Tombland

‘His local agent being John Flowerdew.’

‘I believe so,’ he answered cautiously.

‘I understand that Sir Richard Southwell owns land bordering both yours and Boleyn’s.’

Witherington shrugged. ‘No doubt some deal beneficial to all parties can be negotiated.’ I wondered whether he was in touch with Southwell or Flowerdew already. Yet Boleyn had told me Southwell was not interested in Brikewell.

‘I do not see what such matters have to do with the evidence for Mistress Boleyn’s killing,’ Witherington said, folding his plump hands on his stomach.

‘I am just trying to see the whole picture. Tell me, did you know Mistress Boleyn?’

‘Hardly at all. She disappeared only two years after Boleyn and I bought our lands from the old monastery. She came to dinner here once, and sat at table barely exchanging a word with anyone. When I tried to engage her in conversation, all I got was surly looks. And she ate barely more than a bird. We did not invite them again. Personally, I think she was not right in the head. Those damned sons of hers take after her, I think. Certainly they’re not like their milksop father.’ He curled his lip in contempt. ‘When Edith disappeared and Boleyn took that whore to live with him, a lot of people thought he’d done away with his first wife. I never did, though; he wouldn’t have the balls.’

‘Where do you think Edith Boleyn might have been these last nine years?’

Witherington shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea. Someone must have been giving her shelter, I suppose. Somewhere far from these parts.’

‘Strange that she was found dead on the boundary between your land and Boleyn’s,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, sir?’ Witherington’s voice rose.

‘Nothing. Only that it was a strange way, a strange place, for someone to dispose of a body.’

‘Perhaps Boleyn met her on the bridge by arrangement, then lost his temper and killed her there and then. He does have a temper, by all accounts.’

There was a knock at the door, and the servant he had addressed as Shuckborough entered, followed by a thin, white-haired old man, obviously afraid, kneading a greasy cap in his hands. I guessed Shuckborough was Witherington’s steward, in everyday charge of the estate as Chawry was on Boleyn’s. He was a large, well-built man in his forties, with a square, hard face. He gave the cringing old man a look of contempt, then addressed his master. ‘Kempsley, sir. He was asleep in his shed, like you said. Then he had the cheek to moan all the way here about how there are too many sheep for him to manage; he needs a boy to help him.’

‘If it’s too much for him, he can go out on the road,’ Witherington replied. ‘Is that what you want, old Adrian?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then keep your clack-box shut. These two gentlemen are here about Boleyn’s killing his wife. They want you to tell them what you saw that day.’

‘I made a – what was it called, a deper—’

I smiled at the old man. ‘Deposition. I have read it. You must have had a terrifying experience.’

‘It was, it was. Like something come up from hell. At first I thought it was a sheep trapped in the mud, it was only dawn and the light was dimsy, but then I got close and saw it was that poor woman –’ He shuddered at the memory.

‘And you saw footprints in the mud?’

‘Ay, sir, big ones, leading down from the grass on Master Boleyn’s side. Made by big boots, you could see that.’

‘You are sure the body must have been put there during the night?’

‘Ay. I walked round the sheep just afore it got dark the evening before. About nine o’clock. There was nothing in the stream then.’

‘Whoever did the deed must have known the lie of the land, do you think?’

Kempsley nodded firmly. ‘Yes. Moving in the dark, carrying the poor lady.’

‘And he must have been very strong.’

‘Ay. I doubt one man could have done it alone.’

Witherington interrupted. ‘We can do without your speculations.’

‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘they are most helpful. Tell me, do you think the prints could have been made by two pairs of boots?’

Kempsley frowned. ‘The mud was so pashed up, sir, boot-prints everywhere. All were made by the same type of boots. That’s all I can say, sir.’

‘Thank you. That’s all. I will leave you to your sheep.’ The steward nodded, and Kempsley scuttled from the room. Witherington looked at Shuckborough, then at us. ‘There is one more person I should like you to meet.’ He nodded at Shuckborough, who went out, returning a moment later leading a young man by the arm. He was no more than twenty, tall and athletically built, with tangled brown hair and a scraggy beard. His expression was curiously vacant, and a dribble of saliva ran from a corner of his mouth.

Witherington said, ‘This is Ralph, who works my lands with his father and brothers. They are my serfs. Last April, he was one of those I sent to stake my claim to the lands Boleyn says are his.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Ralph was a good strong lad, said he’d give a good account of himself. You couldn’t do that now, could you, Ralph?’