‘Yes, young man,’ she answered tetchily. ‘Smaller houses have smaller rooms. That is generally known.’
‘But I understand the wall painting is in the largest room of your mother’s house. So if you were able to remove the painting, where would you put it?’
Isabel’s face reddened and she bridled. ‘That is my business, boy,’ she snapped. ‘Yours is to take notes for your master.’
Nicholas blushed in turn and bent his head to his papers. But it had been a very good question.
WE SPENT AN HOUR going over the documents, and I managed to persuade Isabel to take various abusive comments about her brother out of her deposition. By the time it was over, my head was swimming with tiredness. Nicholas gathered up his notes and left the room, bowing to Isabel. She rose, quite energetic still, but frowning; she had looked angry ever since Nicholas’s question. I got up to escort her outside, where a serving-man waited to take her home. She stood facing me – she was a tall woman and those determined, staring eyes looked straight into mine. ‘I confess, Master Shardlake, sometimes I wonder if your heart is in this case as it should be. And that insolent boy . . .’ She shook her head angrily.
‘Madam,’ I replied. ‘You can rest assured I will argue your case with all the vigour I can muster. But it is my duty to explore alternatives with you, and warn you of the expense. Of course, if you are dissatisfied with me, and wish to transfer the case to another barrister—’
She shook her head grimly. ‘No, sir, I shall stay with you, fear not.’
I had made the suggestion to her more than once before; but it was an odd fact that the most difficult and hostile clients were often the most reluctant to leave, as though they wanted to stay and plague you out of spite.
‘Though . . .’ She hesitated.
‘Yes.’
‘I think you do not truly understand my brother.’ An expression I had not seen before crossed her face. Fear – there was no doubt about it, fear that twisted her face into new, different lines. For a second, Isabel was a frightened old woman.
‘If you knew, sir,’ she continued quietly. ‘If you knew the terrible things my brother has done.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Done to you?’
‘And others.’ A vicious hiss; the anger had returned.
‘What things, madam?’ I pressed.
But Isabel shook her head vigorously, as though trying to shake unpleasant thoughts out of it. She took a deep breath. ‘It does not matter. They have no bearing on this case.’ Then she turned and walked rapidly from the room, the linen tappets of her hood swishing angrily behind her.
Chapter Three
IT WAS PAST SIX when I returned home. My friend Guy was due for dinner at seven – a late meal, but like me he worked a long day. As usual, Martin had heard me enter and was waiting in the hall to take my robe and cap. I decided to go into the garden to enjoy a little of the evening air. I had recently had a small pavilion and some chairs set at the end of the garden, where I could sit and look over the flower beds.
The shadows were long, a few bees still buzzing round the hive. Wood pigeons cooed in the trees. I sat back. I realized that during my interview with Isabel Slanning I had not thought at all about the burning; such was the power of her personality. Young Nicholas had asked a clever question about where she would put the picture. Her answer had been further proof that, for Isabel, winning the quarrel mattered more than the picture, however genuine her attachment to it. I thought again of her strange remark at the end, about some terrible things her brother had done. During our interviews she usually liked nothing better than to abuse and belittle Edward, but that sudden spasm of fear had been different.
I pondered whether it might be worthwhile having a quiet word with Philip Coleswyn about our respective clients. But that would be unprofessional. My duty, like his, was to represent my client as strongly as I could.