Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘That was quite a scene at the Cotterstoke house this morning,’ he said.

  ‘My client’s behaviour towards you was insufferable. I apologize for her.’

  ‘Her manners are not your responsibility, Brother Shardlake.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Have you seen her again today?’

  ‘No, I have not been back to chambers. If she called this afternoon, she was unlucky. No doubt there will be a message tomorrow.’

  Coleswyn smiled wryly. ‘I keep thinking of those two beetles we saw fighting in the stableyard. Why do Edward and Isabel need their carapaces, and what lies underneath?’

  ‘God alone knows.’

  He fingered the stem of his glass. ‘Recently I met an old member of the Chandlers’ Guild, Master Holtby. Retired now, over seventy. He remembered Isabel and Edward’s father, Michael Johnson.’

  I smiled. ‘Met by chance, or design?’

  ‘Not purely by chance.’ He smiled wryly. ‘In any event, he said that Michael Johnson was a coming man in his day. Shrewd, prosperous, a hard man in business but devoted to his family.’

  ‘You can see all that in the painting.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. He inherited the business from his own father and built it up. But he died way back in 1507; that was one of the years when the sweating sickness struck London.’

  I remembered the sweating sickness. More contagious and deadly even than the plague, it could kill its victims in a day. Mercifully there had not been an outbreak for some years.

  Coleswyn went on, ‘The family were devastated, according to old Master Holtby. But a year later Mistress Johnson remarried, another chandler, a younger man called Peter Cotterstoke.’

  ‘Common enough for a widow left alone to marry a new husband in the same trade. It is only sensible.’

  ‘The children were about twelve, I think. Master Holtby did not remember any trouble between them and their stepfather. They took his name in place of their father’s, and kept it. In any case, poor Cotterstoke also died, a year later.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Drowned. He had been down at the docks on some business to do with a cargo, and fell in, God save his soul. But then to everyone’s surprise, Mrs Cotterstoke sold the business soon afterwards, using the proceeds to live on for the rest of her life. Disinheriting her son, Edward, in effect. He would have started as an apprentice in the business in a year or so. Master Holtby told me there was no love lost between the mother and either of her children.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He didn’t know. But he said old Mrs Cotterstoke was a strong, determined woman. He was surprised she sold the business; he would have expected her to run it herself, as some widows do. But no, she just lived on in that house, alone. Edward started work at the Guildhall soon after, and Isabel married, while she was still very young, I believe.’

  I considered. ‘So some quarrel divided all three of them. And old Mrs Cotterstoke – we agreed that the wording of the Will looks as though she wished to set her children against each other, taking revenge from beyond the grave.’

  ‘But for what?’

  I shook my head. ‘These family disputes can start from something small and last till everyone involved dies.’

  ‘Perhaps this one will end now, after today’s inspection?’ he said hesitantly.

  I raised my eyebrows. Knowing Isabel, I doubted that. Coleswyn nodded agreement.

  ‘Did you notice their servant?’ I asked. ‘The one left to look after the place.’

  ‘He had a sad look,’ Coleswyn said. ‘And it was strange how he leapt in when Edward and Isabel began shouting of what each could tell about the other. He could probably tell some stories himself. But of course neither of us could question him without our client’s authority.’

  ‘Personally, I just want to be done with it. This is one mystery I do not need to solve.’

  Coleswyn played with a piece of bread. ‘By the way, I have told my wife nothing of what happened today. Those wild accusations of heresy would upset her. What Isabel Slanning said about our vicar being under investigation earlier this year was quite true.’ His face darkened. ‘My wife comes from Ipswich. She has a family connection to Roger Clarke.’

  ‘I do not know the name.’

  ‘He was burned in Ipswich a few months ago, for denying the Mass. My wife’s brother was an associate of his. He was interrogated there but recanted, said he accepted the presence of Christ’s body and blood in the Mass.’ He gave a grimace of a smile. ‘Turn rather than burn, as they say.’ I remembered an old friend of mine from years ago: Godfrey, a barrister who had become a radical Protestant and left the law to go and preach on the streets. I had never heard from him again; if he had been prosecuted for heresy it would have been all round Lincoln’s Inn, so he must have died on the road, or gone to Europe. But Godfrey had had no wife or children.

