The King's Evil

Christopher Redmayne threw caution to the winds and set out alone. He was in too much of a hurry to wait for the security of an escort to Kent, trusting instead in a fast horse, a strong sword-arm and an instinct for danger. Only one incident disrupted his long ride south. As the afternoon began to shade into evening, he saw a figure on the brow of the hill ahead of him. Crouched beneath a tree, the man used a crutch to haul himself upright and hobbled to the middle of the road. His hand stretched out in search of alms. Dressed in rags and wearing a battered old hat, he looked like a lonely beggar but there was something about him which alerted Christopher, who took note of the thick bushes nearby. It was an ideal place for an ambush. From that vantage point, anyone approaching in either direction could be seen a long way off. Christopher could not understand why a lame man should drag himself up such a steep hill.

Slowing his horse to a trot, he held the reins in his left hand while keeping the right free. It was a wise precaution. When the rider was only a few yards away, the beggar suddenly sprang to life, shed his apparent lameness and ran forward, lifting the crutch to swing it viciously at his quarry. Christopher's sword was out in a flash, parrying the blow then jabbing hard to inflict a wound in the man's shoulder. Two accomplices leaped out from behind the bushes but they, too, met their match. The first was kicked full in the face and the second had the cudgel struck from his hand by the flashing sword. Before any of the trio could recover, Christopher was galloping hell-for-leather down the other side of the hill.

The remainder of the journey passed without interruption. Unable to reach his destination before nightfall, Christopher elected to stay at an inn and rest his horse. It was only when he climbed into bed that he realised how tired he was. Before he could even begin to review his day, he was fast asleep. Restored and refreshed, he was up shortly after dawn to eat a simple breakfast. The landlord, a big barrel of a man with flabby lips and a bulbous nose, came across to offer guidance.

'Do you travel far, sir?' he asked.

'I am not sure,' said Christopher. 'I am heading for a place near Sevenoaks.'

'What's the name?'

'Shipbourne.'

'Where, sir?'

'Shipbourne.'

The landlord chuckled. 'There are no ships born around here, sir. We're miles from the sea. I think you must want Shibborn. That's what we call it, sir. Not Ship-bourne. Stubborn.'

'How far away is it?'

'Eight or nine miles.'

'Good. Would you happen to have heard of Priestfield Place?'

'Everyone's heard of it,' said the other, his face hardening. 'The estate belongs to Sir Ambrose Northcott. All five hundred acres of it. Sir Ambrose is well known in this county.'

'Well known and well liked?'

'Ask that of his tenants, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'They do not speak too kindly of him,' muttered the landlord. 'That is all I am prepared to say. I never met Sir Ambrose myself so I am no judge if he is really as harsh as they claim.'

'How would I find Priestfield Place?'

'Strike off to the left before you reach Shibborn, sir. You will see a signpost to Plaxtol. The estate lies between the two of them.'

'Thank you, landlord.'

'Are you a friend of Sir Ambrose?' probed the other.

Christopher gave a noncommittal nod. He was carrying sad tidings which the Northcott family deserved to hear first. He did not want the news to be spread by means of rumour through the mouth of a portly innkeeper.

Having paid his bill, he set off. It was a fine morning and his ride took him through undulating countryside which offered all kinds of attractive vistas. Christopher saw little of them. He was too distracted by the questions which had haunted him since the moment of discovery in the cellars of the house near Baynard's Castle.

Why did Sir Ambrose Northcott visit the site so late of an evening? Who was his companion? What was the motive behind the murder? Why had Solomon Creech reacted with such fear when he heard of the crime? There were subsidiary questions about the house in Westminster, the whereabouts of Sir Ambrose during his long absence from London and the nature of his political activities. Christopher was reminded time and again just how little he really knew of the man for whom he had designed a house. Why had Henry kept so much from his brother? Sir Ambrose Northcott was hidden behind a veil of secrecy. For what purpose? One final question tugged repeatedly at Christopher's mind.

Why did Jonathan Bale seem to resent him so much?

