He had watery blue eyes, heavy dark pouches beneath, a sad look. ‘Mistress Slanning is already here. She is in the parlour.’
He led us across a little hall where a large tapestry of the Last Supper hung, worth a good deal of money in its own right. The parlour, a well-appointed room, did not look to have been touched since my first visit, or indeed since old Mrs Cotterstoke died. The chairs and table were dusty and a piece of half-finished embroidery lay on a chair. The shutters on the window giving onto the street were open; through the glass we could see the bustle of the street. The light fell on Isabel Slanning, standing with her back to us before the beautiful painting that covered the entire far wall. I remembered Nicholas saying it would be hard to fit the painting into a smaller house. Not hard, I thought, impossible.
It was, indeed, extraordinarily lifelike: a dark-haired man in his thirties, wearing black robes and a tall, cylindrical hat, looked out at us with the proud expression of one who is getting on well in life. He sat to one side of the very window that now cast light on the painting, on another sunny day at the very start of the century. I had the strange feeling of looking into a mirror, but backwards in time. Opposite the man sat a young woman with a face of English-rose prettiness, though there was a sharpness to her expression. Beside her stood a boy and a girl, perhaps nine or ten; both resembled her strongly except for their prominent eyes, which were their father’s. In the picture little Isabel and Edward Cotterstoke stood hand-in-hand; a contented, carefree pair of children.
Isabel turned her wrinkled face to us, the bottom of her blue silk dress swishing on the reed matting. Her expression was cold and set, and when she saw Coleswyn with me anger leapt into those pale, bulbous eyes. She had been fingering a rosary tied to her belt, something strongly frowned on these last few years. She let it fall with a clack of beads.
‘Serjeant Shardlake.’ She spoke accusingly. ‘Did you travel here with our opponent?’
‘We met on the road, Mistress Slanning,’ I answered firmly. ‘Are either of the experts here yet? Or your brother?’
‘No. I saw my brother through the window a few minutes ago. He knocked at the door, but I instructed Vowell not to allow him in till you were here. I daresay he will return shortly.’ She flashed a glare at Coleswyn. ‘This man is our foe, yet you ride with him.’
‘Madam,’ Coleswyn said quietly, ‘lawyers who are opponents in court are expected to observe the civilities of gentlemen outside it.’
This made Isabel even more angry. She turned to me, pointing a skinny finger at Coleswyn. ‘This man should not be speaking to me; is it not the rule that he should communicate with me only through you, Master Shardlake?’
In fact she was right, and Coleswyn reddened. ‘Gentleman, indeed!’ She snorted. ‘A heretic, I hear, like my brother.’
This was appalling behaviour, even by Isabel’s standards. To imply that Coleswyn was not a gentleman was a bad enough insult but to call him a heretic was to accuse him of a capital crime. Coleswyn’s lips set hard as he turned to me. ‘Strictly your client is correct that I should not have direct converse with her. In any case, I would rather not. I shall wait in the hallway till the others arrive.’ He walked out and shut the door. Isabel gave me a look of triumph. Her whole body seemed rigid with sheer malice.
‘Heretics,’ she snapped triumphantly. ‘Well, they are getting their just deserts these days.’ Seeing my expression, she scowled, perhaps wondering about my own loyalties, although knowing Isabel she would have been careful to ensure I was – at least– neutral in religious matters before appointing me.
A movement outside caught her eye. She looked through the window and seemed to shrink for a second before setting her face hard again. There was a knock at the door and a minute later Vowell showed Coleswyn back in, together with three other men. Two were middle-aged fellows whom I guessed were the experts; they were discussing the various methods by which small monastic houses could be converted into residences. The third was Isabel’s brother, Edward Cotterstoke. I had seen him in court but, close to, the resemblance to his sister was even more striking: the same thin face with its hard lines of discontent and anger; the protuberant, glaring eyes, the tall, skinny body. Like the other men present he was dressed in a robe; in his case it was the dark green of a Guildhall employee, the badge of the City of London on his breast. He and Isabel exchanged a look of hatred, all the more intense somehow because it only lasted a second; then they both looked away.