Tombland

NORWICH WAS QUIET on the Sabbath, save for the ringing of church bells; Toby was right, many destitute figures lay sleeping in the doorways of shops and houses, more noticeable now few others were around. We passed the castle on its great mound, and I wondered whether the rain had penetrated John Boleyn’s subterranean cell. I would visit again tomorrow. People were cleaning up the marketplace, which, after yesterday’s market, was full of rubbish; rotten fruit, animal entrails, abandoned sacks. Beyond, we passed into a long street with houses and shops on either side, which Toby said was Ber Street. Some houses looked prosperous enough, but others had been divided into tenements. Toby stopped before one which was painted yellow, the paint peeling, exposing the lath and plaster and beams beneath.

‘Yellow house, next Hunter’s Yard, ground floor. This is it.’ He rapped on the door. It was opened by a short, plump woman with a round, wrinkled face, a black coif covering most of her grey hair. Her little mouth was pursed in an expression of disapproval; small grey eyes studied us, widening momentarily at the sight of Barak’s hand.

‘What is it?’ she asked boldly. ‘I want no lawyers here.’ Then she added, ‘Why yew abroad on the Sabbath?’

‘We wish to speak to Simon Scambler,’ I said. ‘Are you his aunt, Goodwife?’

She sighed. ‘What’s Sooty done now ? You can’t’ve come to arrest him, else they’d have sent the constable. If he’s damaged something, we’ve no money.’ She planted herself more firmly in the doorway.

‘He’s not in trouble. I represent Master Boleyn; I only wish to ask some questions about the time he worked for him at Brikewell.’ My hand went to my purse. ‘We will pay for access to him.’

At once she put out a hand, and I put a shilling into it. She closed her fingers on the coin, and I noticed the joints were twisted and swollen, as Parry had said Edith Boleyn’s had been.

‘Come in, then,’ she said, ‘though there’s scarce room for four o’ you.’ She gave us another disapproving look. ‘Doing business on the Sabbath, ’tis against God’s law.’ She waved us into a room furnished only with a table on which a much-thumbed Testament stood, a chest, a couple of stools and a wooden settle against the wall. The open shutters, I saw, hung loosely from their hinges. She went to the closed door of a neighbouring room and yelled through it, so loudly I jumped, ‘Sooty! Get through here, you grub!’ She shook her head. ‘That boy, he may be my poor dead sister’s child, but he’ll drive me sappy with his yammering on, his godless singing –’

I took one of the stools while Toby, Barak and Nicholas crowded uncomfortably onto the settle. A moment later the boy we had seen in the market square appeared, dressed in a dirty nightshirt, skinny legs bare, brown hair untidy. When he saw us, his mouth fell open. He turned to the old woman. ‘Who are these people, Aunt Hilda?’

She pointed at me. ‘He wants to ask about when you worked for John Boleyn.’ She turned to us, laughing mirthlessly. ‘I thought I’d got rid of Sooty when he went to Brikewell, but no, he has to find a place where murder gets done.’ The boy hung his head.

Toby leaned forward, speaking quietly. ‘Shut your clack-box, Goodwife. You’ve been paid, and we’re here to talk to your nephew, not listen to your howen’ and mowen’. And I’m not interested in your newdickle religious notions. Leave us alone.’

The old woman reddened, then, with an expression as though she were chewing a wasp, she stomped off into the boy’s room. ‘Don’t keep a’ long,’ she said. ‘We’ve to get ready for church. I need him to read the words to me.’ She slammed the door.

I smiled reassuringly at the boy, who was looking at us apprehensively. ‘We’ve met before, Scambler. Do you remember, two days ago, in the market square? When those boys tripped you up?’

He looked at me, then Nicholas, and his thin face brightened. ‘Yes, yew tried to help me,’ he said with sudden animation. ‘Those boys, I knew them at school, they keep crazing me ...’

I studied Scambler, more convinced than ever that he was no idiot. After meeting his aunt, I guessed the boys were not the only ones who made his life hard. Still speaking gently, I said, ‘I understand from Master Boleyn you were the only one who could handle his horse.’

Scambler brightened further. ‘Ay, Midnight was a lovely animal. Never hurt you if you treated him right ...’

Nicholas said, ‘I have seen his stable, heard him kicking. If you could control him, that is some achievement.’

‘I’ve a way with animals. You have to show them you mean to help them.’

‘But Midnight could be difficult with others, I believe. Like Master Boleyn’s sons.’

Scambler’s face darkened. ‘I think before I came they tried to hurt him. I heard he gave that Barnabas a good hard kick.’

‘Did the twins ever try to hurt you?’

‘Whenever they could.’ His tone was suddenly weary. ‘They punched me, threw things at me – a brick, once. Another time they caught me alone on the road and beat me up, for no reason.’