Tombland

‘That is something for me to discuss with your master. Is he at home?’

A man’s angry voice called from the interior of the house, loud enough to reach us. ‘God’s death, Vowell, who is it? Get rid of them!’

The steward hesitated. ‘Wait here, please.’ He closed the door.

‘Doesn’t want to see us,’ Nicholas observed.

‘He’ll be curious,’ I replied. ‘A serjeant’s robes can sometimes be useful.’ Though hot, too, I thought, even my silken summer robe.

A minute later the steward returned. ‘You may come in. Please wait in the hallway a moment.’ He led us inside. The house was well furnished, a large vase of flowers on an expensive Venetian table. He left us and went through an inner door. I caught a faint murmur of voices. At the end of the hallway a door opened and a maid looked out. Seeing us, she quickly closed it again.

Looking round, I started slightly. A thin elderly woman was descending the staircase, moving so quietly we had not heard her. The three of us doffed our caps and bowed. She stood on the bottom step, examining us with cold, still blue eyes, her hands clasped together on her black dress. I saw that she wore white bandages on them. Under a black hood her hair was silvery. Her face was pale as parchment.

‘Why have you come?’ The old woman’s voice was little more than a whisper.

‘We are helping to investigate the murder of Edith Boleyn.’

‘My daughter is dead and gone.’ She spoke in a voice of utter weariness. ‘In a few days her husband will be tried. What is there to investigate?’

The steward reappeared. ‘Alderman Reynolds will see you, sirs, but I warn you he is much distressed since his daughter’s death.’ We approached the room. The steward raised a hand to bar Toby’s progress. ‘I am sorry, Goodman, he will see the lawyers only. You must wait here.’ Toby shrugged. Mistress Reynolds still stood at the foot of the staircase, one hand grasping the banister.

Nicholas and I were shown into a large reception room. With the shutters drawn it was dim, candles alight on a large table. A tall, stringy man stood there, dressed in a long black robe. He, too, was elderly, about seventy. His white hair was worn long, almost to his shoulders, in an old-fashioned style. The lined face was long-nosed, square-chinned, the severe mouth turned down at the corners, the eyes dark and fierce. I guessed that Gawen Reynolds would be a hard man to deal with in business. His wife had come to stand in the doorway, looking apprehensive. The steward stood behind her.

Reynolds waved a hand at them. He said, his voice angry from the start, ‘My wife, Jane, and my steward, Goodman Michael Vowell. They can stay there, we will not be long. What have you come for?’ He stepped forward and I saw that he carried a gold-topped walking stick. Even with its aid he limped badly.

I said, ‘We wondered if you might help us with a little information. We are investigating the death of your daughter—’

Reynolds’s voice cut in sharply, ‘That investigation is done. Who are you working for?’

‘My instructions come from Master Thomas Parry—’

‘Who the fuck is he?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Cofferer to the Lady Elizabeth.’

Reynolds’s lips tightened. ‘Elizabeth. Of course, trying to save a Boleyn from the gallows. But it is too late, Master Hunchback Serjeant, John Boleyn is guilty, and in a few days will be dangling from the Norwich gallows.’ He spoke this last sentence with satisfaction.

‘We have been asked only to review the matter,’ I answered quietly. ‘Will you be giving evidence, sir?’

‘I do not know,’ Reynolds said, in a tone of quiet, fierce anger. ‘I can hardly bear even to go out, to see all the nosy glances. As for my hopes of the mayoralty next year, those are finished.’

I thought, Was that all his daughter’s death meant to him, but Nicholas said sympathetically, ‘What happened must have been a great shock to you, sir.’

‘A great shock?’ Reynolds’s voice rose in anger. ‘Nine years ago my only child left her husband and disappeared without trace. She did not come to me, or anyone else, just – vanished.’ He waved a hand angrily. ‘Then last month that terrible discovery at Brikewell. Do you wonder we are shocked?’

‘No, sir,’ I answered, ‘it must have been all the worse after hearing nothing for nine years.’

‘Yes. Nine years,’ he repeated, angry still.

I turned to Jane, hoping she might be more cooperative. ‘Did she have any other relatives in Norwich? Or elsewhere? Or friends that she might have gone to?’