His cogitations carried him all the way to the crude signpost with the first mention of Plaxtol. Christopher turned his horse down a narrow track which had been baked hard by the sun and which ran between bramble bushes. Riding at a steady canter, he soon found himself entering the outer reaches of Priestfield Place. Most of it was tenanted and those who farmed it were out working in the fields but Sir Ambrose had reserved a vast swathe of land at the very heart of the estate. After passing a herd of cows, grazing contentedly in a meadow, Christopher followed a twisting path through woodland before coming out into open country again. The house positively leaped into view. It still lay over half a mile away but its effect was dramatic.

Set in an elevated position, Priestfield Place was an Elizabethan manor house of the finest quality. It was built of rose-coloured brick which blossomed in the sunshine and which conveyed an impression both of solidity and delicacy. The house was shaped like the letter H, its central portion gabled, its four corners guarded by octagonal turrets which were topped by gilt weather vanes. Climbing to three storeys and roofed with red tiles, it was an imposing edifice which yielded ever more fresh and arresting detail the closer he got to it. Christopher was staggered by the generosity of its proportions and its sheer presence. The new London residence which Sir Ambrose Northcott had commissioned from him was imposing enough. Compared to Priestfield Place, however, it was a mere gatehouse.

When he reached the paved courtyard, he brought his mount to a halt so that he could admire the fountain in which water from sixteen separate invisible pipes played into the huge scallop shell held by the statue of Venus before cascading down again. Then he let his gaze travel to the elaborate porch over which the royal coat of arms had been carved in stone to commemorate a visit by Queen Elizabeth in the previous century. Before he could feast his eyes on the facade, Christopher saw a manservant emerging from the porch. When he introduced himself and announced his business, the visitor was invited into the house while his horse was stabled by an ostler.

Conducted into the Great Hall, he noted the striking pattern in the marble floor, the carved heads on some of the oak panelling and the array of family portraits. Over the mantelpiece hung a large painting of the late master of the house. Sir Ambrose was wearing a breastplate, holding a helmet and striking a military pose. The bold glare was that of a man who considered himself invincible. Christopher sighed inwardly.

Having asked to speak alone to Lady Northcott, he was surprised to see two ladies being shown into the hall. Penelope was keen to hear any news relating to her father and, though neither women yet sensed how devastating that news would be, both seemed to have braced themselves for disappointment. Introductions were made then the two women sat beside each other. Christopher lowered himself on to a chair opposite them. He cleared his throat before speaking.

'I fear that I am the bearer of bad tidings,' he said quietly.

Penelope immediately tensed but her mother retained her poise.

'Go on, Mr Redmayne,' encouraged the latter.

'Has something happened to Father?' asked Penelope. 'Is he ill? Has some accident befallen him? Will he be detained in London even longer?'

'Let Mr Redmayne tell us, dear.'

'I will, Lady Northcott,' he said, 'but I do it with the utmost regret. What I have to tell you is that your husband will not be returning to Priestfield Place at any time. He has passed away.'

Penelope turned white and tears welled in her eyes. Reaching out a hand to steady her daughter, Lady Northcott somehow preserved her own equanimity. She searched Christopher's eyes.

'I think you have softened the news for our benefit,' she decided. 'I have never known my husband to have a day's illness. He was a picture of health.' She gestured to the portrait. 'As you can see for yourself. This was no natural death, was it?'

'No, Lady Northcott.'

'Was he killed in an accident?'

Christopher shook his head. 'It was no accident.'

Penelope's self-control went and she burst into tears, turning to her mother who stood to draw her daughter into her arms. Christopher felt cruel at having to deliver such a shattering blow to them and he averted his gaze from their grief. Lady Northcott seemed calm but there was a deep anguish in her eyes. Penelope was moving towards hysteria and her mother had to hug and reassure her before the sobbing began to ease. When her daughter had regained some of her composure, Lady Northcott looked over at their visitor again.

'What are the details, Mr Redmayne?' she said softly.

'I would prefer to spare you some of those, Lady Northcott.'

'Sir Ambrose was my husband. I have a right to know.' She saw the sympathetic glance which he threw towards Penelope. 'We both have a right to know. Hide nothing from us.'

'No,' said Penelope bravely. 'I am sorry to break down in front of you like that, sir. It will not happen again. Please do as my mother bids.'

