Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) by C. J. Sansom Read Free Book Online

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
     
    I T 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.
    My mind went back to the horror I had watched that morning. The great stage would have been taken down now, together with the charred stakes. I thought of Coleswyn’s remark that any of us could come to the fate of those four; I wondered whether he himself had dangerous connections among the reformers. And I must get rid of my books before the amnesty expired. I looked towards the house; through the window of my dining room I saw that Martin had lit the beeswax candles in their sconces, and was setting the linen tablecloth with my best silver, meticulously, everything lined up.
    I returned to the house and went into the kitchen. There, all was bustle. Timothy was turning a large chicken on the range. Josephine stood at one end of the table, arranging salads on plates in a pleasing design. At the other end, Agnes Brocket was putting the finishing touches to a fine marchpane of almonds and marzipan. They curtsied as I entered. Agnes was a plump woman in her forties, with nutbrown hair under her clean white coif, and a pleasant face. There was sadness there too, though. I knew that the Brockets had a grown son who for some reason they never saw; Martin had mentioned it at his interview, but nothing more.
    ‘That looks like a dish fit for a feast,’ I said, looking at the marchpane. ‘It must have cost you much labour.’
    Agnes smiled. ‘I take pleasure in producing a fine dish, sir, as a sculptor may in perfecting a statue.’
    ‘The fruits of his labours last longer. But perhaps yours bring more pleasure.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied. Agnes appreciated compliments. ‘Josephine helped, didn’t you, dear?’ Josephine nodded, giving me her nervous smile. I looked at her. Her cruel rogue of a father had been my previous steward, and when I had – literally – booted him out of the house a year before, Josephine had stayed with me. Her father had terrified and intimidated her for years, but with him gone she had gradually become less shy and frightened. She had begun to take care of her appearance, too; her unbound blonde hair had a clear lustre, and her face had rounded out, making her a pretty young woman. Following my look, Agnes smiled again.
    ‘Josephine is looking forward to Sunday,’ she said archly.
    ‘Oh? And why is that?’
    ‘A little