Tombland

‘I didn’t get the chance to look at it, it was being stolen in front of my fucking eyes!’ Boleyn shouted, reminding me of his temper. ‘But it must have been – you’re not suggesting that my wife or Chawry, the most loyal servant I ever had, did this, are you?’

I raised my hands. ‘I am only trying to discover how this happened.’

‘Then look to those who would like to see me dead. My neighbour, Witherington, who tried to steal my land. I hear he has been a prisoner some time, but who knows what he could have arranged through bribes and intermediaries. Or those damned sons of mine and their friends, if they are still in Norwich.’

‘They are,’ Barak said. ‘They were seen fighting against Captain Kett’s forces this morning.’

I added, ‘And there is reason to believe one of their friends, John Atkinson, was involved in the murder of the locksmith’s apprentice.’

‘They wanted to see me hang,’ Boleyn said, savagely. ‘I will see them hang if they did this.’

I said, ‘I will ask Constable Fordhill to arrange for your food parcels to be checked by someone in authority.’ I turned to Edward. ‘Will you support me in that?’

He shrugged. ‘Why do you care so much about this man? He’s just another landowner who thinks us brutes. I don’t like his insults.’

‘He is my client. Please, as a favour to me, and in the interests of justice.’

Edward sighed. ‘All right, though it’s not as though I haven’t enough to do.’

Boleyn said angrily, ‘Fordhill can’t stop someone coming in and murdering me in my bed. It’s chaos out there, didn’t you see?’

‘I have an idea there,’ I said. ‘John, I will leave you now, but will return soon. Edward, could you take me to visit Nicholas? Please?’

As Edward knocked on the cell door for the guard, Boleyn said pleadingly, ‘Will you visit Isabella, see if she is all right?’

‘Of course.’

* * *

NICHOLAS WAS IN a basement cell, similar to the one John Boleyn had first occupied. The gaoler, whom I recognized from my first days visiting the castle, gave us a nasty smile as he turned the key in the lock. ‘Hold your breath,’ he said, ‘it stinks. We haven’t had time to clear the pisspots.’

He led us into a damp, smelly chamber. A guard from the camp with a club at his waist and holding a sharp-looking half-pike stood by the door, a cold look on his face. All round the walls gentlemen sat in torn finery. A few, who, I guessed, had just been brought in from the city, were talking quietly but angrily in a corner, calling the rebels the refuse of the people, ruffellers and seditioners. Others were silent, staring into space or trying to sleep, and I guessed they had been here longer. I looked for Nicholas and saw him, sitting against the wall with his hands on his knees. A fat middle-aged man leaned against him. He was very pale, his breathing laboured. To my surprise I recognized Leonard Witherington, Boleyn’s feuding neighbour.

Nicholas looked up at us with surprise. ‘Master Shardlake, Jack, Edward.’ His voice was croaky, his hair and beard unkempt, his green eyes sunken.

‘How long have I been here?’ he asked. ‘I lose track of time – I think I’ve been here a week.’

‘Four days,’ Barak replied.

I said, ‘I am sorry I have not been to visit you before.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Being in the camp, I thought that was strange, but this – this is truly another world.’ He looked at me with sudden sharpness, lowering his voice. ‘I hear Norwich has been taken, the men being brought in now are city constables and officials.’

‘Yes, it was taken this morning.’

He laughed bitterly. ‘When the Herald ordered the city closed the gentlemen were ordered to be released, but many were afraid of what the city poor would do to them and chose to stay here. Last night the authorities asked if I would fight with them but I pretended I was ill. I knew the numbers in the camp, and that they would win.’

‘You were right,’ Barak said. ‘The Herald ordered the camp to disperse, but we took Norwich easily, though not without some bloodshed.’

Nicholas swallowed, then said, ‘And I didn’t want to be fighting the Swardeston people. Are they safe?’

‘Yes, all of them.’ I saw tears prick Nicholas’s eyes, and he turned away. I looked at Witherington. The fat little martinet of South Brikewell who had invaded Boleyn’s land was a pitiful figure now. Nicholas said, ‘Don’t wake him. He doesn’t know where he is half the time. Keeps asking for his wife, though she died last year. Remember I feared he might have some sort of seizure? Well, he did, in the middle of shouting at the guards, just after he was brought in.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for the old devil. Remember that day at Brikewell when he was so full of himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think he’ll die soon. The prisoners aren’t used to this. They’re gentlemen, after all.’ Nicholas gave a cracked, humourless laugh. I realized that everything he believed, everything he had based his life on, had turned to the darkest irony. Next to him, Witherington stirred and saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.