'Very well.' He rose to his feet and cleared his throat again. 'Sir Ambrose was murdered by a person or persons unknown. His body was found in the cellar of the new house.'

'New house?' repeated Lady Northcott.

'The one I designed for you near Baynard's Castle.'

'Ah, yes,' she said, failing to cover her surprise. 'I was forgetting. That house. Please continue, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher was as discreet and succinct as he could be but the full horror of what had occurred could not be hidden. The two of them held each other throughout and he saw the mother's arms tighten to the point where she was almost supporting her daughter. Lady Northcott's pain was confined to her eyes but Penelope expressed hers more openly, gasping aloud, sagging, swaying then gritting her teeth in an effort to master her emotions. Christopher answered their questions briefly and honestly. Realising that neither of them had any knowledge of a new London house, he took care not to mention it again.

Lady Frances Northcott drew herself up to her full height.

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said without a tremor. 'It is very kind of you to ride down here to impart this news. Would you please wait here for a little while? We need to excuse ourselves for a few minutes.'

'Of course.'

He crossed to open the door for them and they went out. Penelope was too absorbed in her own sadness to do anything more than shuffle past on her mother's arm but the latter moved with natural dignity. Christopher shut the door gently behind them. Walking over to the portrait above the mantelpiece, he looked up at Sir Ambrose Northcott and wondered why a man should spend such an immense amount of money on a house while omitting to mention its construction to his wife and daughter. It was baffling. It also put Christopher in the unfortunate position of having to deliver an additional blow to the two women. He consoled himself with the thought that he had probably handled an awkward situation with more tact and sensitivity than Solomon Creech. Had the lawyer travelled to Priestfield Place, he would doubtless have compounded their misery. ^x

Asked to wait briefly, Christopher was left alone for well over half an hour. Though it gave him an opportunity to explore the Great Hall and its many intriguing features, it also left him with the sense that he was now in the way.

Some sort of collapse must have taken place, he surmised, as both women struggled with their grief in private. He had a vision of Penelope Northcott, lying on her bed, crying in despair, knocked senseless by the news he had relayed to her. Christopher had an impulse to reach out to comfort her but he sensed that she was beyond solace of any kind and it was not, in any case, his place to offer it. Lady Northcott had maintained her calm in his presence but he doubted if it would last indefinitely. The most probable thing, he decided, was that both of them were so caught up in their distress that they had forgotten all about him. It would be a kindness to them to steal quietly away.

Christopher had almost reached the front door when she called.

'Where are you going, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.

'Oh,' he said, turning. 'I thought that I was perhaps intruding.'

'You were leaving?'

'It seemed advisable.'

'But I must speak to you.'

It was Penelope Northcott who had come down the stairs and not her mother. Though her face was still white and her eyes swollen by a bout of tears, she was now much more controlled and her voice was calm. She took him by the arm and led him back into the Great Hall.

'I must apologise,' she said earnestly. 'It was unmannerly of us to leave you alone for so long but we needed to ...' Her voice tailed off. She needed a deep breath before she could speak again. 'Anyway, I am glad that I came down in time to stop you going before I could add my personal thanks. I do appreciate your taking the trouble to ride all the way to Priestfield Place.'

'It was no trouble, I assure you. I felt it my bounden duty.'

'Duty?'

'Your father was very kind to me, Miss Northcott.'

'Ah, yes,' she said distantly. 'The house. You designed it.' 'My first commission.' He felt the need to soothe her. 'Your father obviously planned to surprise you with it when the house was finally built. Sir Ambrose clearly had an interest in architecture. How could he not, living in such a magnificent property as this? Yes,' he said without any real conviction. 'That must have been it. The London house was destined to be a gift to your mother. Or perhaps even to you and your future husband. It would have made a perfect wedding present.'

'Yes,' she said.

But they both knew that the notion was wildly improbable.

'Were you a close friend of my father's?' she asked.

'Not at all. I was just one of many people whom he employed. Sir Ambrose always kept his distance. To tell you the truth, he was a rather mysterious figure to me.'

'Yes,' she murmured.

'The one person who did know him was my brother, Henry.'

'Your brother?'

