The Frost Fair

Chapter Six

Now almost two centuries old, Serle Court was a fortified manor house, complete with towers, turrets and crenellation. It was set on the brow of a hill and surrounded by rolling parkland. A delightful prospect met the eye from every window of the property and the rear gardens, in particular, were a work of art. Since there was no other building in sight, the occupants had a wonderful sense of isolation, of being untroubled by the presence of neighbours and free to explore the extensive acres that comprised the estate without any danger of meeting strangers. For all its size, Susan Cheever always found the house uncomfortably small but that was less to do with its design than with the necessity of being under the same roof as her sister. However large a house, Brilliana would somehow contrive to shrink it in size. Though she loved her sister dutifully, Susan often had difficulty in actually liking her, especially when she felt, as now, that she was being watched over by Brilliana. She was seated in the parlour that morning when her sister sailed into the room.

'What are you doing?' asked Brilliana.

'Reading a book,' replied Susan, looking up from the volume in her hands.

'I never read anything these days. It's such a pointless exercise, I always think. When we were first married, Lancelot used to read poetry to me but his voice started to irritate me after a time.'

'You are too easily irritated, Brilliana.'

'I hate being bored.'

'Then find something that excites your mind.'

'I'll not find it on a bookshelf!' said the other with disdain.

Brilliana Serle was older, taller and more ambitious than her sister. She had the kind of porcelain beauty that defied the passage of time and dressed with such exquisite style that she always stood out in a crowd. When she was younger, Susan had resented her sister's ability to monopolise male attention but she came, in time, to appreciate its advantages. It rescued her from the wooing of a whole gallery of unappealing suitors, who made a fool of themselves over her sister instead. Marriage to Lancelot Serle had shaken off the chasing pack but it had not dulled Brilliana's fondness for dominating a dinner table or for being the cynosure at any gathering. She crossed the room to look over Susan's shoulder.

'What are you reading?' she demanded.

'It's a book about Italy, full of the most charming drawings.'

'Why on earth should you wish to read about Italy?'

'Because my interest was aroused by Mr Redmayne,' replied Susan. 'He's visited the country to study its architecture. He made me want to know more about Italy.'

'I think that you should know less about Mr Redmayne.'

'Brilliana!'

'It's high time that you removed him from your list of acquaintances.'

'Christopher is a friend of mine.'

'He's also the brother of a killer.'

"That's not true.'

'Father's letter was very exact on that point. Henry Redmayne is a dangerous criminal who has brought shame and ignominy on his entire family. You are to have nothing to do with them forthwith.'

'I prefer to make my own decision in that regard.'

'Not as long as you're in this house.'

Susan winced. Serle Court was turning out to be a luxurious version of Newgate to her, a place where she was confined against her will and kept deliberately apart from the company of the person she most wanted to see. Every decision that affected her was made by someone else. It was demeaning but Susan knew that she had to endure it. Apart from the fact that she would inevitably lose any argument with her sister, she did not wish to upset Brilliana. In due course, she hoped, she would persuade her sister to take her to London, ostensibly to visit the shops but really to be back in the city where her dearest friend lived, so that she could somehow contrive a meeting with him. If she so much as challenged Brilliana on the, subject of Christopher Redmayne, she would not get within a mile of him. Putting the book in her lap, Susan looked up with a patient smile.

'What plans have you for today, Brilliana?'

'My dressmaker is due to call this afternoon.'

'Good,' said Susan, thinking that she would have at least three hours of escape from sisterly vigilance. 'Has she finished that new dress you told me about?' 'She's not coming for my benefit, but for yours.'

'Mine?'

'Yes,' said Brilliana airily. 'Your wardrobe has grown so stale and dowdy. If you want to catch a rich husband, as I did, you must look the part. That's why I intend to take your appearance in hand.'

'I've no wish to have it changed.'

'Wait until you've spoken to my dressmaker. She'll transform you.'

'Brilliana, I have dresses enough of my own.'

'But none of any real quality.'

"There's no need to insult me.'

'It was meant in the kindest possible way, Susan. You choose your apparel for comfort rather than effect. It's a habit that no young woman in your position can afford.'

'My position?' echoed Susan, trying to maintain her composure.

'A spinster in search of a husband.'

'But that's not my position at all.'

'Of course, it is,' said her sister with a brittle laugh. 'What do you think we were put on this earth for, Susan? It was not to read books about ridiculous countries like Italy, that much is certain. It was to make a good marriage. Yours is already long overdue.'

