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.’