The King's Evil

Chapter Eleven

Christopher Redmayne's astonishment was matched by his unabashed delight. Jacob watched with wry amusement then stood aside as his master surged out of the kitchen and through into the parlour. Penelope Northcott was standing in the centre of the room, gazing around it with distant curiosity. In his eagerness to see her again, Christopher had forgotten that she was in mourning for the death of her father and he had to school his own excitement when he was confronted by the subdued figure in sober attire. She gave him a tired smile.

'I am sorry to descend on you unannounced, Mr Redmayne.'

'Not at all, Miss Northcott,' he said, pleased to find that she was alone. 'You are most welcome. Do sit down.'

'Thank you,' she said, lowering herself on to a chair. 'It has been a taxing day and I must confess that I am weary.'

'May I offer you some refreshment?'

'Not for me, Mr Redmayne, but I daresay that Dirk would be very grateful for something to slake his thirst.'

'Dirk?'

'My coachman. He waits at your door. It has been a long drive and the poor fellow must be close to exhaustion.'

'Then we must revive him at once.'

Christopher turned to call Jacob but the servant was already at his elbow. Having taken his instructions, he left the house by the kitchen door to see to the needs of the coachman. Christopher perched on a chair and appraised his visitor with admiration.

'You came all this way in one day?' he said.

'Dirk drove the coach. All that I had to do was to sit in the back of it and count the bumps in the road. There were thousands. But, yes,' she said wearily, 'we left before dawn in order to get here by nightfall. Fresh horses were waiting for us in Orpington.'

'Would it not have been more comfortable to break the journey?'

'Infinitely more comfortable, Mr Redmayne. But my business in London would brook no delay.'

'I see.'

'In view of that, I hope that you will overlook what may appear to be somewhat indecent behaviour.'

'Indecent?'

'My father was buried only two days ago,' she said quietly. 'Most people would think it highly improper for his daughter to go haring off to London when she should be grieving in the privacy of her home. You may well take such a view of my conduct yourself.'

'Never!' he affirmed. 'You will hear no word of criticism from me, Miss Northcott. Though we only met once, I judged you to be a person who would do nothing without a good reason. Something has clearly impelled you to come here. I look forward to hearing what it is.'

His warm smile was intended to encourage her but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Penelope was suddenly discomfited and her hands fidgeted in her lap. Evidently, she was having second thoughts about her impulsive action. He tried to come to her rescue.

'I am still on the trail of the killer,' he promised her. 'Would you like to hear what progress we have made?'

'We?'

'A constable named Jonathan Bale is helping me.'

'Do you know the identity of the murderer?'

'Not yet, Miss Northcott. But we get ever closer to him.'

Suppressing any unfavourable details about her father, Christopher gave her a full account of their investigations. Though her face was lined with fatigue, she listened intently throughout. He noticed the blush which came to her cheeks at the mention of the Marie Louise. When his recital was over, she spoke with great feeling.

'You have done so much on our behalf, Mr Redmayne. Mother and I cannot possibly repay you for your sterling efforts.'

'Finding the man responsible will be reward enough.'

'That is what I have been telling myself.'

'What do you mean?'

'Arresting the guilty man takes precedence over everything,' she said solemnly. 'The end justifies the means. Even if those means involve some personal embarrassment.' She leaned forward. 'Mr Redmayne, I will have to rely on your discretion.'

'Do so with complete confidence.'

'May I?'

'Whatever you tell me will remain within these four walls.'

'It must needs spill out beyond them, I fear,' she sighed. 'Let me explain. Before you left Priestfield Place, you asked me to make contact with you if we remembered anything about Father which might be germane to your investigation. You gave me this address.'

'I am glad that I did so.'

She became more hesitant. 'What brought me here today was not something which either of us remembered,' she said slowly, lowering her head, 'but something which I found. Most of Father's private papers are kept in a safe at his lawyer's office but a few were locked away in a desk in the library at Priestfield Place. I prised the lock open to find them.'

'That was very enterprising of you, Miss Northcott.'

'My enterprise led to a rude awakening.'

'In what way?'

'Judge for yourself,' she said, bringing a small bundle of letters out from beneath her cloak. 'I assume that you read French?'

'Tolerably well. I lived in Paris for a while.'

'These were sent to Father by someone called Marie Louise.'

She handed him the letters. Written on scented paper, they were held together by a pink ribbon. Christopher had some idea of what he might find and consideration for Penelope's feelings made him hold back until she gestured for him to read one of the missives. It did not take him long. The first letter was short, explicit and couched in the most loving terms. Marie Louise was patently entranced by Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had a fine hand and a turn of phrase which was subtly erotic.

'Read the next one,' urged Penelope.

'Do I need to, Miss Northcott?'

'An address is given in Paris. And the lady's full name.'

Christopher opened the next letter. Marie Louise Oilier was even more explicit this time, recalling the delights of a week spent together with her lover in Calais and looking forward with enthusiasm to their next rendezvous. In the meantime, she sent an address where she could be reached in Paris.

When he glanced up, Christopher saw the look of intense embarrassment on Penelope's face and his heart went out to her. Coming on top of the news of her father's murder, the discovery of the letters must have been a crushing blow to her and he could only imagine the pain it must now be costing her to show them to a stranger and make her anguish public. He offered them back to her.

'Keep them, Mr Redmayne,' she said. 'Read them all.'

'Later,' he decided, putting them on the table.

'I do not wish to touch them again.'

'That is understandable.'

'It was an effort to refrain from burning them,' she admitted. 'For that is what I did with the portrait of her.'

'Portrait?'

