Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (34 page)

T
HE
C
OTTERSTOKE HOUSE
was at Dowgate, on the other side of the city, so I rode down Cheapside; the shops were just opening, market traders setting up their stalls. I remembered my last conversation with Coleswyn; our pact to try and bring this case to a decent resolution. It had crossed my mind to make discreet enquiries at the Haberdashers’ Guild about the Cotterstoke family history, but that would be unprofessional, and besides I had no time.

Ahead of me I saw another black-robed lawyer riding along slowly, head bowed as though in thought, and realized it was Philip Coleswyn. I caught him up.

‘God give you good morrow, Brother Coleswyn.’

‘And you. Are you ready for the inspection?’

‘My client will be there. And yours?’

‘Master Cotterstoke. Oh, undoubtedly.’ Coleswyn smiled ironically, then added, ‘My wife looks forward to meeting you tonight. Around six, if that is not too late?’

‘That would be convenient. I have business in the afternoon.’

We rode on. Coleswyn seemed preoccupied today and spoke little. Then we passed the mouth of an alleyway, where a commotion was taking place. A couple of burly men were bringing out furniture from a house in the alley: a truckle bed, a table, a couple of rickety chairs. They loaded them on a cart, while a woman in cheap wadmol clothing, several small children clinging to her skirts, stood by stony-faced. A middle-aged man was arguing loudly with a large fellow who had a club at his waist and was supervising the removal.

‘We’re only a month behind with the rent! We’ve been there twelve years! I can’t help it trade’s so bad!’

‘Not my problem, goodman,’ the big fellow answered unsympathetically. ‘You’re in arrears and you’ve got to go.’

‘People don’t want building repairs done this year, not with all the taxes there have been for the war! And the rise in prices – ’ The man turned to a little crowd that was gathering. There were murmurs of agreement.

‘An eviction,’ Coleswyn observed quietly.

‘There have been many of those this year.’

The builder’s wife suddenly lunged forward and grasped a chest which the two men had brought from the alleyway. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘That’s my husband’s tools!’

‘Everything is to be taken to pay the arrears,’ the big man said.

The builder joined his wife. His voice was almost frantic. ‘I can’t work without those! I’m allowed to keep my tools!’

‘Leave that chest be!’ A man who had joined the crowd shouted threateningly. The fellow with the club – the landlord’s agent, presumably – looked round nervously; the number of spectators was growing.

We halted as Coleswyn called out, ‘He’s right! He can keep the tools of his trade! I’m a lawyer!’

The crowd turned to us; many of their faces were hostile, even though Coleswyn was trying to help. Lawyers are never popular. The man with the club, though, seemed relieved. ‘All right!’ he shouted. ‘Leave that chest, if it’s the law!’ He could tell his employer later that a lawyer had interfered.

The men lowered the chest to the ground and the woman sat on it, gathering her children round her. ‘You can go, pen-scratchers!’ someone shouted at us. ‘Salved your consciences, have you?’

We rode on. ‘Poor men lie under great temptation to doubt God’s providence,’ Coleswyn said quietly. ‘But one day, when we have the godly Commonwealth, there will be justice for men of all ranks.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘So I used to believe, once. I thought the proceeds from the monasteries would be used to bring justice to the poor; that the King, as Head of the Church, would have a regard for them the old church did not. Yet all that money went on extending Whitehall and other palaces, or was thrown away on the war. No wonder some folk have gone down more radical paths.’

‘Yet those people would bring naught but anarchy.’ Coleswyn spoke with a desperate quiet intensity. ‘No, a decent, ordered, godly realm must come.’

W
E REACHED THE HOUSE
. It was big, timber-framed like most London houses, fronting onto the busy street of Dowgate. An arch led to a stableyard at the back. We tied up the horses and stood in the summer sunshine, looking at the rear of the house. The windows were shuttered, and though the property was well-maintained it had a sad, deserted air. Dry straw from the days when the Cotterstoke horses had been stabled here blew round the dusty yard on the light breeze.

