К Сэнсом - Lamentation

‘Maybe.’ I fingered the coins on the desk.

‘Don’t keep thinking everyone’s after you,’ Barak said quietly.

‘Ay, ’tis a fault. But is it any wonder, after these last few years?’ I sighed. ‘By the way, I met Brother Coleswyn at the burning, he was made to go and represent Gray’s Inn. He’s a decent fellow.’

‘Unlike his client then, or yours. Serve that long lad Nicholas right to have to sit in with that old Slanning beldame this afternoon.’

I smiled. ‘Yes, that was my thought, too. Well, go and see if he’s found the conveyance yet.’

Barak rose. ‘I’ll kick his arse if he hasn’t, gentleman or no …’

He left me fingering the coins. I looked at the note. I could not help but think, What is Bealknap up to now?

MISTRESS ISABEL SLANNING arrived punctually at three. Nicholas, now in a more sober doublet of light black wool, sat beside me with a quill and paper. He had, fortunately for him, found the missing conveyance whilst I had been talking to Barak.

Skelly showed Mistress Slanning in, a little apprehensively. She was a tall, thin widow in her fifties, though with her lined face, thin pursed mouth and habitual frown she looked older. I had seen her brother, Edward Cotterstoke, at hearings in court last term, and it had amazed me how much he resembled her in form and face, apart from a little grey beard. Mistress Slanning wore a violet dress of fine wool with a fashionable turned-up collar enclosing her thin neck, and a box hood lined with little pearls. She was a wealthy woman; her late husband had been a successful haberdasher, and like many rich merchants’ widows she adopted an air of authority that would have been thought unbefitting in a woman of lower rank. She greeted me coldly, ignoring Nicholas.

She was, as ever, straight to the point. ‘Well, Master Shardlake, what news? I expect that wretch Edward is trying to delay the case again?’ Her large brown eyes were accusing.

‘No, madam, the matter is listed for King’s Bench in September.’ I bade her sit, wondering again why she and her brother hated each other so. They were themselves the children of a merchant, a prosperous corn chandler. He had died quite young and their mother had remarried, their stepfather taking over the business, although he himself died suddenly a year later, upon which old Mrs Deborah Cotterstoke had sold the chandlery and lived out the rest of her long life on the considerable proceeds. She had never remarried, and had died the previous year, aged eighty, after a paralytic seizure. A priest had made her Will for her on her deathbed. Most of it was straightforward: her money was split equally between her two children; the large house she lived in near Chandler’s Hall was to be sold and the proceeds, again, divided equally. Edward, like Isabel, was moderately wealthy – he was a senior clerk at the Guildhall – and for both of them, their mother’s estate would make them richer. The problem had arisen when the Will came to specify the disposition of the house’s contents. All the furniture was to go to Edward. However, all wall hangings, tapestries and paintings, ‘ of all description within the house, of whatever nature and wheresoever they may be and however fixed ’, were left to Isabel. It was an unusual wording, but I had taken a deposition from the priest who made the Will, and the two servants of the old lady who witnessed it, and they had been definite that Mrs Cotterstoke, who though near death was still of sound mind, had insisted on those exact words.

They had led us to where we were now. Old Mrs Cotterstoke’s first husband, the children’s father, had had an interest in paintings and artworks, and the house was full of fine tapestries, several portraits and, best of all, a large wall painting in the dining room, painted directly onto the plaster. I had visited the house, empty now save for an old servant kept on as a watchman, and seen it. I appreciated painting – I had drawn and painted myself in my younger days – and this example was especially fine. Made nearly fifty years before, in the old King’s reign, it depicted a family scene: a young Mrs Cotterstoke with her husband, who wore the robes of his trade and the high hat of the time, seated with Edward and Isabel, young children, in that very room. The faces of the sitters, like the summer flowers on the table, and the window with its view of the London street beyond, were exquisitely drawn; old Mrs Cotterstoke had kept it regularly maintained and the colours were as bright as ever. It would be an asset when the house was sold. As it was painted directly onto the wall, at law the painting was a fixture, but the peculiar wording of the old lady’s Will had meant Isabel had argued that it was rightfully hers, and should be professionally removed, taking down the wall if need be – which, though it was not a supporting wall, would be almost impossible to do without damaging the painting. Edward had refused, insisting the picture was a fixture and must remain with the house. Disputes over bequests concerning land – and the house counted as land – were dealt with by the Court of King’s Bench, but those concerning chattels – and Isabel argued the painting was a chattel – remained under the old ecclesiastical jurisdiction and were heard by the Bishop’s Court. Thus poor Coleswyn and I were in the middle of arguments about which court should have jurisdiction before we could even come to the issue of the Will. In the last few months the Bishop’s Court had ruled that the painting was a chattel. Isabel had promptly instructed me to apply to King’s Bench which, ever eager to assert its authority over the ecclesiastical courts, had ruled that the matter came within its jurisdiction and set a separate hearing for the autumn. Thus the case was batted to and fro like a tennis ball, with all the estate’s assets tied up.

‘That brother of mine will try to have the case delayed again, you wait and see,’ Isabel said, in her customary self-righteous tone. ‘He’s trying to wear me down, but he won’t. With that lawyer of his. He’s a tricky, deceitful one.’ Her voice rose indignantly, as it usually did after a couple of sentences.

‘Master Coleswyn has behaved quite straightforwardly on this matter,’ I answered sharply. ‘Yes, he has tried to have the matter postponed, but defendants’ lawyers ever will. He must act on his client’s instructions, as I must on yours.’ Next to me Nicholas scribbled away, his long slim fingers moving fast over the page. At least he had had a good education and wrote in a decent secretary hand.

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?’