'That's a very unkind remark.'

'Strike now while you still have your beauty. It will not last forever.'

'Some men prize other qualities above beauty.'

'Not the ones that you need to attract.'

'And who might they be?'

'Men like Lancelot. Wealthy, cultivated and infinitely obliging.'

'Nothing could be further from my mind at the moment than marriage.'

'Then you are betraying your womanhood,' said Brilliana, 'and will live to regret it before very long. Since Mother died, I've tried to take her place and offer you the love and advice that I know she would have given you.'

Susan did not trust herself to reply. There was not even the faintest resemblance between the roles of her mother and that of her sister. Brilliana had shown her precious little love and showered her with the sort of cynical advice that a kind and caring woman like their mother would never dream of foisting on any of her daughters.

Susan found her sister's comments offensive. She was grateful when Lancelot Serle came into the library to interrupt their conversation. His face was reddened by an hour in the saddle and his eyes glistening. He stood in the doorway and beamed.

'So, here you are!' he declared, noting the book in Susan's lap. 'Have you found my library to your taste?'

'Yes, thank you,' said Susan.

'I think that I may call it a library now that I have over seventy volumes on my shelves. Many were inherited from my father, of course, for he was a learned man but I have bought several on my own account. Brilliana will vouch for that.'

'Books are so tedious,' said his wife.

'You did not always think so, my love.' He turned to Susan. 'There was a time when Brilliana liked me to read poetry to her. John Donne was her favourite.'

'Those days have gone, Lancelot.'

'You were fond of Shakespeare's sonnets as well.'

'I slept through most of them.'

Serle laughed. 'Brilliana will tease,' he said.

'Did you enjoy your ride?' asked Susan.

'It was not so much of a ride as an errand. Has your sister not told you?'

'Told me what?'

'Brilliana wanted me to invite some friends over to meet you. We could have dispatched a servant, naturally, but I felt that a personal touch was needed.'

'That's why I sent you,' said his wife crisply. 'Is everything in hand?'

'It is, my love. All is arranged and the cook is standing by for your instructions. It promises to be an interesting evening, Susan,' he went on, still beaming happily 'You'll have the pleasure of meeting a very special gentleman.'

It sounded ominous. Susan felt a warning tremor.

After a long but profitable night at work, Christopher Redmayne set out with his drawings finished and packed away safely in his satchel. An accomplished horseman, he looked forward to the ride and found the keen morning air very bracing. Once clear of London, he discovered that the ground was firm and dry but not frozen. It enabled his horse to maintain a steady canter. Fear of ambush would have made most riders seek company before they set out but Christopher felt confident that he could repel or outrun any highwaymen who might be lurking along the way. In the event, he encountered no hazards on the road to Sheen apart from a stray dog that pursued them for a while and tried to bite the horse's fetlocks. A warning swish from Christopher's sword had got rid of the animal.

The village itself looked rather insignificant now that it had lost its royal and monastic associations. Sheen Palace, in various forms, had served generations of kings and queens before and well after its name was changed to Richmond Palace. Largely destroyed by the Parliamentarians, it had, after the Restoration, been partially repaired by the King for his mother but she found it far too bleak to live in. Christopher was saddened to see that it looked more ruin than royal place. He was even more dismayed when he rode past the dilapidated remains of the priory, a fine building that had been allowed to crumble over the years. As an architect, Christopher felt a profound sense of loss when noble edifices were reduced to shadows of their former glory.

Whitcombe Manor was less than a mile from Sheen and, in a sense, it was an attempt to preserve a royal connection because it was so obviously and unashamedly inspired by the Queen's House in Greenwich. Those who had never seen the beautiful house that Inigo Jones had designed for one queen, and finished for another, were struck by the symmetrical perfection of Whitcombe Manor, with its long, low, clean outlines, its arresting Palladian features and its proportions so subtly altered that it no longer resembled the Italian villa on which it was based. Visitors who were familiar with the Queen's House, however, recognised a smaller version of the building, more compact, less chaste in its aspect and with enough minor variations to absolve the architect of simply copying his predecessor. As he rode up the long drive and through the formal gardens at the front, Christopher wondered why Lady Whitcombe had opted for plagiarism rather than originality, for it was she who had been the moving spirit behind the construction of the house. The new town house she had commissioned was also, in essence, a copy of an existing structure. Her notions of architectural excellence were always second-hand.

