Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7) Page 4

  ‘Trouble made by her?’ I asked.

  Parry gave a humourless laugh. ‘Only if you consider getting yourself murdered in the foulest way imaginable to be making trouble.’

  I said quietly, ‘So it is a murder you wish me to investigate?’

  ‘It is, I fear.’ He looked me in the eye.

  People in high places had made that request of me before. It usually provoked a clutch of anxiety at my heart. But in Parry’s office in Hatfield Palace I felt, unexpectedly, a quickening of excitement. I glanced sideways at Nicholas. His face was alive with interest too.

  ‘What happened to her?’ I asked.

  Parry opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder and removed a sheet of paper. It was a deposition, a witness statement for a court case. He looked at it. ‘I told you that Edith Boleyn – and that was her real name – came here on the fourth of May. Eleven days later, early on the morning of the fifteenth, a shepherd named Adrian Kempsley left his cottage in the parish of Brikewell, south of Norwich, to go and tend his master’s sheep. The master’s name is Leonard Witherington, and he is one of those who has been building up flocks of sheep on his lands, and, yes, encroaching on common land. He is unpopular with his tenantry, and with his neighbour, another landlord.’

  I nodded. ‘As I said, if they are not quarrelling with their tenants, the Norfolk gentlemen fight with each other.’

  Parry continued. ‘Between them, Witherington and his neighbour had purchased a large parcel of monastic land when the abbeys went down ten years ago. Apparently, the old monastery deeds were unclear about the boundary and Master Witherington recently claimed a good portion of his neighbour’s land.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The neighbour’s name is Master John Boleyn, he is Edith’s husband, and he is not, as she told us, dead. Though he may be, within the month, dangling on the Norwich gallows.’

  Nicholas’s eyes widened. ‘She had a husband living! Then why come here?’

  Parry raised a hand. ‘Wait, young man. To continue, according to Adrian Kempsley, whose deposition this is, Witherington’s sheep were kept on a large meadow, which slopes down to a stream, which forms the boundary between Witherington’s land and that of John Boleyn, though as I said, that boundary is disputed.’

  I said, ‘There have been many such cases since the monastic lands were sold off, title documents often centuries old and plans faded, or unclear.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Parry agreed. ‘There has been much rain this spring, as you know, and the stream was full, a good deal of mud around it. Kempsley saw something white sticking out of the stream, and in the early light thought a sheep had got itself trapped. When he came closer, though, he got the shock of his life.’ He paused. ‘I warn you, this next part is, as I said earlier, depraved and revolting. It was no sheep that Kempsley saw but, sticking up from the water, the naked body of Edith Boleyn. She had been shoved into the stream head first, her head and the upper half of her body buried in the water and the mud beneath. Her lower half stuck up in the air, her legs pulled apart so that her private parts were displayed to the heavens.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Someone must have hated her very much to do that,’ I said quietly. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘No question about that,’ Parry answered. ‘She had been struck on the head with something very heavy. Kempsley says the top of her head fell to pieces when they pulled the body out. It must have been placed in the stream the night before. And yet Edith Boleyn had, according to law, already been dead for two years.’

  Nicholas had been taking notes, a paper on a wooden board on his knees, but now his quill skittered across the page, dropping blots. ‘What?’

  Parry laughed bleakly. ‘That was my reaction when lawyer Copuldyke told me.’ He drew a second deposition from the folder. ‘According to John Boleyn, his wife Edith, mother of his two sons, simply vanished one day in 1540, nine years ago. He says they had never got on, but her disappearance was sudden and unexpected. She vanished one winter day with nothing but the clothes she stood up in. John Boleyn enquired of her family – and she does have family, despite what she told us – her servants and the neighbours, but nobody had seen her or could explain her disappearance. She was never seen again. Two years ago, seven years having passed, Master Boleyn applied to the coroner to have Edith declared legally dead. An order was granted, and last year he married his current wife – with whom he had already been living for some years, somewhat to the scandal of the community.’

  I considered. ‘The courts usually investigate such claims thoroughly, where a spouse has disappeared.’

