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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.
    Isabel bridled. ‘That Coleswyn’s a Protestant heretic, like my brother. They both go to St Jude’s, where all images are down and the priest serves them at a bare table.’ It was yet another bone of contention between the siblings that Isabel remained a proud traditionalist while her brother was a reformer. ‘That priest should be burned,’ she continued, ‘like the Askew woman and her confederates.’
    ‘Were you at the burning this morning, Mistress Slanning?’ I asked quietly. I had not seen her.
    She wrinkled her nose. ‘I would not go to such a spectacle. But they deserved it.’
    I saw Nicholas’s lips set hard. He never spoke of religion; in that regard at least he was a sensible lad. Changing the subject, I said, ‘Mistress Slanning, when we go to court the outcome of the case is by no means certain. This is a very unusual matter.’
    She said firmly, ‘Justice will prevail. And I know your skills, Master Shardlake. That is why I employed a serjeant at law to represent me. I have always loved that picture.’ A touch of emotion entered her voice. ‘It is the only memento I have of my dear father.’
    ‘I would not be honest if I put your