Heartstone

All barristers' chambers are much alike. Desks, shelves, papers, clerks. Dyrick's had many bundles piled around on tables, the sign of a busy practice. There were two clerks' desks but only one was occupied, by a small young fellow in a clerk's short robe. He had a thin face and a long neck in which a large Adam's apple bobbled, and narrow blue eyes beneath straggling hair. He looked at me with insolent disapproval.

'I am here to see Brother Dyrick,' I said curtly. 'Serjeant Shardlake.'

An inner door was thrown open, and Vincent Dyrick stepped out, advancing quickly with outstretched hand. He was a tall, lean man around my age. Athletically built, he seemed to exude energy. He had a pale complexion and coppery hair worn long; he was not handsome, but certainly striking. He smiled, showing a full set of teeth, but his greenish-brown eyes were hard and watchful.

'Good morning, Serjeant Shardlake. We have met before in court. I beat you twice, I think?' His voice was as I remembered, deep and rasping, educated but still with a touch of London in it; a good voice for court.

'We lost one case each, as I recall.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'Come to my room. You do not mind if Master Feaveryear, my clerk, sits with us?' He waved an arm at the young man.

'Not at all.' My strategy was to say as little as possible, and get Dyrick to reveal as much as possible.

'In you go, Sam.' Dyrick threw open the door to his office and waved Feaveryear in ahead of him. I followed. 'Please, sit.' Dyrick indicated a stool set before a large oak desk and took a chair behind it, motioning Feaveryear to another stool beside him. The clerk took up a quill that had been laid there, ready sharpened, and dipped it in an inkpot. Copies of Michael Calfhill's application and Dyrick's reply lay on the desk. Dyrick squared them carefully with his hands, then looked at me. His smile was gone.

'Brother Shardlake, it grieves me to see a lawyer of your seniority involved in such a case as this. I would call it frivolous and vexatious were not the man who lodged this garbled bill clearly insane. A suicide, God pardon him. This application will be thrown out, and there will be substantial costs.' He leaned forward. 'Who is to pay them? Has his mother means? I heard she was but some old servant.'

So he had been doing his research. Maybe paying for information from the Court of Wards, perhaps even from Mylling.

'Any costs will be paid according to the law,' I said. It was the same point I had made to Richard Rich. I made a mental note to write to Warner suggesting he find some substantial back pay due to Mistress Calfhill. 'If we lose, that is.'

'You will.' Dyrick laughed, glancing at Feaveryear, who looked up and smiled. I opened my knapsack.

'You should see these depositions, Brother. From Mistress Calfhill and the Curteys family's vicar.' I passed copies across. Dyrick read, occasionally screwing up his nose. Then he passed the papers to Feaveryear with a shrug.

'Is this all you have, sir?' Dyrick spread his arms. 'Insignificant hearsay. This man Calfhill, before hanging himself, made accusations of serious misconduct against my client. Though neither he, nor these depositions—' he leaned across the desk to emphasize the point—'state what this misconduct actually is.'

He was quite right, and there lay our greatest weakness.

'Michael Calfhill made a serious claim—'

'Undefined, unspecified—'

'—sufficient I believe for the court to require further investigation. Remember the Court of Wards' motto. A helper to wards, orphans and widows.'

Dyrick raised his eyebrows. 'And what, sir, would that investigation consist of? Depositions?'

'Perhaps.'

'And who is to be sent to take them? All the way to Hampshire. And how much will that cost? Enough to bankrupt any servant woman.' His voice rose angrily. He frowned, bringing himself under control—or seeming to. It had struck me that everything Dyrick and his assistant did was a performance, though a skilful one.

'It would take a few days,' I said. 'Your client will only have to pay if he loses. And you say he will not. And my client has her own house.'

'Some hovel near the Butcheries, perhaps?'

'You should not cast aspersions on my client, Brother,' I said with asperity. Dyrick inclined his head. 'You should not, Brother,' I repeated. It hurt me to speak now, I had placed too much strain on my throat. 'I see no deposition from your client. Is Master Hobbey in London?'

'No, Brother Shardlake. Master Hobbey is a gentleman with much business in Hampshire. And there is nothing here for him to depose to, no allegation precise enough to warrant an answer.'

'Where a child is concerned, any allegation should be investigated.' I thought, so Hobbey is not in London. No time for him to give an order to have me attacked.

'A child?' Dyrick expostulated. 'Hugh Curteys is eighteen. A strong, fit lad; I have seen him when I have visited my client on business. And well cared for, I might add.'

'Still a minor. And under the control and custody of—' I had to break off at a spasm of pain from my throat. I gasped, put my hands to my neck.

'See, Sam,' Dyrick said to Feaveryear, 'Brother Shardlake's words stick in his throat.'

I glared at Dyrick, cursing myself for my weakness. Then I saw the anger in his eyes, fierce as mine. It was no act.

'I see you have scant answer, Serjeant Shardlake,' Dyrick continued. 'I thank you for these depositions, though they are out of time and I shall argue so on Monday—'

'I see Master Curteys' estate consists of a considerable acreage of woodland.'

'All dealt with properly. You have seen the papers.'

'But no accounts.'

'Those are kept by the feodary in Hampshire. You may not be familiar with the Court of Wards, Brother, but that is the procedure.'

'Tell me, Brother Dyrick, is any marriage contemplated for Hugh Curteys?'

'None.' He inclined his head and smiled. 'There is really nothing to investigate, Brother Shardlake.'

'These accusations must be looked into, and I think the court will agree.' My voice came scratchy, high-pitched.

Dyrick stood up. 'I hope your throat is recovered by Monday.'

'It will be, Brother.'

I got up and turned to leave. Dyrick's face was cold, stony. I glanced at Feaveryear. For the first time I saw him smile, not at me but at his master. A smile of pure admiration.

Chapter Nine

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I crossed the central yard of Hampton Court again. It was Sunday, a bright, cool day, the day before the hearing. The courtyard was quiet, only a few clerks around; no skulking courtiers today.

A letter from Warner had been waiting when I returned home from my encounter with Dyrick. Coldiron had been standing in the hallway, turning the thick white paper over in his hands, staring at the beautifully written superscription on one side, the Queen's seal on the other. He handed it to me with new respect in his eye, as well as aching curiosity. I dismissed him curtly and opened it; it asked me to attend the Queen again on the morrow.

I had been instructed to come to Warner's office, and once more I climbed the spiral steps. I wore my coif to hide my bruises. Warner's room had been freshly laid with new rushes, their sweetness overcoming the smell of dust and paper. 'Ah, Brother Shardlake,' he said. 'It is cold again. What a summer.'

'I saw, on my way here, that hailstorm has flattened much of the wheat.'