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was one of Bealknap’s disreputable sidelines, and he often lurked around the
Old Bailey justice hall looking for clients. He flicked a curious glance at me.
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Judge Forbizer is on, I believe. How quickly does he deal with the cases?’
    Bealknap shrugged. ‘Fast as he can. You know the King’s Bench judges; they think dealing with common thieves and murderers beneath them.’
    ‘But Forbizer has good knowledge of the law for all his hardness. I wondered how open he would be to legal argument for the accused.’
    Bealknap’s face lit up with interest and his eyes, bright with curiosity, actually met mine for a moment. ‘Ah, I had heard you were retained for the Walbrook murderess. I said I
didn’t believe it, you’re a property man.’
    ‘The
alleged
murderess,’ I replied flatly. ‘She comes up before Forbizer on Saturday.’
    ‘You won’t get far with him,’ Bealknap said cheerfully. ‘He has a Bible man’s contempt for the sinful, wants to hasten them to their just deserts. She’ll have
little mercy from Forbizer. He’ll want a plea or a kill.’ His eyes narrowed and I guessed he was thinking whether he might turn this to his advantage. But there was no way, or I should
not have asked him.
    ‘So I thought. But thank you,’ I added, as lightly as I could. ‘Good morning!’
    ‘I shall look out for you on Saturday, Brother,’ he called after me. ‘Good luck: you will need it!’

    I T WAS IN NO GOOD temper that I entered the small set of ground-floor rooms I shared with my friend Godfrey Wheelwright. In the outer office my clerk,
John Skelly, was studying a conveyance he had just drawn up, a lugubrious expression on his thin face. He was a small, weazened fellow with long rats’ tails of brown hair. Although not yet
twenty he was married with a child and I had taken him on last winter partly from pity at his obvious poverty. He was an old pupil of St Paul’s cathedral school and had good Latin, but he was
a hopeless fellow, a poor copier and forever losing papers as I had told Guy. He looked up at me guiltily.
    ‘I have just finished the Beckman conveyance, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry it is late.’
    I took it from him. ‘This should have been done two days ago. Is there any correspondence?’
    ‘It is on your counting table, sir.’
    ‘Very well.’
    I passed into my room. It was dim and stuffy; dust motes danced in the beam of light from the little window giving onto the courtyard. I removed my robe and cap and sat at my table, breaking the
seals on my letters with my dagger. I was surprised and disappointed to find I had lost another case. I had been acting on the purchase of a warehouse down at Salt Wharf, but now my client wrote
curtly to say the seller had withdrawn and he no longer required my services. I studied the letter. The purchase was a curious one: my client was an attorney from the Temple and the warehouse was
to be conveyed into his name, which meant the purchaser must want his own name kept secret. This was the third case in two months where the client had suddenly withdrawn his instructions without
reason.
    Frowning, I put the letter aside and turned to the conveyance. It was clumsily written and there was a smudge at the bottom of the page. Did Skelly think such a mess would pass? He would have to
do it again, with more time wasted that I was paying for. I tossed it aside and, sharpening a new quill, took up my commonplace book, which held years of notes from moots and readings. I looked at
my old notes on criminal law, but they were scanty and I could find nothing about
peine forte et dure
.
    There was a knock at the door and Godfrey came in. He was of an age with me. Twenty years before we had been scholars and ardent young reformers together, and unlike me he had retained his
zealous belief that following the break with Rome a new Christian commonwealth might dawn in England. I saw that his narrow, delicate-featured face was