C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘Mistress Slanning is certainly that.’ I thought, he is telling the truth there. As far as the case was concerned, there was no advantage in making a complaint, and while Dyrick would like to make trouble for me, neither would he push matters too far.

‘She is most displeased with your conduct of matters,’ he said in a tone of mock reproof.

‘I know.’ I pushed the bundle of documents over to him. ‘Here are the papers, and I wish you joy of them.’

He laid the bundle on his lap. ‘A lot of meat on this chicken,’ he said appreciatively. He switched his look to one of disapproval. ‘Mistress Slanning tells me you conspired against her with her brother’s lawyer, Master Coleswyn. You have been a guest at his house. Further, she claims that you guided her to an expert for an opinion on the wall painting at the centre of this case, who was unsympathetic. She says this man, Adam, was also in collusion with you and Coleswyn. It would help me in representing her if you could give me your response to those charges.’

For a brief moment I considered offering the sort of earthy response Barak might have made. Instead I spoke calmly. ‘You will find she chose the expert herself, from the list I provided, without asking my advice.’

He inclined his head. ‘Mistress Slanning also says that, like Coleswyn and her brother, you are an extreme religious radical. I fear she has insisted, despite my opposition, on raising that in court in September. I thought I should warn you.’

Dyrick fixed me with those cold green eyes. I answered, an edge in my voice, ‘I am no extreme radical, as you well know.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, it is nothing to me either way, but it is not the sort of accusation to have made in public these days. I should warn you, she has put that in her complaint to Lincoln’s Inn as well.’

‘You are right. It is not sensible to bandy around accusations of religious extremism in these days. For anyone.’ There was a warning note in my voice. Dyrick possessed a reckless streak, a lack of sensible judgement, and enjoyed making trouble for trouble’s sake.

He inclined his head again. ‘I thought the heresy hunt was over.’

‘One can never be sure.’

‘Well, perhaps you know more of that than I. You have contacts at court, I remember.’

‘Brother Dyrick,’ I began, ‘you must know this case is nonsense, the expert opinion clear and decisive. And my opponent Master Coleswyn, in case you are fishing for information about him, is a clever man, and a reasonable one. In my opinion both Isabel Slanning and Edward Cotterstoke have no aim other than to hurt each other. It would be in everyone’s interest if the matter were settled quickly.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think you know as well as I, Brother Shardlake, that Mistress Slanning will never settle. Never.’ He was right. A picture came into my mind of Isabel’s face; lined, bitter, implacable.

Dyrick rose, slipping the file under his arm. He patted it smugly. ‘As I said, there is a lot of meat on this chicken. I came to tell you, I will fight it hard; but I will not encourage Mistress Slanning in throwing around accusations of heresy. I am well aware how dangerous that is. As for her complaint to the Inn, I will have to leave you to deal with that.’

I nodded. I was glad he had some sense at least.

‘I now look forward to doing battle with Brother Coleswyn.’ Dyrick bowed and left the room.

I sat there awhile, more irritated than angry at having Vincent Dyrick back in my life. The notion of a religious conspiracy in the Slanning case was ludicrous. But it remained a worry to Philip Coleswyn — possibly even a threat — if Isabel continued making wild accusations. I would warn him.

Eventually, with a sigh, I returned to work. It was cooler now, the sun fading, and all was quiet outside in Gatehouse Court. Towards seven there was another knock at the door; I hoped again it might be Barak or Nicholas, but it was only Skelly come to bid me goodnight and hand me a note. ‘This just came, sir. Someone slipped it under the door.’ It was a folded paper addressed to me in scrawled capitals, sealed with a shapeless blob of wax.

When Skelly left I broke the seal and opened the note. It was unsigned, and like my address it was written in unidentifiable capitals:

MASTER SHARDLAKE,

WE HAVE THE BOY NICHOLAS OVERTON. IF YOU WISH TO SEE HIM AGAIN CALL AT THE HOUSE WITH GREEN SHUTTERS TWO DOORS DOWN FROM THE SIGN OF THE FLAG IN NEEDLEPIN LANE, ALONE, AT NINE TONIGHT. TELL NO ONE AT THE PALACE; WE HAVE A SPY THERE. IF YOU DO NOT COME, WE WILL SEND YOU HIS HEAD.

I half-walked, half-ran the few streets to Barak’s house, earning curious stares from passers-by. My overwhelming fear was that he had found a similar note at Nicholas’s rooms and had gone off on a hunt of his own. I told myself it was not like Barak to act impulsively, certainly not these days. But I was truly frightened now for both of them, and cursed myself anew for the trouble my involvement with the Lamentation had brought to all around me.

I was out of breath when I arrived, sweating and panting heavily as I knocked at the door. I realized I had become unfit these last months, doing little more than sitting at my work all day and eating Agnes Brocket’s good food at home.

Jane Marris opened the door. She curtsied, then stared at me. ‘Have you run here, Master Shardlake?’

‘Half-run. From chambers.’

Unexpectedly, she smiled. ‘All is well, sir. The mistress had a scare, but it turned out to be nothing. Dr Malton is with her.’

I frowned, not knowing what she meant, but followed her anxiously down the little hallway, breathing hard. In the neat little parlour Tamasin sat on cushions, looking pale. To my immense relief Barak sat on a chair beside her, his unbandaged hand in hers while Guy, in his long physician’s robe, leaned over the table, mixing herbs in a dish. From upstairs I heard little George crying.

‘Jane,’ Tamasin said, ‘will you go up to him? He knows there is something out of sorts.’

‘What has happened?’ I asked when Jane left the room.

Barak looked up. In the warm summer evening he wore only his shirt and hose, and I again glimpsed his father’s ancient mezuzah on its gold chain round his neck. ‘Tamasin had a pain in her stomach this morning. When I came home at lunchtime it was worse. She feared something was happening to the baby. I went round to Guy.’

Guy spoke soothingly, ‘All is well, it was nothing more than wind.’ Tamasin looked away, embarrassed.

‘She had me worried,’ Barak said. Tamasin lifted a hand and stroked his neat beard. He turned his head to look at me. ‘Sorry I didn’t come back to work. But it’s Saturday. Paperwork day. How did you know I was here?’

‘I–I didn’t, for certain. But there was something I needed to discuss with you urgently, so I came round.’

‘I am sorry I discommoded you,’ Tamasin said.

‘’Tis you that needs the commode,’ Barak answered with a wicked grin.

‘Fie, Jack.’ She reddened.

Guy stood up. ‘Mix these herbs with some beer and take them with food,’ he instructed. ‘Sometimes the mixture can ease — what you have.’ He smiled. ‘There is nothing else to worry about.’

Tamasin took his hand. ‘You are good to us,’ she said. ‘Only we worry, after — ’

‘I know,’ Guy said. She was remembering their first, stillborn child.

‘I’ll see you out,’ Barak said.

‘Thank you.’ I noticed there was still a reserve in Guy’s voice when he addressed me. He gave me a formal little bow, which hurt me more than hard words would have done, and Barak showed him out. I was left with Tamasin. She leaned back on the cushions.