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

Isabel bridled. ‘That Coleswyn’s a Protestant heretic, like my brother. They both go to St Jude’s, where all images are down and the priest serves them at a bare table.’ It was yet another bone of contention between the siblings that Isabel remained a proud traditionalist while her brother was a reformer. ‘That priest should be burned,’ she continued, ‘like the Askew woman and her confederates.’

‘Were you at the burning this morning, Mistress Slanning?’ I asked quietly. I had not seen her.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I would not go to such a spectacle. But they deserved it.’

I saw Nicholas’s lips set hard. He never spoke of religion; in that regard at least he was a sensible lad. Changing the subject, I said, ‘Mistress Slanning, when we go to court the outcome of the case is by no means certain. This is a very unusual matter.’

She said firmly, ‘Justice will prevail. And I know your skills, Master Shardlake. That is why I employed a serjeant at law to represent me. I have always loved that picture.’ A touch of emotion entered her voice. ‘It is the only memento I have of my dear father.’

‘I would not be honest if I put your chances higher than fifty–fifty. Much will depend on the testimony of the expert witnesses.’ At the last hearing it had been agreed that each side would instruct an expert, taken from a list of members of the Carpenters’ Guild, who would report to the court on whether and how the painting could be removed. ‘Have you looked at the list I gave you?’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know none of those people. You must recommend a man who will report the painting can easily be taken down. There must be someone who would do that for a high enough fee. Whatever it is, I will pay it.’

‘A sword for hire,’ I replied flatly. There were, of course, expert witnesses who would swear black was white for a high enough fee.

‘Exactly.’

‘The problem with such people, Mistress Slanning, is that the courts know the experts and would give little credibility to such a man. We would be much better off instructing someone whom the courts know as honest.’

‘And what if he reports back to you against us?’

‘Then, Mistress Slanning, we shall have to think again.’

Isabel frowned, her eyes turning to narrow little slits. ‘If that happens, then we will instruct one of these “swords for hire”, as that strange expression puts it.’ She looked at me haughtily, as though it were I, not her, who had suggested deceiving the court.

I took my copy of the list from the desk. ‘I would suggest instructing Master Jackaby. I have dealt with him before, he is well respected.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have been consulting the list. There is a Master Adam here, he was Chairman of his Guild; if there is a way to get that painting off – which I am sure there is – he will find it.’

‘I think Master Jackaby would be better. He has experience of litigation.’

‘No,’ she repeated decisively. ‘I say Master Adam. I have prayed on the matter and believe he is the right man to get justice for me.’

I looked at her.
Prayed on it?
Did she think God concerned himself with malicious legal cases? But her haughty expression and the firm set of her mouth told me she would not be moved. ‘Very well,’ I said. She nodded imperiously. ‘But remember, Mistress Slanning, he is your choice. I know nothing of him. I will arrange a date when the two experts can meet together at the house. As soon as possible.’

‘Could they not visit separately?’

‘The court would not like that.’

She frowned. ‘The court, the court – it is my case that matters.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, if I lose in King’s Bench I shall appeal to Chancery.’

‘So, probably, will your brother if he loses.’ I wondered again at the bitterness between them. It went back a long way, I knew that; they had not spoken in years. Isabel would refer contemptuously to how her brother could have been an alderman by now if he had made the effort. And I wondered again, why had the mother insisted on using that wording in her Will. It was almost as though she had wished to set her children against each other.

‘You have seen my last bill of costs, Mistress Slanning?’ I asked.

‘And paid it at once, Serjeant Shardlake.’ She tilted her chin proudly. It was true; she always settled immediately, without question. She was no Bealknap.

‘I know, madam, and I am grateful. But if this matter goes on into next year, into Chancery, the costs will grow and grow.’

‘Then you must make Edward pay them all.’

‘Normally in probate matters costs are taken out of the estate. And remember, with the value of money falling, the house and your mother’s money are going down in value too. Would it not be more sensible, more practical, to try and find some settlement now?’

She bridled. ‘Sir, you are my lawyer. You should be advising me on how I can win, surely, not encouraging me to end the matter without a clear victory.’ Her voice had risen again; I kept mine deliberately low.

‘Many people settle when the outcome is uncertain and costly. As it is here. I have been thinking. Have you ever considered buying Edward’s half-share of the house from him and selling your own residence? Then you could live in your mother’s house and leave the wall painting intact, where it is.’

She gave a braying little laugh. ‘Mother’s house is far too big for me. I am a childless widow. I know she lived there alone but for her servants, but she was foolish; it is far too large for a woman by herself. Those great big rooms. No, I will have the painting down and in my hands. Removed by the best craftsmen in London. Whatever it costs. I shall make Edward pay in the end.’

I looked at her. I had had difficult, unreasonable clients in my time but Isabel Slanning’s obstinacy and loathing of her brother were extraordinary. Yet she was an intelligent woman, no fool except to herself.

I had done my best. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I think the next thing is to go over your most recent deposition. There are some things you say which I think would be better amended. We must show ourselves reasonable to the court. Calling your brother a pestilent knave will not help.’

‘The court should know what he is like.’

‘It will not help you.’

She shrugged, then nodded, adjusting her hood on her grey head. As I took out the deposition, Nicholas leaned forward and said, ‘With your leave, sir, may I ask the good lady a question?’

I hesitated, but it was my duty to train him up. ‘If you wish.’

He looked at Isabel. ‘You said, madam, that your house is much smaller than your mother’s.’

She nodded. ‘It is. But it suffices for my needs.’

‘With smaller rooms?’

‘Yes, young man,’ she answered tetchily. ‘Smaller houses have smaller rooms. That is generally known.’

