Tombland

‘We are land lawyers,’ I said. ‘Though I myself do have experience of visiting clients in prison.’ And two short spells in the Tower, I thought grimly. I looked at the sun, almost overhead. ‘And now, to the Guildhall, and the coroner.’

Chapter Fourteen

In the marketplace, the preacher had gone. I saw one of the boys who had tripped Scambler, and wondered where he had fled to.

We walked up to the Guildhall. It was an impressive three-storey building, its doors guarded by two men in city livery. The flint facing of the wall was knapped smooth, the mortar between the flints inset with thin flint chippings. I was about to run my fingers over the surface when Toby warned, ‘Careful, those gallets can tear your hands.’

I became aware of a faint crying sound from ground level. I saw a tiny grille through which dirty fingers waved. A voice called, ‘Alms, for food, merciful sirs.’

‘This place has a prison,’ Toby said. ‘The mayor’s court and the justices sit here. Only Assize prisoners go to the castle.’

I passed some pennies through the grille. They were quickly snatched away, and more desperate fingers appeared from the gloomy interior. I straightened up with difficulty, and sighed. Turning to Toby, I said, ‘But the city council meets here too?’

‘Yes. It’s the largest Guildhall in England, outside London. Built a hundred and forty years ago using forced labour from the city. My own forebears among them.’ He moved to the porch and spoke to one of the guards, who bowed and waved a hand to usher us inside.

The building was lit by large windows, probably once colourfully decorated but now plain glass. The guard led us to a staircase. ‘The coroner will meet you in the Swordroom, sirs,’ he said.

‘Swordroom?’ Nicholas asked, interested.

‘There aren’t any swords on display,’ Toby said. ‘It’s the council meeting chamber. But there’s a false roof, and weapons are stored above in case the city constables ever need to deal with trouble.’

‘Has that ever happened?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’

The guard took us upstairs and knocked on a big wooden door. A voice within called us to enter and a servant opened the door, bowing.

We entered a sizeable chamber, with benches and chairs set in a semicircle. On a raised dais at the front a plump middle-aged man with a grey beard was leafing through a pile of documents. He stood and bowed. ‘Serjeant Shardlake?’

‘Yes. And Master Overton, and Goodman Lockswood.’

He studied us with shrewd blue eyes. ‘I am Henry Williams, coroner for Norwich. My district includes Brikewell. I do not often meet a lawyer of your rank, sir. Do you know Serjeant Flowerdew, agent of the King’s escheator?’

‘No. Though I gather he is keen to have John Boleyn’s family out of his property, even though the trial has not yet taken place.’

Williams grimaced. ‘Perhaps he is interested in acquiring the land, for himself or another. He is a man who – well, let us say that his name does not suit him. Anyone less like the dew on a flower would be hard to conceive.’ He laughed mirthlessly, then looked at me sharply again. ‘You have taken over the Boleyn case from Master Copuldyke, I believe.’

‘To act on his behalf in the matter, yes.’

‘Copuldyke acts for Thomas Parry, the Lady Elizabeth’s cofferer.’ He looked at me narrowly.

I continued, ‘I am instructed merely to look into the facts, with a fresh eye. I make no presumption about Boleyn’s guilt or innocence.’

‘That is for the jury to decide.’

‘Indeed.’ I smiled reassuringly, knowing the coroner would want his own court’s verdict to be upheld. ‘You will be giving evidence at the trial?’

‘Of course. As the one responsible for the initial investigation. Where the jury’s verdict was that Edith Boleyn was murdered by her husband John,’ he concluded with emphasis.

‘I understand. The evidence of the boots and hammer in Boleyn’s stables?’

‘Taken with the fact that only he had keys, apart from his wantwit stable boy. And nobody else could have gone into that stable, the horse he kept there was quite uncontrollable, as he admitted in his deposition.’

‘That is indeed strong evidence. But could someone else have thrown the boots over the top or under the bottom of the stable door?’

Williams frowned. ‘The constable did not mention it.’

I changed the subject. ‘I cannot help wondering what motive John Boleyn could have for displaying his wife’s body in such a public way? Have you any thoughts on that, Master Williams?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘Who knows what went on in his mind, what rage he could have fallen into if Edith suddenly turned up? He certainly had a motive to murder her.’

‘I agree. But I think that usually, if something does not make sense, it is unlikely to be true.’

Williams grunted. ‘The older I get, the more I find that much of what men do makes little sense.’ He smiled wryly, then looked at me sharply again. ‘Have you been down to Brikewell?’

‘I go tomorrow. Another thing that puzzles me, Master Coroner. Does anyone have any idea where Edith might have been these last nine years?’