'It was no more than a sketch, attached to one of the letters, but it must have been a good likeness or my father would not have kept it.' Her voice began to falter. 'That is what hurt me most of all, Mr Redmayne.'

'What was?'

'Marie Louise Oilier is ... a young woman. If the sketch is to be believed, she is not much above my own age.'

The full horror hit her once again and she closed her eyes to absorb the blow, biting her lip as she swayed to and fro. Christopher moved across to put a comforting arm around her and her head fell gratefully on to his shoulder. Joy and sadness were intermingled as he enjoyed the brief intimacy and shared her sorrow, inhaling her perfume and consoling her with soft words. When another young woman had been in his arms, fear had consumed him but the embrace felt wholly natural this time. Penelope Northcott was everything that Margaret Littlejohn could never be. She was wanted.

As soon as he felt her rally, he released her and stood back. She thanked him with a nod then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Christopher resumed his seat, touched that she felt able to express her emotions in front of him. She regarded him seriously.

'Will you be honest with me, sir?' she asked.

'Of course.'

'Were you entirely surprised by what I have disclosed?'

He shook his head. 'No, Miss Northcott.'

'Why not?'

'My brother, Henry, was a friend of your father's. That fact alone,' he said, searching for a kind euphemism, 'hinted at a degree of moral laxity. Henry has always sought pleasure in abundance. I assumed that he and Sir Ambrose were birds of a feather. My brother has admitted as much.'

'Yet you made no mention of it to me.'

'I hoped to keep such details from you.'

'That was very kind of you,' she said, 'but I have no illusions left to shatter. When I heard that he had been killed, I thought I had lost a dear and loving father. It was like a knife through the heart to realise what sort of man he really was.'

'Was your mother equally wounded?' he said.

'Why do you ask that?'

'She may have noticed things which you did not.'

'Go on.'

'When I was leaving Priestfield Place, I chanced to see Lady Northcott in the garden. Your mother was not exactly overwhelmed with grief.'

Penelope nodded. 'I think that Mother had guessed what was going on and learned to live with it. Father's absences grew longer and longer. A wife is bound to draw conclusions. The garden has always been a great consolation to her.'

'Did you show her the letters?'

'Of course.'

'What was her reaction?'

'She refused to read them.'

'Does Lady Northcott know that you brought them to me?'

'It was my mother who urged me to find you.'

'And what of your fiancée?' he asked tentatively. 'Does Mr Strype know that you are here?'

'No,' she said bluntly. 'He would have stopped me coming.'

'Why?'

'That is a personal matter, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then I will not pry.'

Christopher turned the conversation to more neutral topics, asking about her coach journey and whether or not she found London an exciting city to visit. Penelope gradually relaxed. Having unburdened an unpalatable family secret, she could actually start to enjoy her host's company. She had no doubts about the wisdom of what she had done and knew that she could trust Christopher with her family secrets.

He was drawn to her more strongly than ever. What she had done would have been courageous in a mature woman. In a young lady, fragile and vulnerable after a bereavement, it was an act of sheer bravado, enhanced by the fact that she was concealing her movements from the man she was engaged to marry.

Time flowed past so freely and pleasantly that neither of them noticed the shadows lengthening. It was only when Jacob brought in additional candles that they realised how late it must be. As the servant quit the room, Penelope rose to her feet in a flurry of apologies.

'I have stayed far too long, Mr Redmayne. Do forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive.'

'Dirk must have been waiting for hours.'

'Do not worry about your coachman. Jacob will have looked after him, I am sure. Where do you plan to spend the night?'

'I had thought to go to the house in Westminster.'

'Had thought?' he repeated, hearing the doubt in her voice. 'Has something happened to change your mind?'

'Yes, sir. That bundle of letters.'

'Do you fear that you may find more in Westminster?'

'It is possible,' she said with a shiver. 'When you read the rest of those missives, you will see that Father was building the house near Baynard's Castle for this French lady of his.' Bitterness intruded. 'It was not enough to have her name painted on the side of his ship and to correspond with her. He was planning to live with her in London. To keep one abode here for his family and another for his mistress.'

'I had already made that deduction, Miss Northcott.'

'Then you will understand my reluctance to visit the house in Westminster. Its atmosphere would not be conducive to rest. No,' she said, reaching a decision. 'I will stay at a reputable inn. If there is one which you can recommend, I would be most grateful.'

'As it happens,' he began, responding to a sudden idea, 'there is such a hostelry. But I hesitate to name it because it falls so far short of the kind of accommodation to which you are accustomed at Priestfield Place. It is clean, decent, totally safe and there is nowhere in London where you will be looked after with more care. But,' he added with a shrug, 'it is small and limited in the comforts it can offer you.' 'All that I need is a warm bed, sir. I will dispense with comforts.'

'Then I recommend an establishment in Fetter Lane.'

'Where will we find it?'

'You are standing in it, Miss Northcott.'

Penelope was startled. 'You invite me to stay here?'

'As my honoured guest.'

'Oh, no, Mr Redmayne. It would be an imposition.'

'Jacob will have a room ready for you instantly.'

'An inn might be a more suitable place.'

'I leave the choice to you.'

Christopher's engaging smile helped to weaken her reservations. Exhorting the coachmen to make all due speed, she had suffered the consequences in the rear of the vehicle. Her bones were aching and fatigue was lapping at her. She did not want to endure a further drive to Westminster and the prospect of staying among strangers in an inn was not appealing. There was another reason why the house in Fetter Lane took on a lustre for her but she was not yet ready to acknowledge it.

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said at length. 'I accept your offer with gratitude. Will you tell my coachman to bring in my things?'

'Jacob has already done so.'

She smiled for the first time.