Tombland

The desks around the walls were empty, and the curtain across the altar was drawn. ‘Captain Kett,’ I called quietly. He pulled the curtain aside. He was dressed in shirt and hose and an unbuttoned doublet. He had been breakfasting; there were plates at one end of the table, and his wife sat there; plump, placid Alice who had loyally followed her husband into the unknown. The rest of the table was covered, as usual, with letters and papers.

‘I am sorry to interrupt you so early, Captain Kett, but there is an important matter I must discuss.’

He sighed, then, registering my serious expression, said gently, ‘Alice, could you leave us? Perhaps see if Brother William is awake?’

‘Yes, Husband.’ She passed me with a little curtsey and went outside. Kett sat at the table again, beckoning me to join him. His face was lined and tired, his expression worried. ‘I hope you have not brought more bad news,’ he said brusquely.

‘Some information. I fear it may not be to your liking.’

‘Well, I have had a deal of that these last few days. I’m told the enclosure commissioners have accepted the demands of the men in Kent, and more have arrived in Essex. But there’s no sign of them getting here. And a whole ten thousand under Lord Russell has been sent to fight the Devon and Cornwall rebels, a thousand soldiers have been sent to put down the Oxfordshire camp, though I hear the camp-men there have got somewhat out of control. There are thousands in Oxfordshire, but not so many as here – we are the biggest camp in the south-east. So why are they not talking to us?’ He banged a fist on the table with anger.

‘Norfolk is further from London than Kent,’ I said.

Kett grunted. ‘There is so much contradictory information from outside. I have seen the proclamation against seditious stirrers, but at the same time there comes a new proclamation from the Protector restricting the new sheep tax to the wealthy.’ He looked at me with that full, powerful gaze of his. ‘All the more important that the camps support his aims.’ He shook his head. ‘But there will be spies of the great men in this camp, I have no doubt, just as we have our spies in Norwich, and I know the city council would turn on us at a word from London, even though Codd and Aldrich are to sign our demands this afternoon and have been allowed to address the camp, calling for moderation in dealing with the gentlemen. The representatives of the Hundreds gather here this morning to draw them up. As I said, I want you to look them over.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I ought to pay you a fee.’

I smiled. ‘In the circumstances, I think it would be better for me to act informally, with no record.’

Kett laughed, showing his white teeth. ‘I like talking to you, Master Shardlake. You have judgement – I have always been a good judge of men. Forgive me, yesterday was not a good day for news.’ He shrugged. ‘But some of it may be wrong, and everyone is solid here.’

‘I think they are.’

He shook his head as though in wonder. ‘It seems that I have become a judge of men.’ He looked across at one of the wall paintings still adorning the chapel. ‘See that, Our Lord expelling the money-changers from the Temple. Reverend Conyers wanted them all whitewashed over, but that one – it inspires me.’ He shook his head. ‘I ramble. I have only just breakfasted, and already my head is full of a thousand things to be done. Now, what have you to tell me?’

I took a deep breath. ‘On our first morning in the camp, when I was summoned to you, I met someone coming out of the side door of the chapel. Someone I recognized from London, and was surprised to see here. Sir Richard Southwell.’

Kett drew a deep breath, and sat up straight in his chair, his expression sharp and alert. ‘What did he say to you?’ he snapped.

‘Only that he was here because certain negotiations were needed, and that I must tell nobody I saw him.’

‘Have you told anyone? Barak and that boy?’

‘Not even them. I come to you only because I have learned something about Southwell.’

Kett picked up a spoon from the table, began turning it over in his hands. ‘Well?’

‘Southwell’s man, John Atkinson, was involved in concealing a murder. A young locksmith’s apprentice. There is evidence connecting that death to that of the locksmith himself, and Edith Boleyn’s murder, too. And Southwell would stand to gain from Boleyn’s conviction and death, for if he bought Brikewell, he could connect two large sheep farms he owns.’

Kett’s gaze bored into me. ‘How did you learn this?’