'Yes,' said Christopher. 'It was Henry who showed some of my drawings to your father and encouraged him to meet me. From my point of view, it was the most wonderful stroke of fortune. Until now.'

Penelope indicated a chair, waited until he was seated then sat next to him. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Now that she was alone and much closer to him, he became more conscious of her beauty. Mild excitement stirred inside him. She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

'Why did you bring the news, Mr Redmayne?'

'I felt that you had a right to be informed as soon as possible.'

'But it was not your place to act as the messenger.'

'I believe that it was.'

'Why?'

'Because I was the person who actually found the body,' he said, 'and because the hideous crime took place in a property which I designed for your father.' 'That still does not make it your duty,' she replied. 'Especially as you did not really know my father very well. His lawyer should have brought the news or sent someone in his stead. We are very used to receiving messages from Mr Creech. Father often made contact with us through him.'

'Solomon Creech would not take on the responsibility.'

'But it fell to him.'

'He was shaken by news of the murder. When I told him, he became very agitated. He more or less refused to send word to you so I took on the office. Nobody else seemed willing to do so, including my brother, Henry. To be honest, Miss Northcott...' The scent of perfume drifted into his nostrils again and he paused momentarily to enjoy it. 'To be honest,' he added, leaning a little closer, 'I was grateful for the opportunity. I hoped that it would enable me to learn much more about Sir Ambrose.'

'Why should you want to do that, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because I intend to find the man who killed him.'

'Oh!' she said, blinking in astonishment. 'But surely it is not your task to do so. You are an architect.'

'I was an architect. Until yesterday.'

'Must you now turn into an avenging angel?'

'There will be nothing angelic about my vengeance.'

'But think of the danger. The murderer is a ruthless man.'

'I am all too aware of that,' said Christopher. 'I witnessed his handiwork. He must be called to account and I will do everything in my power to catch him. You have my word.'

The turquoise eyes roamed freely over his face, ignited by a mixture of admiration and apprehension. He basked in her frank curiosity. It was oddly exhilarating.

'Take care, sir,' she said at length.

'I will, Miss Northcott.'

'Do you have any clues as to the identity of the killer?'

'None as yet.'

'Were you expecting to find some at Priestfield Place?'

'As a matter of fact, I was.'

'How?'

'I thought that your mother might at least be able to give me some guidance,' he admitted. 'Lady Northcott would know the names of her husband's enemies and details of any bitter arguments in which Sir Ambrose was engaged. Possibly your father's life has even been threatened in the recent past.'

'If it had been,' she said softly, 'he would not have confided in Mother. Still less in me. The truth is that Father was very rarely here long enough to tell us anything.' She gave a shrug. 'We have not seen him for months.'

'But he was away from London for almost three weeks.'

'Did he tell you that he was coming home?'

'No,' said Christopher, 'but that is what I assumed.'

'We have all made too many assumptions about my father.'

She lowered her head and became lost in her thoughts. Penelope was torn between sorrow at her father's death and regret that she knew so little about the man who had been cruelly murdered at a new house of whose existence she was quite unaware. It was embarrassing to make such a confession to a complete stranger. When she looked up, she tried to mumble an apology but Christopher waved it away.

'Say nothing now,' he advised. 'It was wrong of me to expect any help when you and your mother were still reeling from this dreadful shock. I will trespass on your feelings no longer,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Let me just add this, Miss Northcott. If - in due course - either of you does recall something about Sir Ambrose which might be helpful to me, please send word. A message can reach me in London.'

'Where?'

'Fetter Lane. Number seven.'

'Fetter Lane.'

'Will you remember that address?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne, but I hold out no promises.'

'Any detail, however minor, could be useful. I need to know about any disputes Sir Ambrose may have had. Problems with tenants, things of that nature. But not now. Forget me until... until you are ready.'

'I will not forget you,' she said, rising to her feet. 'You have been so considerate to us, sir. And now you tell me that you are trying to solve this murder on our behalf even if it means putting your own life at risk. I am profoundly touched and Mother will feel the same when I tell her. You are very brave, Mr Redmayne.'

'I am very determined, that is all.'

'Find him, please.'

'I will.'

