen and Jane Reynolds and members of their household. Leonard Witherington. John Flowerdew. Sir Richard Southwell. Daniel Chawry and Isabella Boleyn, and finally John Boleyn. Ten names. It seemed a more hopeless task than ever. I looked at Toby, who was frowning slightly at Nicholas. I said, ‘Toby, you have done a great deal for us, and been injured in the process. We appreciate it greatly. May I ask one more thing? When we have left, could you try to trace the apprentice and the steward Michael Vowell, who could tell us more about the household? Perhaps you could get Walter’s surname from the locksmiths’ guild, see if you could trace him.’

He stroked his beard, and looked at me. ‘The apprentice may be possible, through the locksmiths’ guild, as you suggest. As for Vowell, I can only put the word around.’ He sounded reluctant. ‘But does it matter now, with the pardon coming?’

‘There is a possibility the application may not succeed. And surely it would be good to find Edith’s real murderer, and clear Boleyn’s name.’

‘The killer may have murdered Snockstobe as well,’ Barak added.

Toby looked at me. ‘Will Master Copuldyke agree?’

‘Whether he does or no, I guarantee to pay you.’

He stroked his dark beard, then looked at me with something like admiration. ‘I think, sir, that you are the most persistent lawyer I have met. Yes, I will do as you ask. For now my mother and the coming harvest must take priority, but subject to that I will do what I can.’

‘I thank you.’ I reached out and shook his hand. ‘I will give you a formal letter of engagement. Write to me any time at Lincoln’s Inn.’

We sat back, silent. Then Nicholas spoke quietly. ‘Where was Edith, those nine years?’

‘Not in Norwich, I’m sure,’ Toby said. ‘Nobody saw her. Unless she was hidden in a cellar somewhere.’

It was an uncomfortable thought. Barak said, ‘If she wasn’t in Norwich, where was she? And was she a guest, or a prisoner?’

‘And how did she end up in—’

I kicked Nicholas under the table, before he could utter the name ‘Hatfield’. That was one secret we had kept and must continue to keep, or the pamphleteers would have an even richer tale to tell. I said, ‘Come, if Toby is to ride back to his farm, we should go down for dinner.’

We left the room and walked down the broad staircase. Tonight I would try again to persuade Barak to return to London with Nicholas and me, and tomorrow I would tell the Maid’s Head innkeeper, doubtless to his relief, that we would be leaving on Saturday. I looked at my three companions, sad to think that this was probably the last time we should all meet together. As we walked across the stone-flagged hall to the dining room, I heard two merchants talking angrily about rioting at a place called Attleborough, where the local peasantry had thrown down the fences keeping in the sheep of the local landlord.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING , the twenty-first of June, Nicholas and I once more walked down to the castle, to fetch the document approving the cancellation of the execution. The previous evening Barak had reluctantly agreed to come back to London with us, and to face Tamasin with the news that he had lost his lucrative post. Today was Friday; the criminal cases at the Assizes were over but the civil cases would continue today, the judges moving on to Suffolk tomorrow. We were in sombre mood as we walked through Tombland. It was hot again, and we had left off our lawyers’ robes; we did not need to impress anyone any more. Nicholas though, as usual, wore his sword at his hip.

‘At least you will see Beatrice in a few days,’ I said to him. He had written a letter for the post-rider to take, saying he was returning.