  ‘Since then I know there have been eyes on me at Gray’s Inn; Bishop Gardiner has his informers among the lawyers. And Ethelreda thinks this house is sometimes watched. But I am a lawyer. I know how to be careful. I have said nothing against the Mass, and will not.’

  I was silent a moment. Then I said, ‘The persecutions seem to be over. No one has been taken in recently.’

  ‘It started out of the blue,’ he said, the skin round one eye twitching. ‘And it may start again. That is why I dismissed our two servants. I was not sure I trusted them. But we must get another. Someone in my congregation has recommended a man. Not having servants is something that is noticed, too, among people of our class. And we thought it politic to make our daughter, who was christened Fear-God, use her second name, Laura.’

  I shook my head. If the truth be told I did not know whether or not Christ’s body and blood were present in the Mass, and now did not much care. But to bring ordinary people to such a state of fear was evil.

  He continued quietly, ‘When Parliament passed the act dissolving the chantries at the end of last year, our vicar thought the tide was turning his way and said some – well, I suppose, some careless things.’ He looked at me with his clear blue eyes. ‘He was questioned, and members of the congregation watched.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Has anyone asked you about me?’

  ‘Nobody. I have heard nothing, apart from Isabel Slanning’s rantings.’

  He nodded. ‘I am sorry to ask, but my wife is anxious. Ah – ’ His voice became suddenly cheerful. ‘Here she is. Now you will learn what a fine cook Ethelreda is.’

  I HAD EATEN BETTER MEALS; the capon was a little overdone, the vegetables mushy, but I made sure to praise the food to Ethelreda. Coleswyn and I tried to keep the conversation light, but his wife was preoccupied, smiling bravely at our jests about life at the Inns of Court, only picking at her food.

  Coleswyn said, ‘You have been a Serjeant at Law for some time. Perhaps you will be awarded a judgeship soon. It is the next step.’

  ‘I have made too many enemies along the way for that, I think. And I have never been sufficiently conformist – in religion or aught else.’

  ‘Would you like to be a judge? I think you would be a fair one.’

  ‘No. I would either let people off or sentence them too severely. And seriously, I would not welcome having to waste time on all the flummery and ceremonial.’

  ‘Some would give their right hands for a judgeship.’

  I smiled. ‘What is it the psalm says? “Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. All is vanity.”’

  ‘And so it is,’ Ethelreda said quietly.

  Outside, the light began to fade. The noises from the street lessened as curfew approached; through the open shutters I heard the lost dog whine as it wandered up and down the street.

  ‘This is the finest summer in some years,’ I observed. ‘Warm, but not too hot.’

  ‘And just enough rain to keep the crops from drying out,’ Coleswyn agreed. ‘Remember the hailstorms last year? And all the men taken from work in the fields when we thought the French about to invade?’

  ‘All t
oo well.’

  ‘Do you think this peace will last?’

  ‘They are making much of it.’

  ‘Peace,’ Ethelreda said with a sort of flat despair. ‘Peace with the French, perhaps. But what of peace at home?’ She rubbed her hand across her brow. ‘Philip says you are a man to be trusted, Serjeant Shardlake. Look at this realm. Last Christmas the King spoke in Parliament about how people call each other papist and traitor, how the word of God is jangled in alehouses. But from him there has been no constancy on religion these last dozen years. However the King’s mind turns, we have to follow him. One year Lord Cromwell is bringing about true reform, the next he is executed. One month the King dissolves the chantries for the empty papist ceremonial they are, the next Bishop Gardiner is set to find sacramentarians in every corner, including, some say, in the Queen’s circle. Nowadays it is unsafe to hold any settled conviction. You cannot trust your neighbours, your servants – ’ She broke off. ‘Forgive me, you are our guest– ’

  Her husband reached across and put his hand on her arm.

