Tombland

‘I imagine you are doing the same as me – trying to ensure some order and justice. I think the London authorities have forgotten me, I have had no orders from them so I have placed myself under the authority of Captain Kett – where, as is my duty’ – he glanced at Edward – ‘I try to see the prisoners are held securely and not mistreated.’

Edward answered, ‘That is what we want too, Constable.’

Fordhill nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So, Serjeant Shardlake, I imagine you have come to see John Boleyn.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Was anything ever discovered about how that stay of execution was mislaid?’

‘No. But I think someone paid for it to be lost.’

His face became serious. ‘I imagine you have come because of the attempt to poison him?’

I stared at him, taken aback. ‘What? ’

Fordhill looked surprised in his turn. ‘You did not know?’

‘No. I came only to visit him – and also my assistant Nicholas Overton, who was held here, too. What in God’s name happened?’

Fordhill sat back heavily in his chair. ‘Boleyn is safe, but the man who ate the chicken delivered to him last night is dead. There is some shortage of space here now, and we put one of the senior city constables who fought against the camp to share his cell. A bullying fellow, according to Boleyn; when his food was delivered he took it from him and set about the chicken. There must have been some powerful poison in it; within two hours he was emptying his guts all over the floor, within three he was dead. His body has gone to the coroner.’

‘So it was intended for Boleyn.’

‘No doubt of that. Like all the parcels his wife has sent to him it was wrapped in cloth, tied with string, with a label attached in his steward Chawry’s handwriting.’

‘Could the parcel have been interfered with at the castle?’

‘It was well tied, as most food parcels are lest the guards take their pickings.’ He leaned forward. ‘Boleyn denies his wife or steward could have intended him harm, and certainly Mistress Isabella has been the most conscientious of visitors. But whether any accusations are laid now rests with the coroner and, I suppose, the camp authorities.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Yes, but I warn you he is much shaken.’

I took a deep breath. ‘And Nicholas Overton? Where is he?’

‘In a cell with some other gentlemen. Conditions there are less – comfortable – than Boleyn’s new cell, but then’ – he raised his eyebrows – ‘young Master Overton has no application pending for a royal pardon.’

I looked at Edward. ‘May Barak and I speak to Boleyn alone?’

He considered, but shook his head. ‘A man has died from poisoning. I think I should be present, and this should be reported to whatever authorities Captain Kett establishes for Norwich.’

Fordhill stood, went to the door, and called in a loud military bark, ‘Parker! Visitors for John Boleyn! Escort them at once!’ Footsteps hurried towards us. Fordhill still had some authority – for now.

* * *

JOHN BOLEYN was still in the well-appointed cell to which he had been moved after the trial. It stank to high heaven, though, with shit and vomit all over the floor, the remains of a chicken and other foodstuffs in a corner. Boleyn sat behind his desk, head in his hands. He looked up as we were shown in. He looked pale and drained of energy, and had a large purple bruise on his cheek, but there was fury in his eyes.

‘Matthew.’ His tone was cold. ‘So, you are still with those rebel clowns? I’m told they’ve taken Norwich now, many unfortunate gentlemen are being brought in as prisoners.’ He gestured at Edward Brown. ‘Who is this?’

‘The man who got me in to see you,’ I answered sharply.

‘And I think it best you keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Edward added.

Boleyn sighed and shook his head. ‘You will have heard what happened yesterday?’

‘Yes.’ I looked at the stinking mess on the floor. ‘Has nobody been to clear this up?’

Boleyn laughed bitterly. ‘What do you think this is, the Maid’s Head? They’ll come when they feel like it.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

He said in softer tones, ‘Isabella is still at the inn, God bless her, and she brings me a parcel of food each day. Well tied and labelled in Chawry’s hand, for she cannot write. It arrived as usual yesterday afternoon, but by then I had a fellow-prisoner, a constable. He was captured but took his fists to the camp-men, and ended up here.’ His voice rose angrily. ‘He was nothing more than a thug, and when my parcel arrived he grabbed it. I fought the swine, big as he was. He gave me this.’ He touched his bruised cheek. Then he laughed bitterly. ‘He tore open the parcel and started tearing at the chicken, telling me I could suck on the bones. But within half an hour he was screaming at the pain in his guts, then he spilled out that lot –’ he inclined his head to the mess on the floor – ‘and by the time I got a guard to come by shouting and knocking, he was dead. Whatever was in that chicken, it was powerful. And meant for me.’

‘Did the parcel look as though it might have been interfered with?’