I shook my head sadly. ‘So I used to believe, once. I thought the proceeds from the monasteries would be used to bring justice to the poor; that the King, as Head of the Church, would have a regard for them the old church did not. Yet all that money went on extending Whitehall and other palaces, or was thrown away on the war. No wonder some folk have gone down more radical paths.’

‘Yet those people would bring naught but anarchy.’ Coleswyn spoke with a desperate quiet intensity. ‘No, a decent, ordered, godly realm must come.’

WE REACHED THE HOUSE. It was big, timber-framed like most London houses, fronting onto the busy street of Dowgate. An arch led to a stableyard at the back. We tied up the horses and stood in the summer sunshine, looking at the rear of the house. The windows were shuttered, and though the property was well-maintained it had a sad, deserted air. Dry straw from the days when the Cotterstoke horses had been stabled here blew round the dusty yard on the light breeze.

‘This place would fetch a good deal of money, even in these times,’ Coleswyn observed.

‘I agree. It is silly to leave it standing empty and unsold because of this dispute.’ I shook my head. ‘You know, the more I think of the strange wording of her Will, the more I believe that old woman intended to cause trouble between her children.’

‘But why?’

I shook my head.

We walked round to the front and knocked. There were shuffling footsteps, and a small elderly man opened the door. I remembered him as Patrick Vowell, the servant who had been kept on to look after the place after old Mrs Cotterstoke died. He was fortunate. The other servants, including the witnesses to old Deborah Cotterstoke’s Will, had been dismissed, as usually happened when the owner of the household died.

‘Serjeant Shardlake with Master Coleswyn,’ I said.

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.