C. Sansom - Lamentation

I invited him to sit. He placed his palms together, then spoke seriously. ‘Since our talk last week, I have struggled mightily with my conscience over what to do about Edward Cotterstoke. Considered my duty to God.’

‘Yes?’ I said encouragingly.

‘I decided I could not let the matter rest. If there is any question of my client being involved with his stepfather’s death, that would be a crime against God and man. Not only could I no longer represent him, I would be obliged at the very least to tell our vicar, who ministers to both our souls.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Last Sunday, after church, I spoke to Edward. I explained I had been told the story of his stepfather’s death, and wondered whether that tragic event was in any way connected with his feelings towards Isabel.’

‘How did he react?’

‘Most angrily. He said the old barrister I spoke to had no right to divulge information about matters on which his mother had instructed him, however many decades ago, and that I should not be listening to such tattle.’

‘Strictly he is right.’

Philip leaned forward, his expression urgent. ‘Yes. But the fierce manner in which Edward reacted — you should have seen it. He was angry, but also perturbed. There is something hidden here, Matthew, something serious.’

‘So I came to think when Isabel was my client.’ I paused, then asked, ‘Well, what next?’

‘I believe now that I should talk to the old servant Vowell. Doing so without Edward’s instruction is a breach of the rules, but nonetheless I believe it is my duty.’ He set his lips tight. ‘I will go to him today.’

‘May I come also?’

He hesitated, then nodded agreement, giving a rare slantwise smile. ‘Yes. I would welcome your presence, and if I am to break the rules by taking my ex-opponent with me, I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Let us go now. I came by horse. We can ride there.’

I got Timothy to saddle Genesis, then sent him to chambers with a note saying I would be in late.

It was still early, the city just coming to life, as we rode to the Cotterstoke house at Dowgate. I glanced round periodically; it had become habit since the night of the fight on the wharf. But if I were still being followed, which I doubted, it was by someone very skilled. And perhaps now that all in Greening’s group were dead, or in Vandersteyn’s case fled, there was no longer a need for me to be watched.

We passed a thin, ragged old woman going from house to house calling out, ‘Any kitchen stuff, maids?’ She was one of those who collected kitchen rubbish to sell for a few pence, for use as compost in the vegetable gardens round London. She was old for such a heavy, dirty task. As I looked at her blackened face I remembered Barak talking of seeing his mother in the street. This old woman could even be her. Family quarrels, they were hard things.

We passed the Great Conduit in Eastcheap, maids and goodwives lined up with their pails to fetch water. Some of the beggars who always haunted the conduit left off troubling the women and ran to us, one coming almost under the nose of Philip’s horse, making it shy. ‘Take care, fellow!’ Philip shouted, straining to bring his mount under control. ‘He’ll kick you if you’re not careful!’ As we rode on he said, ‘By Heaven, that fellow stank. Could he not wash himself, seeing as he is lounging by the conduit?’

‘Hard to keep yourself clean if you’re begging in summer.’

He nodded slowly. ‘You are right to reprove me. We must have charity for those who have suffered ill fortune. It is a Christian thing.’

‘Of course. But perhaps we should not give them charge of the realm,’ I added, half-mockingly. ‘As the Anabaptists would wish?’

He looked annoyed. ‘You know I do not approve those heresies.’ He sighed. ‘It is a common enough thing for papists to accuse reformers of being Anabaptists, but I am surprised you give credence to such nonsense.’

‘I do not. I am sorry.’

‘The Anabaptists are not of the Elect,’ he continued severely.

‘Do you believe people are divided between the Elect and the damned?’ I asked seriously.

‘Yes.’ He spoke with certainty. ‘Some are predestined by God for salvation, while those without faith burn forever. Read St Paul.’

‘I have always thought that a harsh doctrine.’

‘The justice of God may be beyond our comprehension, but it is inviolable.’ Philip looked at me seriously. ‘Coming to faith, Matthew, may confirm one’s place in Heaven.’

‘And show one the way to right living; such as working to uncover whether one’s client may be a murderer.’

He looked at me hard. ‘That possibility is in both our minds.’

I nodded agreement. ‘Yes. Let us find out.’

The Cotterstoke house was unchanged since the inspection, shuttered and silent, the stableyard to the rear again empty and bare in the sultry morning; it was hard to remember we were in the centre of the great city. Old Mrs Cotterstoke, I thought, lived here over fifty years. We tied up the horses. As we stepped into the sunshine, Philip, once more the practical lawyer, said, ‘They should get the house sold. The value of money keeps falling. But neither of them will take a single step till this dispute is resolved.’

We walked back under the stableyard arch into the street, and knocked at the door. Shuffling footsteps sounded within and the old man Vowell opened the door. His watery blue eyes widened with surprise at the sight of us, standing there in our robes. He bowed quickly. ‘Masters, I did not know you were coming, I have had no instructions. Is there to be another inspection?’

I realized from his words that he was unaware that I no longer represented Isabel. Philip replied amiably, ‘No, goodman, but there are some questions you might help us with.’

Vowell shook his head, obviously reluctant. ‘I do not know how I can help you. I was the late Mistress Cotterstoke’s servant all her life, but I knew nothing of her affairs. My only duty is to keep the house safe.’

I said, ‘We have both been eager to see whether there may be a way to resolve this dispute before it comes to court.’

‘Little chance of that,’ Vowell said sadly. ‘But come in, sirs.’

He led us to the parlour. I noticed the old lady’s half-finished embroidery still lay on its chair, facing the wall painting, and wondered if anything at all had been moved since she died. I looked at the picture. ‘That is a very fine piece of work. Were you here when it was painted?’

‘Yes, sir. I was little more than a boy then, but I remember thinking how lifelike it was. My late mistress, her first husband, and the two little children; all just as they were then. It saddens me to see it now, my mistress dead and the children at such odds.’ He looked at us, something wary in his eyes now.

‘I heard a story of the death of their stepfather,’ Philip said. ‘A sad tale.’ Philip related the old barrister’s story. As he spoke, the old servant’s posture seem to droop and tears came to his eyes. At the end he said, ‘May I sit, sirs?’

‘Of course,’ Philip said.

Vowell took a stool. ‘So you have learned that old story. I thought, with this new quarrel, it must come out sooner or later.’ He clenched his fists, looking down at the matting on the floor, then seemed to come to a decision.

‘Master Edward was eleven then, Mistress Isabel twelve. As children they were — not close. Both had proud natures, wanted their own way, and they often quarrelled. Their mother was often sharp with them too, I have to say. Though she was a good enough mistress, and she has provided for me in her Will — ’

‘Though the Will must be proved first,’ I said. Vowell would not get his legacy till then.