  ‘They did. The local coroner, apparently, is a man of probity. He found that nobody in the neighbourhood had seen or heard anything of Edith since the day she vanished. During his enquiries the question of her state of mind was raised. Everyone agreed she was a strange, surly woman. According to Boleyn, there were times when she would refuse to eat, and become very thin – she looked starved when she came here, though I thought that was from being penniless on the road.’

  ‘And nobody had seen her in nine years, until she arrived here?’

  ‘Nobody. Apparently, John Boleyn had been carrying on with his current wife even before Edith vanished, and some gossiping woman had told Edith not long before she disappeared; John Boleyn’s deposition says that in the period before she left she was full of melancholy and was refusing to eat properly again.’ Parry took a deep breath. ‘The coroner’s view was that Edith had most likely committed suicide, perhaps by drowning herself in a river, the body carried out to sea and never found.’

  I said, ‘If John Boleyn had been seeing another woman nine years ago, and his wife discovered it and made trouble, that could have given him a reason to murder her then.’

  Parry nodded agreement. ‘So people said back in 1540. But there was no evidence, no body. John Boleyn left it a year before he moved his lover’ – Parry glanced at the depositions – ‘Isabella Heath, into his home, but after that they lived together quite openly. She worked in a tavern, would you believe? The neighbouring gentry were outraged, and there were mutterings that such behaviour was only to be expected of a Boleyn. And always the suspicion that he had done away with his wife. Recently, by the way, there had been serious trouble with his neighbour Witherington over the land dispute, involving some sort of violent affray. And there are rumours he is in financial difficulty – he owns several manors, but recently he bought an expensive London house.’

  Nicholas said, ‘So his wife was actually not dead at all, she had only left him?’

  Parry spread his hands wide. ‘That is how it appears. She must have been somewhere these last nine years, but God knows where. All we do know is that she was found horribly murdered less than a fortnight after she visited this house.’

  ‘And your lawyer Copuldyke told you about the murder?’ I asked.

  ‘He learned of it through his man in Norwich, Lockswood. Copuldyke thought I should know as I had made enquiries about her after she visited Hatfield.’

  ‘And John Boleyn has been arrested?’

  ‘Yes. Edith was identified by her father, and John Boleyn arrested the next day.’

  ‘That is quick,’ Nicholas said.

  I said, ‘In a murder investigation, if you don’t find the killer – or a credible suspect – within a few days the trail quickly goes cold.’ I turned to Parry. ‘What were the grounds for his arrest?’

  ‘Strong ones. There were footprints in the mud around the body, made by large, heavy shoes, well clouted with nails. John Boleyn is a big man and when a search of his house was ordered, a pair of such shoes, covered with mud, were found in the stables, where he keeps a horse so unruly that no one but him dare approach it. Together with a large, heavy hammer, with blood and hair on it.’

  Nicholas looked at me. ‘Someone could have put them there, to incriminate Boleyn,’ he said.

  Parry produced another document. ‘According to the coroner’s report, apart from a stable boy wh
o was apparently half-witted, Boleyn had the only key to the stables. But he will plead not guilty when he appears before the Norwich Assizes this month. The judges have already started out on their circuit tours.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I heard some of them wanted the summer circuits postponed, because of the disturbances last month, but Lord Chancellor Rich would have none of it. The judges are to travel as usual, and show their power.’

  ‘Is Barak on circuit?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Yes, and on the Norfolk circuit this time. He did the Home circuit last year.’

  ‘Who is Barak?’ Parry asked.

  ‘My former assistant. He is now a jobbing solicitor, and works part-time assisting the judges on the summer and winter circuits near London.’ I considered. ‘The circuit will probably be trying cases in Buckinghamshire now, on their way out to East Anglia.’

  Parry said, ‘The Norwich Assizes opens on the eighteenth of June. Less than a fortnight away. Could this Barak be useful?’

  I answered carefully. ‘He might be able to help with information. He worked with me for many years, and is quite trustworthy.’

  Parry considered. ‘Then I agree that you talk to him about the case. But not about Edith Boleyn’s visit to Hatfield.’

