Chapter Nineteen
We walked a little way up Ber Street, then stopped at a corner to confer. Church bells were still ringing, and people were hurrying to service in their best clothes, mostly Protestant black.
‘So,’ Barak said, ‘this could put it squarely on the twins. We have to find this locksmith.’
‘The Maid’s Head innkeeper will know the Norwich locksmiths,’ Toby said. ‘That snivelling little runt,’ he added sharply. ‘If he’d told his story weeks ago, Boleyn might never been arrested. I’d swear he was protecting his skin; he guessed what the twins had done.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He didn’t think it through. He’s only – what – fifteen or so? And – not normal, though in a way which I do not understand.’
‘Crying like a gal. I’d have given him a good culp, got it out of him that way.’
‘I expect he’s well used to that.’ I looked at Toby sharply. I was getting to see more and more that, despite his radicalism, he had a hard, unsympathetic side.
‘There’s certainly something amiss with Scambler,’ Barak said. ‘The tears, the way he speaks so fast. And his aunt says he goes about singing. He can’t seem to – control himself.’
‘But he’s not a wantwit,’ I said. ‘Did you notice his voice? He speaks with less of a local accent than you’d expect. And he talked of going to school.’
‘Maybe they chucked him out,’ Toby said.
‘Or maybe after his parents died there was no money for the fees,’ Nicholas said, raising an eyebrow at Toby. ‘If the twins planned this,’ he went on, ‘they must have known their mother’s whereabouts when she returned to Norwich, and killed her despite everyone saying they were miserable when she left them as children. Killed her, and set up their father.’
‘But what would they gain?’ I asked. ‘If their father is hanged, the lands they would have inherited go to the King’s escheator, and they become wards of court till they reach twenty-one.’
‘They’ve got their grandfather’s protection.’ Barak looked at me.
‘We must find that locksmith tomorrow,’ I said.
‘The twins could have used another one,’ Nicholas said.
‘We’ll try every locksmith in Norwich if we have to. I can say I have an expensive chest that needs mending. Now, Toby, take us to Conisford to find Josephine. Then go back home. Come to the Maid’s Head again at seven tomorrow.’
THE DISTRICT OF Conisford lay south of the castle. The main road, Conisford Street, contained some fine buildings as well as a rubbish-strewn open space, surrounding the ruins of a friary. Further south, though, the houses were all poorer, with glimpses into yards behind in which ramshackle wooden dwellings had been erected. Toby led us through an archway leading to one such yard, where the ground was bare earth with a malodorous piss-channel running through the middle. We looked at the dozen or so wooden shacks in what had once been the central courtyard for the large house built around it, its walls cutting off light from the sun. The shacks looked of recent construction; they were unpainted, some with only rags at the windows instead of shutters. Chickens pecked about in the muck, where some filthy children were also playing. One pointed at Barak. ‘Lookit yin hand! Yew bin fightin’ the Scotch?’
Barak raised his hand. ‘No, just naughty little boys!’ The children giggled.
Toby said. ‘This is the yard. See how the poorest live in Norfolk.’
‘It is the same in London,’ I replied. I was horrified, however, that Josephine could have ended up here.
‘Ask the people which place is hers,’ Toby suggested, ‘but make clear you’re nothing to do with the authorities. They’ll be wary of lawyers.’
‘I will, Toby. Thank you for bringing us. Now, go see how your mother is.’
He bowed and left us. ‘God’s death,’ Barak said. ‘This is a shithole.’
AS TOBY PREDICTED, when we knocked at doors to ask for Goodman Brown and his wife, we were met with suspicion. The first was slammed in our face, the second answered by a thin young woman holding a crying baby who was immediately pushed aside by her husband. He said loudly, ‘If you’re come from Master Reynolds looking for rent from the Browns, don’t try any of your bullyragging ways here, or we’ll throw you out.’
I looked around and saw several doors were open, men in ragged smocks or sleeveless leather jerkins looking at us threateningly.
‘Master Reynolds is your landlord?’ I asked. Edith Boleyn’s father, the twins’ grandfather.
‘Ay, he built this whole stinking yard, and others like it, to leech off the poor. Yew his men?’
‘No. I used to employ Josephine Brown. I am in Norwich on business, and wished to see her. My companions know her, too.’
‘Master Shardlake here gave her away at her wedding,’ Barak said, placatingly.
The man’s wife nodded. ‘That yin’s a Lunnoner, like the Browns.’
‘Two doors up,’ her husband said. ‘But be careful, master, we’ll be watching.’ He slammed the door.
I had last seen Edward Brown two and half years ago, just before he and Josephine left for Norwich. Then he had been a well-set-up, good-natured fellow in his late twenties, with the confidence of an upper servant. When he opened the door, I saw he had lost perhaps a stone in weight; his face and body thin. He wore an old smock tucked into dirty leggings, his face was unwashed and his brown hair and beard were bedraggled. He had several half-healed cuts on his hands, and his right little finger was twisted out of shape. His eyes were angry, but seeing me his expression changed to amazement. ‘Master Shardlake? What are you doing here?’ A moment later Josephine appeared, holding a baby at her breast. Once plump-faced, like her husband she too had lost weight. She wore a patched grey dress; a white coif which had seen better days covered her greasy blonde hair. Her mouth fell open for a moment, but then she smiled spontaneously. ‘Master Shardlake. And Master Nicholas and Jack Barak. What are you doing in Norwich?’
‘We are here on business,’ I said. ‘I have been worried about you, Josephine, since I had no reply to my last letter.’
‘How did you find us?’
‘A legal contact in the city found Master Henning’s steward.’
Josephine turned to her husband. ‘I told you we should have written again, I said Master Shardlake would help us.’
‘We got no help from Master Henning’s children when he and his wife died,’ Brown said bitterly. ‘They sold his house and threw us on the streets. I say, a pox on lawyers and gentlemen.’
‘Edward!’ Josephine chided him, almost in tears.
Nicholas said angrily, ‘We have taken much time to find you. Your last letter spoke of trouble, you know Master Shardlake will help you if he can. He does not deserve this!’
Edward looked a little ashamed, and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Ay, well, I’m sorry.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Come in, if you like, though ’tis a sorry place.’
Inside, dim light from the single window showed a room with an earthen floor, with a puddle in the corner from last night’s rain, which had entered through a hole in the roof. In one corner was a sagging truckle bed and a home-made crib; some cracked crockery stood on a rickety shelf, and there was a table scored with much use on which a wooden drop-spindle lay beside a little pile of wool. A pair of old chairs and a battered clothes chest made up the rest of the furnishings. Josephine sat on a chair, hugging the sleeping baby – a fair-haired little girl perhaps three months old.
‘Ay,’ Edward Brown said. ‘It’s a poorhouse, all right.’
I asked quietly, ‘How did this come to be?’
Josephine answered. ‘As Edward said, when Master Henning died eighteen months ago, his children put us out on the street. Gave us not so much as a spoon as a keepsake. There’s little work in Norwich, and we’d no training except in service. I get a little work spinning, I turn wool on that spindle day in, day out, till I could scream with boredom. Edward has some work as a stonemason’s labourer, helping sort stone at the old cathedral monastery.’