‘But I understand the wall painting is in the largest room of your mother’s house. So if you were able to remove the painting, where would you put it?’

Isabel’s face reddened and she bridled. ‘That is my business, boy,’ she snapped. ‘Yours is to take notes for your master.’

Nicholas blushed in turn and bent his head to his papers. But it had been a very good question.

W
E SPENT AN HOUR
going over the documents, and I managed to persuade Isabel to take various abusive comments about her brother out of her deposition. By the time it was over, my head was swimming with tiredness. Nicholas gathered up his notes and left the room, bowing to Isabel. She rose, quite energetic still, but frowning; she had looked angry ever since Nicholas’s question. I got up to escort her outside, where a serving-man waited to take her home. She stood facing me – she was a tall woman and those determined, staring eyes looked straight into mine. ‘I confess, Master Shardlake, sometimes I wonder if your heart is in this case as it should be. And that insolent boy . . .’ She shook her head angrily.

‘Madam,’ I replied. ‘You can rest assured I will argue your case with all the vigour I can muster. But it is my duty to explore alternatives with you, and warn you of the expense. Of course, if you are dissatisfied with me, and wish to transfer the case to another barrister—’

She shook her head grimly. ‘No, sir, I shall stay with you, fear not.’

I had made the suggestion to her more than once before; but it was an odd fact that the most difficult and hostile clients were often the most reluctant to leave, as though they wanted to stay and plague you out of spite.

‘Though . . .’ She hesitated.

‘Yes.’

‘I think you do not truly understand my brother.’ An expression I had not seen before crossed her face. Fear – there was no doubt about it, fear that twisted her face into new, different lines. For a second, Isabel was a frightened old woman.

‘If you knew, sir,’ she continued quietly. ‘If you knew the terrible things my brother has done.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Done to you?’

‘And others.’ A vicious hiss; the anger had returned.

‘What things, madam?’ I pressed.

But Isabel shook her head vigorously, as though trying to shake unpleasant thoughts out of it. She took a deep breath. ‘It does not matter. They have no bearing on this case.’ Then she turned and walked rapidly from the room, the linen tappets of her hood swishing angrily behind her.

Chapter Three

I
T WAS PAST SIX
when I returned home. My friend Guy was due for dinner at seven – a late meal, but like me he worked a long day. As usual, Martin had heard me enter and was waiting in the hall to take my robe and cap. I decided to go into the garden to enjoy a little of the evening air. I had recently had a small pavilion and some chairs set at the end of the garden, where I could sit and look over the flower beds.

The shadows were long, a few bees still buzzing round the hive. Wood pigeons cooed in the trees. I sat back. I realized that during my interview with Isabel Slanning I had not thought at all about the burning; such was the power of her personality. Young Nicholas had asked a clever question about where she would put the picture. Her answer had been further proof that, for Isabel, winning the quarrel mattered more than the picture, however genuine her attachment to it. I thought again of her strange remark at the end, about some terrible things her brother had done. During our interviews she usually liked nothing better than to abuse and belittle Edward, but that sudden spasm of fear had been different.

I pondered whether it might be worthwhile having a quiet word with Philip Coleswyn about our respective clients. But that would be unprofessional. My duty, like his, was to represent my client as strongly as I could.

My mind went back to the horror I had watched that morning. The great stage would have been taken down now, together with the charred stakes. I thought of Coleswyn’s remark that any of us could come to the fate of those four; I wondered whether he himself had dangerous connections among the reformers. And I must get rid of my books before the amnesty expired. I looked towards the house; through the window of my dining room I saw that Martin had lit the beeswax candles in their sconces, and was setting the linen tablecloth with my best silver, meticulously, everything lined up.

I returned to the house and went into the kitchen. There, all was bustle. Timothy was turning a large chicken on the range. Josephine stood at one end of the table, arranging salads on plates in a pleasing design. At the other end, Agnes Brocket was putting the finishing touches to a fine marchpane of almonds and marzipan. They curtsied as I entered. Agnes was a plump woman in her forties, with nutbrown hair under her clean white coif, and a pleasant face. There was sadness there too, though. I knew that the Brockets had a grown son who for some reason they never saw; Martin had mentioned it at his interview, but nothing more.

‘That looks like a dish fit for a feast,’ I said, looking at the marchpane. ‘It must have cost you much labour.’

Agnes smiled. ‘I take pleasure in producing a fine dish, sir, as a sculptor may in perfecting a statue.’

‘The fruits of his labours last longer. But perhaps yours bring more pleasure.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied. Agnes appreciated compliments. ‘Josephine helped, didn’t you, dear?’ Josephine nodded, giving me her nervous smile. I looked at her. Her cruel rogue of a father had been my previous steward, and when I had – literally – booted him out of the house a year before, Josephine had stayed with me. Her father had terrified and intimidated her for years, but with him gone she had gradually become less shy and frightened. She had begun to take care of her appearance, too; her unbound blonde hair had a clear lustre, and her face had rounded out, making her a pretty young woman. Following my look, Agnes smiled again.

‘Josephine is looking forward to Sunday,’ she said archly.

‘Oh? And why is that?’

‘A little bird tells me that after church she will be walking out again with young Master Brown, that works in one of the Lincoln’s Inn households.’

I looked at Josephine. ‘Which one?’

‘That of Master Henning,’ Josephine said, reddening. ‘He lives in chambers.’

‘Good, good. I know Master Henning, he is a fine lawyer.’ I turned back to Agnes. ‘I must go and wash before my guest comes.’ Though goodhearted, Agnes could be a little tactless, and I did not want Josephine embarrassed further. But I was pleased; it was more than time Josephine had a young man.