by C. J. Sansom
‘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.
The old servant nodded and continued, ‘The children loved their father. When he died they were both so sad. I remember coming across them, crying in each other’s arms. It was the only time I saw that.’ He looked up at us. ‘Since my mistress died and this argument over the painting began, I have not known what to do or say. It has been a burden, sirs – ’
‘Then let us help you,’ Philip said quietly.
Vowell sighed deeply. ‘Mistress Johnson, as she was then, perhaps remarried too soon, only a year after Master Johnson died. But it was hard for her to keep the business going on her own, some people didn’t like trading with a woman, and the children were too young to help. But her new husband, Master Cotterstoke, he was a good man. My mistress knew that. The children, though – ’
I spoke quietly, remembering Barak and his mother. ‘Perhaps they thought it a betrayal?’
He looked up. ‘Yes. It was not – nice – to see them then. They would sit giggling and whispering together in corners, saying and doing – ’ he hesitated – ‘bad things.’
‘What sort of things?’ Philip asked.
‘Master Cotterstoke had a fine book of Roman poems, beautifully written and decorated – it was all done by hand; most books then were not these blocky printed things we have nowadays – and it disappeared. All the servants were set to look for it, but no one found it. And I remember the children watching us as we searched, smiling at each other. Other things of the master’s would go missing, too. I think the children were responsible. Yet Master Cotterstoke and especially the mistress thought it was us, careless servants. We always get the blame,’ he added bitterly.
‘The mistress and Master Cotterstoke were much preoccupied with each other then; the mistress had become pregnant. They barely noticed the children.’ He shook his head. ‘That angered them even more. I think Edward and Isabel had become much closer, united in their anger. Once I overheard them talking together on the stairs. Master Edward was saying they would be disinherited, everything would go to the new baby, their mother scarcely looked at them any more . . . And then – ’
‘Go on,’ I urged gently.
‘Sometimes Master Cotterstoke worked at home in the afternoon, going over his accounts. ‘He liked a bowl of pottage mid-afternoon. The cook would prepare it in the kitchen and take it up to him. One day after eating it he was violently sick, and very poorly for several days after. The physician thought he had eaten something bad. He recovered. But one of my jobs then was keeping down vermin, and there was a little bag of poison bought from a peddler that was good for killing mice. I remember just after Master Cotterstoke was ill, getting the bag from the outhouse to put a measure down in the stables and noticing that some had been taken – it had been almost full.’
‘You mean the children tried to poison him?’ Philip asked, horrified.
‘I don’t know that, I don’t know. But when I spoke to the cook she said the children had been round the kitchen that day.’
Philip’s voice was stern. ‘You should have spoken up.’
Vowell was looking at us anxiously now. ‘There was no evidence, sir. The children were often round the kitchen. Master Cotterstoke recovered. And I was just a poor servant; making an accusation like that could have cost me my post.’
‘How did the children react to Master Cotterstoke’s illness?’ I asked.
‘They went quiet. I remember after that, their mother looked at them in a new way, as though she, too, suspected something. And I thought, if she is suspicious of them, she will look out for her husband, there is little point in my saying anything. Yet it pricked my conscience, that I had not spoken.’ He added sadly, ‘Especially after – what happened next.’ He hunched forward again, looking at his feet.
I said, ‘The drowning?’
‘The coroner found it was an accident.’
‘But you doubted it?’ Philip said sternly.
Vowell looked up at that. ‘The coroner investigated everything, it is not for a servant to contradict him.’ I heard a touch of anger in his voice now. ‘There were enough unemployed servants trailing the road even back then.’
I spoke soothingly. ‘We have not come to criticize you, only to try and discover what caused the quarrel. We understand Master Cotterstoke went down
to the docks on business that day, and you and another servant accompanied him and the children. And then after a while the children came back, saying they had been told to wait with you beside the customs house till he returned.’
‘Ay, that is what happened, as I told the coroner.’
‘How did the children seem when they returned?’
‘A little quiet. They said their stepfather wanted to look over some goods on a ship newly come in.’