‘This place would fetch a good deal of money, even in these times,’ Coleswyn observed.

‘I agree. It is silly to leave it standing empty and unsold because of this dispute.’ I shook my head. ‘You know, the more I think of the strange wording of her Will, the more I believe that old woman intended to cause trouble between her children.’

‘But why?’

I shook my head.

We walked round to the front and knocked. There were shuffling footsteps, and a small elderly man opened the door. I remembered him as Patrick Vowell, the servant who had been kept on to look after the place after old Mrs Cotterstoke died. He was fortunate. The other servants, including the witnesses to old Deborah Cotterstoke’s Will, had been dismissed, as usually happened when the owner of the household died.

‘Serjeant Shardlake with Master Coleswyn,’ I said.

He had watery blue eyes, heavy dark pouches beneath, a sad look. ‘Mistress Slanning is already here. She is in the parlour.’

He led us across a little hall where a large tapestry of the Last Supper hung, worth a good deal of money in its own right. The parlour, a well-appointed room, did not look to have been touched since my first visit, or indeed since old Mrs Cotterstoke died. The chairs and table were dusty and a piece of half-finished embroidery lay on a chair. The shutters on the window giving onto the street were open; through the glass we could see the bustle of the street. The light fell on Isabel Slanning, standing with her back to us before the beautiful painting that covered the entire far wall. I remembered Nicholas saying it would be hard to fit the painting into a smaller house. Not hard, I thought, impossible.

It was, indeed, extraordinarily lifelike: a dark-haired man in his thirties, wearing black robes and a tall, cylindrical hat, looked out at us with the proud expression of one who is getting on well in life. He sat to one side of the very window that now cast light on the painting, on another sunny day at the very start of the century. I had the strange feeling of looking into a mirror, but backwards in time. Opposite the man sat a young woman with a face of English-rose prettiness, though there was a sharpness to her expression. Beside her stood a boy and a girl, perhaps nine or ten; both resembled her strongly except for their prominent eyes, which were their father’s. In the picture little Isabel and Edward Cotterstoke stood hand-in-hand; a contented, carefree pair of children.

Isabel turned her wrinkled face to us, the bottom of her blue silk dress swishing on the reed matting. Her expression was cold and set, and when she saw Coleswyn with me anger leapt into those pale, bulbous eyes. She had been fingering a rosary tied to her belt, something strongly frowned on these last few years. She let it fall with a clack of beads.

‘Serjeant Shardlake.’ She spoke accusingly. ‘Did you travel here with our opponent?’

‘We met on the road, Mistress Slanning,’ I answered firmly. ‘Are either of the experts here yet? Or your brother?’

‘No. I saw my brother through the window a few minutes ago. He knocked at the door, but I instructed Vowell not to allow him in till you were here. I daresay he will return shortly.’ She flashed a glare at Coleswyn. ‘This man is our foe, yet you ride with him.’

‘Madam,’ Coleswyn said quietly, ‘lawyers who are opponents in court are expected to observe the civilities of gentlemen outside it.’

This made Isabel even more angry. She turned to me, pointing a skinny finger at Coleswyn. ‘This man should not be speaking to me; is it not the rule that he should communicate with me only through you, Master Shardlake?’

In fact she was right, and Coleswyn reddened. ‘Gentleman, indeed!’ She snorted. ‘A heretic, I hear, like my brother.’

This was appalling behaviour, even by Isabel’s standards. To imply that Coleswyn was not a gentleman was a bad enough insult but to call him a heretic was to accuse him of a capital crime. Coleswyn’s lips set hard as he turned to me. ‘Strictly your client is correct that I should not have direct converse with her. In any case, I would rather not. I shall wait in the hallway till the others arrive.’ He walked out and shut the door. Isabel gave me a look of triumph. Her whole body seemed rigid with sheer malice.

