Lamentation

On Friday the 6th I had been busy with paperwork all morning — I had almost caught up at last — and after lunching by myself in a refectory almost deserted in the heart of the summer vacation, I decided to take some much-needed air. I had a case coming on in the next law term involving the boundaries of some properties in Gloucestershire: the barrister representing the other side, a member of Gray’s Inn, had the coloured map which always accompanied the deeds, delineating the boundaries. In accordance with convention I was allowed to make a copy. Normally that was clerks’ work, but while neither Barak nor Nicholas had a good hand for drawing, I did, and took pleasure in it. I decided I would do the job myself, though I could only charge a clerk’s rate for it.

Thinking of Gray’s Inn reminded me of Philip Coleswyn. I had not seen him since warning him about Isabel’s complaint — about which I had heard no more from Treasurer Rowland. I walked the short distance to my house and fetched Genesis, reflecting that he, too, needed some air. Young Timothy was with him in the stable, reading something, which at my entry he shoved hastily up his shirt, turning bright red. I had insisted Timothy go to school to learn to write, so he knew his letters at least. Some pamphlet of lewd rhymes, no doubt; what wonders the printed word had brought to the world, I thought sardonically, as I set the boy to saddling the horse.

It was peaceful riding up the lanes, between the hedges where bees droned, the cattle fat and sleek in the fields. It was one of those hot August days when the countryside can seem almost drugged with heat, cattle and sheep grazing lazily, a faint shimmer rising from the dusty highway. I looked forward to my map-work; earlier, while sorting through the little bottles of coloured ink I would need, I remembered the days when I used to paint. Why had I allowed that gentle pastime to slip from me?

I left Genesis with the Gray’s Inn porter and crossed the central square. The trees had a dusty look. I was still thinking about my painting days when, turning a corner, I walked straight into the last two people I wished to see: Vincent Dyrick, in robe and cap, his handsome aquiline face a little red from the sun; and Isabel Slanning, in a dark blue summer dress and gable hood, her thin features gaunt, her expression sour as always. Dyrick was frowning and I wondered whether, experienced though he was with difficult clients, perhaps Isabel was too much even for him.

We all stood still a moment, taken aback. Then I removed my cap and bowed. ‘God give you good afternoon, Brother Dyrick. Mistress Slanning.’

Dyrick bowed in return and spoke with unexpected civility. ‘And you, Master Shardlake.’ I moved to pass them, but Isabel, standing rigidly in front of me, fixed me with her steely gaze.

‘Master Shardlake, have you been visiting Master Coleswyn to discuss my complaint, or perhaps to conspire with him against another honest believer who cleaves to the miracle of the Mass?’ Her voice was loud and shrill, reminding me of the night she had confronted me outside Coleswyn’s house.

To my surprise Dyrick took her by the arm. ‘Come, mistress,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me accompany you to the gate.’

She shook off his arm, still fixing me with that steely look, and pointed a skinny finger at me. ‘Remember, Master Shardlake, I know all about the conspiracy: you, and my brother, and that Coleswyn. You will all pay the highest price. Just wait.’ She bared her teeth — good teeth for a woman of her age — in a smile of undiluted malice. ‘Master Dyrick would spare you, but I will not,’ she ended triumphantly, nodding at Dyrick, who looked uncomfortable.

With that, she turned, allowing Dyrick to lead her round the corner. I stared after them. Isabel’s behaviour had been absurd, almost unbalanced. But Dyrick had seemed worried, and I could not help but wonder anxiously what she had meant.

I spent an hour making a copy of the map in the chambers of my opponent on the case. I found it hard to concentrate, though, for the bizarre encounter with Isabel still preyed on my mind. I decided to see if Coleswyn was in his chambers.

His clerk said he was, and once more I entered his neat, tidy office. He held out a welcoming hand. He was more at ease than I had ever seen him, relaxed and welcoming. ‘Matthew, how go things with you?’

‘A busy summer. And you, Philip?’

‘My wife and I feel happier now the heresy hunt is over.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I took some books in yesterday, under the amnesty, good books written by men of true faith, but now forbidden. I have delayed doing it, for I was much attached to them, but the amnesty expires on Monday.’

‘I had some, too. I burned them, as I preferred not to have my name appear on a list.’