Tombland

‘So,’ I said, ‘perhaps Witherington planned to go to law over the stream boundary after all.’

‘Yes. Maybe he hoped to wear John Boleyn out with a long battle through the courts.’

Nicholas said, ‘This Witherington sounds as though he has an interest in seeing Boleyn hanged.’

‘I do not know. But John Boleyn seems to have been content to live quietly on his lands, spending part of the time at his London house, while Master Witherington is one of those who would pile land on land, money on money, and hope for a knighthood at the end of it. As the saying goes,’ Lockswood added, sadly, ‘never in England were there so many gentlemen and so little gentleness.’

‘Come, fellow, you exaggerate,’ Nicholas said, adopting the patronizing tone he sometimes used to those of lower status. ‘There are many fine and honest gentlemen in England.’

‘I’m sure you are right, sir,’ Lockswood said, blank-faced again.

We turned the corner into the Strand, passing under the arch of Temple Bar. A pall of dust hung in the air, which set me coughing, and there was the sound of sawing and hammering from the southern side of the road where hundreds of men were working on Somerset House. The huge palace, fronted with high columns, was almost complete, but work continued on the many lesser buildings; trenches were being dug, foundations laid, timber was being sawed, masons in aprons worked on great blocks of stone. As we passed on the other side of the road Nicholas said, ‘Remember last year, when they blew up part of the old St Paul’s charnel house with gunpowder, sending the bones of ancient aldermen flying across the town?’

‘I do, indeed. An ancient thigh bone with part of a shroud attached landed in my neighbour’s garden.’

Nicholas grasped my arm, bringing me to a halt. ‘Look!’ he said excitedly, pointing across the road. ‘Is that not the Protector?’

I followed his gaze, and saw a tall, thin man with a long, pointed fair beard, a richly coloured robe, and a guard of three swordsmen in Seymour livery. He was bending over a plan laid out on a trestle table, where an architect in a long robe was indicating features with a pointer. I had met Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset and Lord Protector, briefly, in the old king’s time, and was struck by how much older he looked, his thin face hollow-cheeked, his expression severe. He stroked his long beard as he followed the architect’s words.

‘Is that him?’ Lockswood asked curiously. ‘The Good Duke?’ He used the name which Somerset had gained by his professed friendship for the poor.

‘It is.’

‘He looks as though he has all the cares of the world on his shoulders.’

‘Those of the kingdom, certainly,’ Nicholas remarked. ‘You have not seen him before, Lockswood?’

‘Yes, now you point him out. I went to watch the procession to open the Parliament two years ago, and saw him riding next to the King. It was the King I watched, of course, dressed all in purple and gold, so many jewels on his clothes they shone in the sun.’ He shook his head in reminiscence. ‘Such a little boy. They say he is much grown now.’

‘Still six years till he comes to his majority,’ I said.

Nicholas said, ‘Perhaps Somerset House may even be built by then.’

‘Perhaps. Come on,’ I said. ‘We should not stand staring, and the dust hurts my eyes.’

* * *

THE SOUTH SIDE of the Strand was where the great men of the realm had their houses, gardens running down to the river making an easy boat ride to London or Westminster. The buildings on the north side were older and less grand, lanes between them running up to the open fields beyond. Boleyn’s house was at the top of such a lane, a rambling house built round a central courtyard, probably an old farmhouse. I noticed loose tiles and chipped paintwork. Lockswood produced a key and opened the heavy front door. We followed him in. The place was only half furnished, everything covered with dust from the Protector’s building site. I smelled damp, too.

‘Looks as though it needs some work to make a gentleman’s town house,’ Nicholas said.

‘Maybe Boleyn’s eyes were larger than his purse.’ I turned to Lockswood. ‘I think we should look for those papers.’

‘Master Boleyn said his office was upstairs. We can find them, make sure everything is secure, and then I must find the local constable. Master Copuldyke has given me a half-sovereign to grease his palm, make sure he continues to keep a good eye on the house.’ Lockswood smiled tightly. ‘He’ll be sure to enter it in the ledger to claim back from Master Parry.’

We climbed the staircase. A number of rooms gave off the landing. One door was half open, the room within furnished as an office – a desk, a few stools, and a large wooden chest. The walls were bare except for an old portrait of a stern-looking, black-haired man in the red robes of a London alderman. On the frame was a plaque, Geoffrey Boleyn, 1401–1463.

‘Anne Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ I said, ‘who came to London and made his fortune.’

‘He was brother to John Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ Lockswood explained.