‘Heretics,’ she snapped triumphantly. ‘Well, they are getting their just deserts these days.’ Seeing my expression, she scowled, perhaps wondering about my own loyalties, although knowing Isabel she would have been careful to ensure I was – at least– neutral in religious matters before appointing me.

A movement outside caught her eye. She looked through the window and seemed to shrink for a second before setting her face hard again. There was a knock at the door and a minute later Vowell showed Coleswyn back in, together with three other men. Two were middle-aged fellows whom I guessed were the experts; they were discussing the various methods by which small monastic houses could be converted into residences. The third was Isabel’s brother, Edward Cotterstoke. I had seen him in court but, close to, the resemblance to his sister was even more striking: the same thin face with its hard lines of discontent and anger; the protuberant, glaring eyes, the tall, skinny body. Like the other men present he was dressed in a robe; in his case it was the dark green of a Guildhall employee, the badge of the City of London on his breast. He and Isabel exchanged a look of hatred, all the more intense somehow because it only lasted a second; then they both looked away.

The two experts, Masters Adam and Wulfsee, introduced themselves. Adam was a small, solidly plump man, with a ready smile. He grinned cheerfully and grasped my hand. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘this is a strange business.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Interesting little set of papers I read yesterday. Let’s see if we can find some answers, eh?’

I could tell at once from his manner that Isabel had made the wrong choice. Adam was clearly no sword-for-hire expert, but an ordinary man, unaccustomed to testimony, who probably saw this whole thing as an odd diversion from the daily grind. Wulfsee, however, Edward Cotterstoke’s expert, was a tall man with a severe manner and sharp eyes. I knew of him as a man who would argue a technical point to death for his client, though he would never actually lie.

Edward Cotterstoke looked at me, frowning, his back turned to Isabel. ‘Well, master lawyer,’ he said in a dry, grating voice. ‘Shall we get this done? I have left my work at the Guildhall for this – nonsense.’ Isabel glared at his back, but did not speak.

The experts went over to the wall painting and looked it over with professional interest. The servant, Vowell, had come in and stood unobtrusively by the door, looking unhappily between Edward and Isabel. It struck me that he probably knew as much of the family history as anyone.

The two men ran their practised hands gently over the painting and the adjoining walls, talking quietly. Once, they nodded in agreement; this caused both Edward and Isabel to look anxious. Then Adam, who had been bending to examine the flooring, got up, brushed down his hose, then said, ‘May we look at the room next door?’ Coleswyn and I exchanged a glance and nodded. The two men went out. We heard the faint murmur of their voices from the next room. In the parlour there was absolute silence, Isabel and Edward still turned away from each other. Edward was looking at the wall painting now, sadness in his eyes.

A few minutes later Wulfsee and Adam returned. ‘We will prepare written reports, but I think Master Adam and I are in agreement,’ Wulfsee said, a triumphant glitter in his eye. ‘This wall painting could not come down without irreparable damage to it. One can see from the room next door that the plaster in the wall has shrunk, leaving a distinct crack in the middle of the wall. It is barely visible from this side, though you can see it if you look closely. Were an attempt to be made to remove the wooden joists, the plaster would simply collapse. You agree, Master Adam?’

Adam looked at me, hesitated, then spread his hands apologetically. ‘I do not see how anyone with knowledge of building work could think otherwise.’ I heard a sharp indrawn breath from Isabel, and a nasty smirk appeared on Edward’s face.

‘See, we will show you,’ Wulfsee said.

We all went through to the next room, where a fine crack was clearly visible on the wall. Going back to the parlour, looking very closely, we could see a faint line on this side too, under the paint. Edward smiled. ‘There,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘the matter is settled.’

I looked again at the wall. Wulfsee, so far as I could tell, was right; an expert determined to make a fight of it might have blustered and prevaricated, but Adam was not like that. Coleswyn turned to me and said, ‘It does seem so, Serjeant Shardlake. The wall painting was always intended to adorn the structure of the house, and can only exist as such. It must therefore be defined as a fixture.’