  ‘Of course.’ I considered. ‘Surely there is a good chance of Boleyn being found innocent. If his vanished wife had turned up at his house again after nine years, and he had remarried, that would give him a motive to kill her, but quietly and secretly. Displaying the body publicly like that, showing she had been alive the day before – that automatically invalidates his new marriage, and opens an investigation where he must be a suspect. Why would any sane man do that?’

  Parry shrugged. ‘Perhaps she returned home and he was so overcome with rage and hatred he temporarily lost his reason. But I agree, it sounds more like someone wanting to get Boleyn into trouble. As I said, he is unpopular locally, and I do not need to tell you that counts for much in a jury trial.’

  ‘What of his family?’ I asked. ‘His new wife? Has he any children from his marriage to Edith?’

  ‘His new wife is holed up at his house, I believe. John Boleyn had twin boys by Edith, they are in their late teens now.’ Parry frowned. ‘The authorities in Norfolk seem convinced Boleyn will be found guilty and his lands forfeit to the King. Officials of the Norfolk feodary and escheator have already been sniffing around his properties. He is rich enough for his lands to interest the royal officials. I’ve got Copuldyke to go on the record as Boleyn’s attorney, and warn them off, remind everyone the case is sub judice; he is innocent until proven guilty, and his family should be left alone until and unless he is convicted.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Parry grunted. ‘The escheator and feodary, the officials responsible for the King’s properties in Norfolk, are Henry Mynne and, as feodary, the Lady Mary herself. Both delegate their work to local officials – Richard Southwell is steward of many of Mary’s Norfolk properties while Mynne’s official in that part of Norfolk is John Flowerdew. A nasty pair. Perhaps you have met Flowerdew? He is a serjeant-at-law like you, though he concentrates his efforts on grasping as much Norfolk land as he can.’

  ‘No, we’ve never met.’

  ‘As for Southwell, he is the Lady Mary’s creature.’ He raised his eyebrows again. ‘Yes, this damned case reaches out to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she set Southwell on the family.’

  I considered. ‘Boleyn’s indictment for murder is public. From what you said, there is already gossip in Norwich.’

  ‘Indeed. But that will be nothing to the open scandal if he is found guilty and hanged. The family name, the foul details of the crime – the pamphleteers will have the time of their lives, they’ll be selling versions of the story from London to Northumberland.’ Parry’s voice deepened with anger. ‘I despair when I look at the stuff that floods out of the printing presses now; Commonwealth men ranting against the rich, Calvin’s people’s warning of hellfire and the Apocalypse, the mad prophecies and lewd stories, the biting and slandering. I wish the damned press had never been invented.’

  Nicholas broke the silence that followed by asking him, ‘Do you think Master Boleyn guilty, sir?’

  Parry gave him an irritated look. ‘God’s pestilence, lad, how on earth should I know? I have no idea. I know only that Copuldyke’s man Lockswood has visited him in Norwich Castle gaol and said he makes a sad and sorry figure.’

  I looked Parry in the eye. ‘Are you certain nobody knows Edith Boleyn was here? Apart from you and Mistress Blanche?’

  ‘Certain. So far as the other servants noticed her, she was just another poor beggar come to the door. Nobody else knows her name. And they mustn’t,’ he added with emphasis. ‘The Lady Elizabeth cannot be associated with this.’

  I asked, ‘Then why do you wish us to go to Norfolk?’

  Parry sighed, long and hard. ‘I do not wish you to go anywhere. But I had to give the Lady Elizabeth the news of the murder – she would likely have found out through tittle-tattle when it came to trial. Her first reaction was that we must tell the authorities Edith Boleyn had been here. That might mean her movements could be traced back, and then perhaps something could be found out about where she had been these last nine years.’

  ‘Lady Elizabeth was right,’ I observed quietly. ‘Strictly speaking, if you, or she, know about Edith Boleyn’s visit here so soon before her murder, and say nothing, that could be construed as withholding evidence.’

