Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (5 page)

I smiled. ‘Fie, he’s not stupid. He did a good summary of the Bennett case papers for me last week. He just needs to get himself organized.’

Barak grunted. ‘Glad you told him off about his clothes. Wish I could afford silk doublets these days.’

‘He’s young, a bit irresponsible.’ I smiled wryly. ‘As you were when first we met. At least Nicholas does not swear like a soldier.’

Barak grunted, then looked at me seriously. ‘What was it like? The burning?’

‘Horrible beyond description. But everyone played their part,’ I added bitterly. ‘The crowd, the city officials and Privy Councillors sitting on their stage. There was a little fight at one point, but the soldiers quelled it quickly. Those poor people died horribly, but well.’

Barak shook his head. ‘Why couldn’t they recant?’

‘I suppose they thought recantation would damn them.’ I sighed. ‘Well, what are these pieces of good news?’

‘Here’s the first. It was delivered this morning.’ Barak’s hand went to the purse at his waist. He pulled out three bright, buttery gold sovereigns and laid them on the table, together with a folded piece of paper.

I looked at them. ‘An overdue fee?’

‘You could say that. Look at the note.’

I took the paper and opened it. Within was a scrawled message in a very shaky hand: ‘
Here is the money I owe you for my keep from the time I stayed at Mistress Elliard’s. I am sore ill and would welcome a visit from you. Your brother in the law, Stephen Bealknap.
’

Barak smiled. ‘Your mouth’s fallen open. Not surprised, mine did too.’

I picked up the sovereigns and looked at them closely, lest this was some sort of jest. But they were good golden coins, from before the debasement, showing the young King on one side and the Tudor Rose on the other. It was almost beyond belief. Stephen Bealknap was famous not only as a man without scruples, personal or professional, but also as a miser who was said to have a fortune hidden in a chest in his chambers which he sat looking through at night. He had amassed his wealth through all manner of dirty dealings over the years, some against me, and also by making it a point of pride never to pay a debt if he could avoid it. It was three years since, in a fit of misplaced generosity, I had paid a friend to look after him when he was ill, and he had never reimbursed me.

‘It’s almost beyond belief.’ I considered. ‘And yet – remember, late last autumn and into the winter, before he became ill, he had behaved in an unexpectedly friendly manner for a while. He would come up to me in the courtyard and ask how I did, how my business was, as though he were a friend, or would become one.’ I remembered him approaching me across the quadrangle one mellow autumn day, his black gown flapping round his thin form, a sickly ingratiating smile on his pinched face. His wiry fair hair stuck out, as usual, at angles from his cap. ‘Master Shardlake, how do you fare?’

‘I was always short with him,’ I told Barak. ‘I did not trust him an inch, of course, I was sure there was something behind his concern. I think he was looking for work; I remembered him saying he was not getting as much from an old client. And he never mentioned the money he owed. He got the message after a while, and went back to ignoring me.’ I frowned. ‘Even back then he looked tired, not well. Perhaps that was why he was losing business; his sharpness was going.’

‘Maybe he’s truly repenting his sins, if he is as ill as they say.’

‘A growth in his guts, isn’t it? He’s been ill a couple months now, hasn’t he? I haven’t seen him outside. Who delivered the note?’

‘An old woman. She said she’s nursing him.’

‘By Mary,’ I said. ‘Bealknap, paying a debt and asking for a visit?’

‘Will you go and see him?’

‘In charity, I suppose I must.’ I shook my head in wonderment. ‘What is your other piece of news? After this, were you to tell me frogs were flying over London I do not think it would surprise me.’

He smiled again, a happy smile that softened his features. ‘Nay, this is a surprise but not a wonder. Tamasin is expecting again.’

I leaned over and grasped his hand. ‘That is good news. I know you wanted another.’

‘Yes. A little brother or sister for Georgie. January, we’re told.’

‘Wonderful, Jack; my congratulations. We must celebrate.’

‘We’re not telling the world just yet. But you’re coming to the little gathering we’re having for Georgie’s first birthday, on the twenty-seventh? We’ll announce it then. Will you ask the Old Moor to come? He looked after Tamasin well when she was expecting Georgie.’

‘Guy is coming to dinner tonight. I shall ask him then.’

‘Good.’ Barak leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, contentment on his face. His and Tamasin’s first child had died, and I had feared the misery would tear them apart forever, but last year she had borne a healthy son. And expecting another child so soon. I thought how settled Barak was now, how different from the madding fellow, who carried out questionable missions for Thomas Cromwell, I had first met six years before. ‘I feel cheered,’ I said quietly. ‘I think perhaps some good things may come in this world after all.’

‘Are you to report back to Treasurer Rowland about the burnings?’

‘Yes. I will reassure him my presence as representative of the Inn was noted.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘By Richard Rich, among others.’

Barak also raised his eyebrows. ‘That rogue was there?’

‘Yes. I haven’t seen him in a year. But he remembered me, of course. He gave me a nasty glance.’

‘He can do no more. You have too much on him.’

‘He had a worried look about him. I wonder why. I thought he was riding high these days, aligning himself with Gardiner and the conservatives.’ I looked at Barak. ‘Do you still keep in touch with your friends, from the days when you worked for Cromwell? Heard any gossip?’

‘I go to the old taverns occasionally, when Tamasin lets me. But I hear little. And before you ask, nothing about the Queen.’

‘Those rumours that Anne Askew was tortured in the Tower were true,’ I said. ‘She had to be carried to the stake on a chair.’

‘Poor creature.’ Barak stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how that information got out. A radical sympathizer working in the Tower, it has to be. But all I hear from my old friends is that Bishop Gardiner has the King’s ear now, and that’s common knowledge. I don’t suppose Archbishop Cranmer was at the burning?’

‘No. He’s keeping safely out of the way at Canterbury, I’d guess.’ I shook my head. ‘I wonder he has survived so long. By the by, there was a young lawyer at the burning, with some gentlemen, who kept staring at me. Small and thin, brown hair and a little beard. I wondered who he might be.’

‘Probably someone who will be your opponent in a case next term, sizing up the opposition.’

‘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?

M
ISTRESS
I
SABEL
S
LANNING
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.