  ‘No, madam,’ I said quietly. ‘You speak true.’

  She made her tone light. ‘I have strawberries and sugared cream to come. Let me fetch them. A woman’s place is to work, not lecture.’

  When she had left Philip turned to me apologetically. ‘I am sorry. When it is unsafe to discuss certain things in general company, and one finds someone trustworthy, one talks of little else. It relieves the strain, perhaps. But we should not impose on you.’

  ‘That is all right. I do not like these dinners where one fears to discuss aught but trivia.’ I hesitated. ‘By the way, do you think there are any Anabaptists in London these days?’

  He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘The question has arisen in connection with a case. Their beliefs are very strange – that only adult baptism is valid, that Christ was not of human flesh – and, of course, that earthly powers should be overthrown and all men live in common.’

  Coleswyn’s mouth turned down in distaste. ‘They are violent madmen. They brought blood and ruin in Germany.’

  ‘I had heard that most of them, while holding to their social beliefs, have now renounced violence as a means of attaining them.’ I thought, there are always other means, however misguided, including publishing a radical book by the Queen if they believed, however wrongly, that such an action would serve their political ends.

  ‘Any that have been found have been burned,’ Coleswyn replied. ‘If there are any left they are keeping underground. Some I believe are old Lollards, and they had plenty of experience of living in hiding.’

  ‘But perhaps Anabaptists, too, when in company, are tempted to talk unwisely,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘They are, after all, merely men like any other.’

  He looked concerned. ‘All the same, you do not want to meddle with such people.’

  ‘No,’ I answered feelingly. ‘You are right.’

  Ethelreda returned with the pudding, and we discussed politics no more. Master Coleswyn asked where I was from – he could not place my accent – and I told him about Lichfield: amusing stories of the poor monks’ school where I received my early education. It grew dark and candles were lit in the sconces. Towards nine I became tired, suddenly finding it hard to keep my eyes open, and excused myself. Coleswyn showed me to the door. In the porch he shook my hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Master Shardlake. Forgive my wife’s anxiety, but the times – ’

  I smiled. ‘I know.’

  ‘Thank you for listening to us. I think in truth you are a godly man.’

  ‘Many would disagree.’

  ‘Study the Bible, pray.’ He looked earnestly at me. ‘That is the way, the only way, to salvation.’

  ‘Perhaps. In any event, you and your good lady must come to dine at my house soon.’ I sensed the Coleswyns had been isolating themselves with their worries. More than was good for them.

  ‘That would be most pleasant.’ He clasped my hand. ‘God give you good night.’

  ‘And you, Master Coleswyn.’

  ‘Call me Philip.’

  ‘Then you must call me Matthew.’

  ‘I shall.’

  He closed the door, leaving me to adjust my eyes to the darkness. The moon was up, but the overhanging eaves of the houses meant the sky was but a narrow strip. I began to walk towards the stables.

  Ahead I saw a movement near the ground. I flinched, then realized it was nothing more than the lost dog, still wandering up and down the street in search of its owner. I had startled the poor creature, which ran into a doorway opposite.

  There was a thud, a sudden yelp, then the dog flew out the doorway and landed at my feet, lifeless, its head at a horrible angle, its neck broken by a kick.

  I jumped back, my hand going to my knife as I peered into the darkness of the doorway. Shadows moved within. I had been too careless. If this was Daniels and Cardmaker they could have me dead in an instant. But then, to my amazement, Isabel Slanning stepped out into the street. Two men in servants’ dress followed her; one I recognized as the man she usually brought with her to consultations at Lincoln’s Inn. She stood before me, staring right into my face, the moonlight making strange play with her features, those overlarge eyes glinting.

  Her expression was triumphant. ‘So, Master Shardlake,’ she said, her voice a vicious hiss. ‘I was right! You not only ride with Master Coleswyn, you dine with him. He calls you a godly man, you are his confederate – ’

  ‘Madam,’ I said, aware that my voice was shaking with shock. ‘I told you before, lawyers observe the courtesies with each other. They are not consumed with blind hatred as you are!’ Behind her back, I caught a flash of white teeth as one of her servants smiled.

