We passed a thin, ragged old woman going from house to house calling out, ‘Any kitchen stuff, maids?’ She was one of those who collected kitchen rubbish to sell for a few pence, for use as compost in the vegetable gardens round London. She was old for such a heavy, dirty task. As I looked at her blackened face I remembered Barak talking of seeing his mother in the street. This old woman could even be her. Family quarrels, they were hard things.

We passed the Great Conduit in Eastcheap, maids and goodwives lined up with their pails to fetch water. Some of the beggars who always haunted the conduit left off troubling the women and ran to us, one coming almost under the nose of Philip’s horse, making it shy. ‘Take care, fellow!’ Philip shouted, straining to bring his mount under control. ‘He’ll kick you if you’re not careful!’ As we rode on he said, ‘By Heaven, that fellow stank. Could he not wash himself, seeing as he is lounging by the conduit?’

‘Hard to keep yourself clean if you’re begging in summer.’

He nodded slowly. ‘You are right to reprove me. We must have charity for those who have suffered ill fortune. It is a Christian thing.’

‘Of course. But perhaps we should not give them charge of the realm,’ I added, half-mockingly. ‘As the Anabaptists would wish?’

He looked annoyed. ‘You know I do not approve those heresies.’ He sighed. ‘It is a common enough thing for papists to accuse reformers of being Anabaptists, but I am surprised you give credence to such nonsense.’

‘I do not. I am sorry.’

‘The Anabaptists are not of the Elect,’ he continued severely.

‘Do you believe people are divided between the Elect and the damned?’ I asked seriously.

‘Yes.’ He spoke with certainty. ‘Some are predestined by God for salvation, while those without faith burn forever. Read St Paul.’

‘I have always thought that a harsh doctrine.’

‘The justice of God may be beyond our comprehension, but it is inviolable.’ Philip looked at me seriously. ‘Coming to faith, Matthew, may confirm one’s place in Heaven.’

‘And show one the way to right living; such as working to uncover whether one’s client may be a murderer.’

He looked at me hard. ‘That possibility is in both our minds.’

I nodded agreement. ‘Yes. Let us find out.’

THE COTTERSTOKE HOUSE was unchanged since the inspection, shuttered and silent, the stableyard to the rear again empty and bare in the sultry morning; it was hard to remember we were in the centre of the great city. Old Mrs Cotterstoke, I thought, lived here over fifty years. We tied up the horses. As we stepped into the sunshine, Philip, once more the practical lawyer, said, ‘They should get the house sold. The value of money keeps falling. But neither of them will take a single step till this dispute is resolved.’