I thought again, there was only the children’s word for that. Anything could have happened when they and Cotterstoke were alone. The children could have pushed their stepfather into the water. They would have been fourteen and thirteen then.
I asked Vowell, ‘Was Master Cotterstoke a big man?’
‘No, he was short and slim. One of those fast-thinking, energetic little men. Not like my first master.’ He stared up at the wall painting, where Edward and Isabel’s father, in his smart robes and tall hat, looked out on us with patrician confidence.
‘What were things like in the family after the drowning?’ Philip asked.
‘Things changed. They were told of their stepfather’s dispositions, I imagine. That he had left his estate to his wife, and to all his children equally if she died first. In any event, Edward and Isabel seemed to alter. They had become close while Master Cotterstoke was in the house. They didn’t go back to quarrelling like before, but they – avoided each other. And oh, the fierce looks they would give one another. Mistress Cotterstoke’s attitude to them seemed to change as well, even before she lost the baby she was carrying. She had been sharp with them before, but now she almost ignored them. She sold the business, and arranged for Edward to start clerking at the Guildhall, which meant he had to live out. That was just a few months later.’
‘So he did not inherit the business after all.’
‘No. And though Isabel was only fifteen her mother seemed keen to marry her off; she was always inviting potential suitors to the house. But Mistress Isabel, as ever, would not be brought to do something against her will.’ Vowell smiled sadly, then shook his grey head. ‘There was a horrible atmosphere in this house, until at length Isabel agreed to marry Master Slanning and left. Afterwards Mistress Cotterstoke seemed to – I don’t know – retreat inside herself. She didn’t often go out.’ He looked over at her empty chair. ‘She spent much of her time sitting there, sewing, always sewing. Kept a strict house, though, kept us servants on our toes.’ He sighed deeply, then looked up at us. ‘Strange, is it not, with all the sad things that happened here, that she never moved, even when she was alone, the house far too big for her.’
I looked at the wall painting. ‘Perhaps she remembered she had once been happy here. I notice her chair faces the picture.’
‘Yes. She was sitting there when she had her seizure. Edward and Isabel seldom visited, you know, and never together. And the mistress didn’t encourage them. It saddened me to see how they were with each other when they came here for the inspection. And that strange Will – ’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should not have told you all this. What good can it do? It was so many years ago. Whatever happened, it cannot be mended.’
Philip stood pondering, fingering his bearded chin. Vowell gave a despairing little laugh. ‘What will happen, sir? Shall I remain as caretaker of this empty house till I die? I don’t like being here alone.’ He added in a rush, ‘At night sometimes, when the wood creaks – ’
I felt sorry for the old man. I looked at Philip. ‘I think we have learned all we need, Brother Coleswyn.’
‘Yes, we have.’ Philip looked at Vowell. ‘You should have spoken before.’
I said, ‘He is right that it can do no good to rake it all up now. Not a matter of a possible murder, so many decades ago, with no evidence to reopen the case.’
Philip stood silent, thinking.
‘What will you do, sir?’ Vowell asked him tremulously.
He shook his head. ‘I do not know.’
WE STOOD OUTSIDE in the stables, with the horses. I said, ‘It may be that the children, or one of them, put Master Cotterstoke into the water. Clearly Goodman Vowell thinks so.’
‘And their mother. It seems clear now: she made that Will to start a new quarrel. It was revenge.’
‘But there is still no new evidence to overturn the coroner’s verdict.’
‘I think that is what happened, though.’
‘So do I. Two children, grieving for the father, believing they might be disinherited by their mother’s new husband – ’
‘Quite wrongly,’ Philip said severely.
‘They did not know that. Perhaps it started with little tricks, then they encouraged each other to go further, and as they spoke constantly of the rejection and betrayal each felt, maybe they drove each other to – a sort of madness.’
‘Who put him in the water?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Whoever did it was a murderer.’
‘This all remains speculation,’ I said emphatically. ‘Likely, but not certain. Master Cotterstoke’s drowning could still have been an accident. And the old man is right. Who could benefit from this being exposed, after forty years? And remember, you have a duty of confidentiality to your client. You can only break it if you think he is about to commit a crime, and that is hardly likely.’