  Isabel jerked her head back. ‘I, Master Shardlake, am concerned with justice! A woman alone, faced with a confederacy of heretics! I am sure, now, that the so-called architect who came this morning to represent me is in league with my brother, too!’

  ‘You picked him!’

  ‘It is part of my brother’s plot.’ She waved a skinny finger in my face. ‘But I have time, and will spare no energy in my search for justice! This is not the first time I have waited outside that man’s house in the evening, to see who comes and goes. And tonight I see – you!’ The last word was an accusing shout. It occurred to me again that Isabel Slanning was more than a little mad.

  She smiled; I had never seen Isabel smile before and I had no wish to see it again – a wide grimace, splitting her face and exposing long yellow teeth. There was something savage in it. ‘Well, Serjeant Shardlake!’ Her voice rose. ‘You will represent me no more! I will find a lawyer who will prosecute my case honestly, without heretic conspiracy! And I will write to the Lincoln’s Inn authorities, telling them what you have done!’

  I could have laughed. There could be no better news than that I was to be rid of Isabel. As for a complaint based on such evidence of wrongdoing as she possessed, it would have even Treasurer Rowland sniggering over his desk. I said, ‘If your new lawyer will get in touch with me, mistress, I will happily give him the papers and answer any queries he has. And now I must get home.’

  Philip’s door opened. The noise had brought him and his terrified-looking wife to find out what was going on. He stared in amazement at Isabel. ‘Brother Shardlake, what is happening?’

  ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘Mistress Slanning has, I am delighted to say, just sacked me. Mistress Coleswyn, your husband said you thought someone was watching the house. It was this mad beldame.’

  Isabel pointed at me again, her finger trembling. ‘I will have you! I will have you all!’ Then she turned and walked away, her servants following.

  Ethelreda Coleswyn had started to cry. Philip said, ‘All right, all right, my love, it was only that poor madwoman.’

  ‘She will not be back,’ I added reassuringly. Nonetheless, my eye was drawn to the poor dead dog. That must have been a vicious kick to break its neck like that, and Isabel had been standing in
front of her servants in the doorway. It was she who had done it.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THAT NIGHT I SLEPT DEEPLY, but woke early with a mind full of fears and discontents. I recalled Isabel Slanning’s savage fury; I was sure she would like to serve me as she had that unfortunate dog.

  There was a knock at the door and Martin entered, bearing towels and hot water, his face flatly expressionless as usual. ‘God give you good morrow, Master,’ he said. ‘It is another fine, warm day.’

  ‘Good morrow, Martin. Long may it continue.’ I looked at his solid back as he laid the bowl on the table, wondering what went on inside that head of close-cropped fair hair. What had he been looking for in my desk that time? And Josephine said he had been constantly enquiring about my friends and contacts when he first came. Trying to nose into my life. Yet Martin, as I had reminded Josephine, needed to know all about me if he were to perform his duties as steward. His old master, another barrister, had given me a glowing reference; Martin and Agnes had been with the man for ten years, and were only leaving because he was retiring and moving to the country. I did not have a forwarding address, so could not get in touch with him.

  Martin turned and gave me his tight little smile. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, Martin. Not this morning.’

  AFTER BREAKFAST I WALKED up to Lincoln’s Inn, wondering how Nicholas and Barak were, and whether they had come in. I thought, I should have visited them instead of going to Coleswyn’s yesterday.

  Barak was at his desk, working through some papers clumsily because of the heavy bandage on his left hand. Skelly looked at him curiously through his glasses. I could see no sign of Nicholas.

  ‘Young Overton not in?’ I asked with false jollity.

  ‘Not yet,’ Barak answered. ‘He’s late.’

  Skelly looked up. ‘Mistress Slanning called first thing this morning She was in a – troubled state. She says she is going to a new lawyer.’