Tombland

She curtsied. ‘Laura Jordan, sir, mistress of the female servants. We have no steward now.’

‘We demand to see Master Gawen Reynolds immediately.’

The woman’s shoulders sagged. ‘He is on the top floor, with the mistress, watching for the body parts of executed rebels to be brought through the city.’

How like Reynolds. ‘Take us to him.’

The woman led us across the yard to the house, then up three flights of stairs to the top floor. All the doors we passed were shut. There were two more doors on the top floor, one small, one larger. The smaller one was closed but the larger stood open. It gave on to what looked like a study, a spacious room with a desk, racks of papers and comfortable chairs. Gawen Reynolds was looking through the large, mullioned window at the street below, resting his hands on his stick. Jane, as ever, stood in the shadows at the back of the room, dressed in black except for the white bandages on her hands. Her husband was giving her a running commentary. ‘Soldiers coming, on horseback, with halberds. They’re not risking any trouble from the mob.’ I heard the sound of horses passing, then the squeak of wheels. Reynolds’s voice rose. ‘Here comes the cart, they’ve cut them into quarters, the heads in a pile on top. Mouths wide open in their death agonies, most of them!’ He barked a grotesque laugh. ‘Come here, woman, look at the men responsible for the death of your grandson!’ He turned, and saw us in the doorway. His face turned puce.

‘By God,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly quiet. ‘I had hoped you were all dead.’ His voice rose. ‘Laura Jordan, why in the devil’s name did you allow them in?’

Goodwife Jordan took a step backwards. ‘They said they came in the name of the law. They threatened to break in the yard door.’

‘I’ll break in your fucking door before the day’s done. Get out!’

She retreated, terrified. Jane Reynolds remained still and silent in the corner. Her husband rasped at us, ‘What do you want? I hear my son-in-law is to be returned to the castle.’

I looked at him directly. ‘Master Reynolds, we are here to arrest you for the murder of your daughter, Edith.’

‘Are you mad?’ Reynolds shouted, but I caught the tremor in his voice. Jane suddenly looked up, staring wide-eyed at her husband.

‘We have the whole story. How your daughter left her husband and took on the identity of her servant Grace Bone’s dead sister, and lived with Grace and her brother peacefully for nine years. The brother, Peter, gave me his testimony, up to the point this spring when poverty drove Edith first to seek succour from the Lady Elizabeth, and when that failed, this last May, from you.’

‘Oh!’ The loud exhalation of breath from Jane Reynolds made us all turn. She stared at her husband with an expression of horror and disgust, then said quietly, ‘That letter that came, in the spring. Vowell took it, but I was sure I recognized my daughter’s handwriting, though you denied it.’

Reynolds took a step towards her, leaning heavily on his stick, and now, as I had anticipated, he lost control. ‘So, your precious daughter lived with another woman for nine years,’ he shouted, ‘and we can guess what they got up to in private, probably with the brother looking on! She deserved what she got, she was no natural woman, she could not bear the normal attentions of a man.’

Jane backed away, against the wall, causing a small portrait of some Reynolds ancestor from a hundred years ago to drop from the wall, the frame shattering on the floor. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ Reynolds snapped angrily. I think it was then I realized he was insane.

I continued, calmly. ‘The testimony as to Edith’s visit to your house seeking help, and what happened next – your decision to murder her and seek to blame John Boleyn, and the involvement of Sir Richard Southwell – all this came from your steward and confederate, Michael Vowell.’

Reynolds may have been mad, but he was sharp as ever. ‘Vowell would never give such testimony, it would send him to the gallows.’

‘Not given that he is in the service of the government,’ I answered. Reynolds, of course, did not know that Vowell had been a spy, so would never be allowed to give evidence. The old man changed colour again, going pale. I pressed on. ‘Vowell told me you were going to bury your daughter in a shallow grave on your neighbour’s land, where she would be discovered quickly, but then you insisted on leaving her in that ditch, her body exposed in that vile way. You damaged your leg doing it.’ I shook my head. ‘Your plan might have worked but for your mad action, which cast doubt on John Boleyn’s guilt.’

I thought the old man might begin ranting again, but instead the eyes in his pale face narrowed. Then he inclined his head towards the wall connecting to the next room, and shouted, ‘You must have heard all that, Barney! If Shardlake succeeds, I will be executed, and the family fortune will go to the King. It’s up to you now, boy! You came back here after your brother was killed, now strike in his memory!’