Tombland

‘Better corruption than disorder. I may be only a lowly steward by origin, but I believe the social order of the realm must be maintained by any means. I always have. I am a spy, Master Shardlake, by conviction. I have not only helped Master Reynolds and Sir Richard Southwell, I have spied for the city authorities on makebates who would stir up discontent here – Norwich is full of wily troublemakers. I left Gawen Reynolds’s employ because it was obvious that trouble was coming among the commoners and I could join the rebels – even present myself as a radical, work with the naive younger element, encourage them and perhaps split the camp against Kett.’ He smiled again. ‘That request came from Southwell himself; the Protector and his counsel were looking for spies.’

‘I imagine it pays well.’

He shrugged. ‘I have never had much interest in money.’ His cold eyes lit up for the first time. ‘When I was a child I wanted more than anything to be an actor. I took part in all the guild mystery plays, in the old days. But actors lead a precarious life, and I wanted security, too.’

‘You are certainly a good actor.’

Vowell nodded to acknowledge the compliment, then fell silent. I decided to lead him on. ‘So it was you who stole the key to the stable, and planted the muddy boots and hammer to incriminate John Boleyn.’

‘That’s right,’ he boasted. ‘I have always cultivated friendly relations with the twins. One day they were at their grandfather’s and waxing fierce about that Sooty Scambler who was killed before the Herald. It was me who suggested they give him a beating, steal the key to the stable and let that dangerous horse run wild. I knew they were going to the cockfighting that evening, and arranged to have the key taken briefly, so an impression could be made. The locksmith Snockstobe, who would do anything for money to spend on drink, would make a copy. So far as the twins knew, it was never stolen, so they believed the evidence against their own father of the muddy boots and the bloody hammer in the stable. A good plan, was it not?’

‘You thought it up while talking to the twins about – about Simon?’

‘Yes, though it was the pure luck of Gerald leaving his purse on the bench that night which gave me the chance. But I would have found another opportunity.’ His voice turned sharp. ‘It is not only lawyers that have quick minds, hunchback.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It was clever indeed.’ I spoke quietly, preening his actor’s vanity. ‘But something went wrong with Snockstobe?’

‘He knew when he was asked to make a key from a wax impression that it was likely stolen. When you threatened him with a subpoena, he came running to me and Master Reynolds. If he’d had the balls to lie in court there wouldn’t have been a problem. But he’d likely have turned up drunk and spilled out everything. So we arranged for him to be disposed of. The apprentice, too, who I was sure had been listening to our conversation earlier at the shop. Master Reynolds brought in some of Sir Richard Southwell’s men for that, with John Atkinson in charge. So all was well again. But earlier, the night of Edith Boleyn’s killing – well, men can be such fools. Even a Norwich alderman like Gawen Reynolds.’

‘So it was his fault she was left in the condition she was?’ I tried not to let my disgust show.

Vowell frowned, fingered his knife again. ‘I had planned the whole thing out.’ He tossed his head angrily; the man’s vanity was indeed limitless. ‘Master Reynolds and I agreed he would reply to her note, which came from a cheap lodging house in Norwich, and arrange to meet her at the bridge separating Boleyn’s land from Witherington’s – I hear he’s dead, too, now; when this is over Sir Richard Southwell will no doubt have his land too.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It was all settled, she replied agreeing to meet her father at the bridge. Master Reynolds and I rode down there, with a heavy hammer and a spade in my horse’s knapsack. I was going to clout her on the head, and then we would bury her in a shallow grave on the South Brikewell side, without bothering to replace the grass properly so the old shepherd would notice the next day. But when we arrived at the bridge, and Reynolds saw her standing there in the dusk, white bandages on her hands like her mother’s, he lost control. He shouted and shrieked at her, demanding to know where she had been these nine years, and when she refused to answer it made him worse. He called her a slut and a whore who had abandoned her poor sons. She was afraid, she backed away from him, and that gave me the chance to step behind her and hit her a fine culp on the head with the hammer.’ He smiled. ‘She went down on the bridge like a sack of wood.’ He slapped his free hand on the floor, startling me. ‘Just like that.’