Philip set his mouth hard. ‘It is a matter of justice. I shall question Edward directly. And if he cannot satisfy my doubts, I shall cease acting for him and report the circumstances to our vicar. You are right about the lack of evidence, but if it is true he must still be brought to see the state of his soul. How could a man who had done such a thing ever be one of the Elect? Our vicar must know.’
‘And Isabel? There is no point taking this tale to Dyrick. He wouldn’t care. I know him.’
Philip looked at me. ‘You would have me let sleeping dogs lie?’
I thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think so. In this case.’
Philip shook his head decisively. ‘No. Murder cannot go unpunished.’
Chapter Forty-one
NEXT DAY I WENT AGAIN to ask Treasurer Rowland for a copy of his letter to Isabel Slanning, and to see whether she had replied. I had done much thinking about what old Vowell had told Philip and me. It seemed all too possible that, forty years before, Isabel or Edward, or both, had killed their stepfather. Again I remembered Isabel’s words to me, weeks ago, about her brother: If you knew the terrible things my brother has done. But what could be achieved by confronting them now, without new evidence? I knew Philip would be seeing Edward, perhaps had done so already. I had an uneasy feeling that the consequences of that old tragedy might ripple out anew.
My uneasiness was not assuaged when Rowland’s clerk told me the Treasurer would not be available for appointments until Monday. It struck me that there was something a little furtive in the clerk’s manner. I made an appointment for that day; it was three days hence, but it was at least a firm commitment.
LATER THAT MORNING I was working in chambers, researching a precedent in a yearbook so that when the new term started next month I should have everything prepared. There was a knock at the door and John Skelly entered. His eyes behind his thick spectacles had a reproachful look, as often this last month. Not only had I frequently been out of the office, leaving the work to fall behind, but I knew he was conscious that Barak and Nicholas and I shared some secret he knew nothing about. It was better he did not, and safer for him, a married man with three children. But I knew he must feel excluded. I must talk to him, thank him for the extra work he had done for me, give him a bonus.
I smiled. ‘What is it, John?’
‘There is a visitor for you, sir. Master Okedene. The printer who came before.’
I laid down my book. ‘What does he want?’ I asked a little apprehensively, remembering how his last visit had led us to the tavern and the fight with Daniels and Cardmaker.
‘He says he has come to say goodbye.’
I told hi
m to show Okedene in. He looked older, thinner, as though his strong solid frame was being eaten away by worry. I invited him to sit.
‘My clerk says you are come to bid me farewell.’
He looked at me sadly. ‘Yes, sir. I have sold the business and we are moving in with my brother, at his farm in East Anglia.’
‘That will be a great change in your life.’
‘It will. But my family have never been at ease since Armistead Greening’s murder and Elias’s disappearance. I hear Elias has never been found, nor those others who used to meet with Master Greening.’
I hesitated before replying, ‘No.’
He looked at me sharply, guessing I knew more than I was saying. I wondered what rumours were circulating among the radicals. Okedene sat, rubbing his brow with a strong square hand, before speaking again. ‘I have not told my family of our encounter with Armistead’s killers in that tavern, but knowing those people are still out there only makes me feel more strongly than ever that we are not safe. We must think of our children. Every time I see the ruin of Master Greening’s workshop it reminds me, as it does my wife.’
‘Ruin? What do you mean?’ I sat up.
‘You do not know, sir? The print-shop took fire, two weeks ago, in the night. A young couple, workless beggars, had got in there, and one of them knocked over a candle. You remember the building was all wooden; it burned quickly. Poor Armistead’s press, the only thing of value he had, destroyed; his trays of type no more than a lumps of useless lead. If we and the other neighbours had not rushed out with water to quench the flames, it could easily have spread to my house. And others.’
Okedene had spoken before of the printers’ fear of fire. I knew how quickly it could spread in the city in summer. Londoners were careful of candles in a hot dry season such as this.
Okedene added, ‘And those two killers are still in London. The fair one and the dark.’
I sat up. ‘Daniels and Cardmaker? You have seen them?’