'Find the man who killed my father.'

'He will not escape, Miss Northcott.'

She reached out to squeeze both of his hands in a gesture of gratitude and Christopher felt another thrill of excitement. Even in her distress, Penelope Northcott was an entrancing young lady and he had to remind himself that his interest was wholly misplaced. He was there for one purpose alone. It was time to go yet somehow he could not move away from her and the wonder of it was that she seemed to share his reluctance at their parting. He stood there, gazing at her, searching for words of farewell which simply would not come. Christopher felt that such a tender moment justified all the effort of riding down to Kent. The tenderness did not last long.

The door suddenly opened and a young man came striding in.

'Penelope!' he said, descending on her. 'I have just heard the news from Lady Northcott.'

'George!'

'You poor thing!' He enfolded her in his arms. 'What an appalling crime! Someone will be made to pay for this, mark my words!'

The arrival of her fiancée unnerved Penelope and she lost her control for a short while, sobbing into his shoulder. George Strype made soothing sounds and patted her gently on the back. He was a tall man with long dark hair which fell in curls to the shoulders of his coat. Though he was moderately handsome, his costly attire failed to hide the fact that he was running to fat. Christopher noticed the podgy hands and the nascent double chin. He also experienced a surge of envy at a man who was entitled to embrace Penelope Northcott so freely.

George Strype flung an inhospitable glance at Christopher.

'Who are you, sir?' he said coldly.

'My name is Christopher Redmayne.'

'The messenger, I presume?'

'Oh, Mr Redmayne is much more than that,' said Penelope.

'Indeed?' said Strype.

'Yes, George.'

She introduced the two men properly then spoke so warmly about the visitor that Strype interrupted her. Keeping a proprietary arm around her shoulder, he sized the other man up then gave a contemptuous snort.

'So you intend to solve a murder, do you?'

Christopher held his gaze. 'Yes, Mr Strype.'

'How do you propose to do that?'

'This is neither the time nor place to discuss it.'

'In other words, you have no earthly notion where to start.'

'In other words,' said Christopher, 'this is an occasion of intense sadness for Miss Northcott and I would not dare to distress her further by talking at length about her father's murder. It would be unseemly.'

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said.

'He does not deserve your thanks, Penelope.'

'Yes, he does, George.'

'Why?'

'For showing such tact.'

'What use is tact?'

'And for displaying such courage.'

'There is nothing courageous in a foolish boast.' 'Mr Redmayne did not boast.'

'He is raising false hopes, Penelope, and that is a cruelty.'

'Nothing on earth would induce me to be cruel to your fiancée, sir,' said Christopher courteously. 'I am sorry that my plans meet with such disapproval from you, especially as you might be in a position to render me some assistance. Evidently, I would be misguided if I looked for help from your direction. When the killer is caught - as he will be - you may yet have the grace to admit that you were too hasty in your assessment of my character. You may, Mr Strype, though I suspect that you will not.' He turned to Penelope. 'Please excuse me, Miss Northcott. I have stayed far too long as it is.'

'No, Mr Redmayne.'

'Let him go,' grunted Strype.

'But the least we can do is to offer our guest refreshment.'

'He can find that at the nearest inn, Penelope.'

'George!'

'He is not a guest, Penelope. Merely a messenger.'

'That is very unkind,' she chided.

'We need to be alone.'

'I could not agree with Mr Strype more,' said Christopher, moving to the door. 'I have discharged my duty as a mere messenger and I must away. It is a long and tedious ride back to London. Please give my regards to Lady Northcott and tell her that I hope to meet her in less painful circumstances next time.'

'There is no need for you to meet her at all,' said Strype.

'You are probably right.'

'Goodbye, sir!'

'Goodbye.'

'Wait!' called Penelope as he turned to go.

Christopher hesitated but whatever she had meant to say went unspoken. George Strype exuded such a sense of displeasure that she was visibly cowed and took refuge in his shoulder once more. Her fiancée enjoyed his minor triumph, stroking her hair and placing a kiss on the top of her head. He was lavish in his affection. When he looked up to give himself the satisfaction of dismissing the visitor, he saw that he was too late. Christopher had already slipped out of the house.