  Parry looked at me hard. ‘I persuaded the Lady Elizabeth that Mistress Edith, a most distant relation, was no concern of ours, and the last thing she needed, after the Seymour business, was direct association with a scandal involving murder. Mistress Blanche supported me. Thank God, the Lady Elizabeth is a realist at heart, and eventually agreed we would say nothing and let justice take its course.’ He leaned forward, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘Outside this room, Edith Boleyn’s visit to this house never happened. Do not forget that.’

  ‘Very well.’ I was glad that as lawyers in Elizabeth’s employ, Nicholas and I were protected by legal privilege from revealing anything Parry told us.

  ‘However –’ Parry shook his head – ‘the Lady Elizabeth has set two conditions. First, a legal representative of hers should be sent to Norfolk to enquire – delicately – about events. That would be no more than showing legitimate concern that justice was done to John Boleyn. Her wish is that the representative, given your – experience – in such investigations, should be you.’

  I considered. ‘As it is a criminal trial, Boleyn cannot have representation by counsel because, the burden of proof being guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, the law considers the facts should be so plain that counsel is not needed. Nonsense, of course, but there it is.’

  ‘Complete nonsense,’ Nicholas agreed. ‘I was shocked when I began studying law and learned that.’

  Parry looked at us. ‘Personally, I thank God for it, or the Lady Elizabeth would have you arguing John Boleyn’s case in court. But we agreed you will only make enquiries about the case, and present any relevant evidence you may find to the authorities. I told her Copuldyke and his man could do that, but she insisted on you.’

  ‘What if I were to find evidence confirming John Boleyn’s guilt?’

  ‘Then the law must take its course.’ Parry narrowed his eyes. ‘It would be convenient for all, Master Shardlake, if you were to find nothing of significance either way. We do not wish to be seen to rock the boat.’

  I did not answer directly. ‘You said the Lady set another condition.’

  ‘Yes, and I am still trying to dissuade her from it. I hope’ – he shook his head, wearily – ‘it does not arise. But here it is. If you find evidence to support Boleyn’s innocence, but a jury convicts him nonetheless, she says she will fund an application for a royal pardon.’

  I took a deep breath. The King had the power to grant a pardon nullifying even a verdict of murder. When very wealthy people were convicted o
f capital offences, there often followed a greasing of palms in the royal household, all the way up to the King. But nowadays, given Edward’s youth, in practice that meant a pardon from Protector Somerset, with whom Elizabeth was already in bad odour.

  ‘I can see why you would dislike that course, Master Parry.’

  ‘She thinks that if the request for a pardon comes from her, the King himself will intervene. But Edward won’t lift a finger. He is mildly fond of his sister, but no more. He doesn’t see her from one season’s end to the next, and he is completely in the power of the Seymours. The family, you will remember, who displaced the Boleyns.’ He looked at me hard again. ‘I said the Lady Elizabeth was a realist, and she is cautious, but where anything to do with her mother is concerned, her heart begins to rule her head. She is still only fifteen, remember. Help me bury this business, Matthew. For her sake. Let Boleyn be found guilty or not, as the evidence and local politics dictate. I want no application for a pardon.’

  ‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘You said your man Copuldyke and his assistant will help me with local information?’

  ‘Yes. Both are now in London, you can speak to them when you return. You will act as Copuldyke’s agent, and his man will go to Norfolk with you. Take the lad’ – he nodded at Nicholas – ‘but use careful judgement if you talk to your friend Barak. Base yourself in Norwich. The Boleyn property is only about a dozen miles from there.’

  I did a quick calculation. Today was June the sixth. I would have to get back to London, talk to Copuldyke and Lockswood, and make speedy arrangements to go to Norfolk, a three or four days’ journey. It was irritating that I had to return to London, for Hatfield was on the way to Norfolk. I said to Parry, ‘It will be a week before I get there. That leaves only a few days to investigate before the Assizes start.’

  Parry inclined his head. ‘One can only do what one can in the time,’ he said, an evasive note in his voice. I wondered whether he had deliberately delayed telling Elizabeth of Edith’s murder, to make it less likely that I would have time to find anything that might prove troublesome.