Lamentation

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.

We 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

It 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.’