It was only when he dismounted from his horse than Christopher realised how tired he was. The sleepless night and the long ride had taxed his strength. It was an effort to keep his eyes open. Handing the reins to an ostler, he tried to shake off his fatigue and strode towards the front door of the house. He was soon conducted to the parlour and given plenty of time to examine its contents. It was his third visit to the house but it still had a strange novelty for him. Lady Whitcombe was an acquisitive woman. If she saw something that she liked, she was determined to have it, no matter what its cost. Christopher looked around at the array of gilt-framed paintings, rich tapestries, abundant statuary and all the other ornamentation that had been assembled. A vast, red, patterned, circular Turkish carpet occupied the centre of the room with furniture arranged carefully around its circumference. There was an abiding sense of order and balance.

When Lady Whitcombe finally swept into the room, her daughter was trotting obediently at her heels. Both women smiled when they saw their visitor.

'It is so reassuring to see you, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, extending a hand for him to kiss. 'I began to fear that you'd forgotten us.'

'How could I possibly do that?' he said gallantly.

He kissed her hand politely then gave a token bow of acknowledgment to Letitia Whitcombe. She suppressed a giggle. Though almost twenty, Letitia had the manner of someone far younger. She was a desperately plain young lady with bulbous eyes, a snub nose and a pronounced jaw. Unsure whether a modest smile or a sly grin best suited her features, she kept shifting nervously between the two, however inappropriate they might be. Her mother, by contrast, had a natural dignity that gave her an almost regal air. Now approaching fifty, Lady Cecily Whitcombe had preserved some of the beauty that had made her such a catch in her younger days. What in other women might be considered an unbecoming plumpness looked, in her case, an attractive aspect of a Junoesque figure. Pink was Letitia's chosen colour but her mother wore a dress of pale blue with a row of darker blue bows adorning the front of the bodice. Both women had looped skirts that revealed petticoats with delicate embroidery. Anticipating his visit, they had taken great care with their appearance. Christopher felt untidy by comparison.

'Do sit down, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, perching on a chair and adjusting her dress accordingly. 'The long ride must have wearied you.'

'I am fine, my lady,' replied Christopher, grateful to be able to take a seat himself. 'The sight of Whitcombe Manor revived me at once.'

Letitia gave an involuntary giggle before lowering herself on to a chair.

'We are so grateful for this milder weather,' said her mother. 'You'd have found it impossible to travel when there was snow on the ground.'

'It was the frost that caused the real problems,' he said. 'Until this week, the Thames was one long sheet of ice.'

'We heard about the frost fair, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia, venturing into the conversation. 'I wish that I could have seen it.'

Her mother gave a disapproving smile. 'It was far too vulgar an event for you to attend, Letitia. I'm sure that Mr Redmayne agrees.'

'The King did not feel it beneath him, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher. 'His Majesty joined the rest of London on the ice. The frost fair was a splendid sight.'

'We preferred our own sights, here at Sheen.'

'I do not blame you.'

'The last thing I wanted to do was to rub shoulders with the common people on the Thames. One has to set standards. Fairs are a licence for crime and bad behaviour.'

'And for enjoyment as well,' said Letitia wistfully. 'It must have been a wondrous experience to be there. Was it, Mr Redmayne?'

'Oh, yes,' he confirmed.

'There you are, Mother.'

'We had sufficient amusements of our own, Letitia,' said the older woman.

'Yet it would have been nice to visit the frost fair.'

'It was quite out of the question.'

Letitia gave a resigned nod. 'Yes, Mother.'

'London is at its least alluring in the winter,' declared Lady Whitcombe. 'My late husband often remarked upon it. Cold weather seems to bring out the worst in people. It makes them angry, unsettled and disrespectful. You must have noticed the changes that the season brings, Mr Redmayne. Winter somehow strips people of their finer feelings. They become tetchy and more inclined to violence. The streets of London are simply not safe to walk down.'

'They are if you take sensible precautions,' said Christopher.

"The most sensible precaution is to stay away. Everyone who has been there recently comes back with tales of woe. They complain of fraud, theft, assault and affray. And, as everyone knows,' she went on, turning a pair of large, blue, searching eyes on him, 'the most gruesome murders are always committed in London.'

Christopher shifted uneasily in his seat. Lady Whitcombe's face was so impassive that it was difficult to tell if she was referring to the crime that involved his brother or not. He hoped that she might still be unaware of the murder but that set up the possibility of a revoked contract at a later stage when the news did trickle into her ears. He was certainly not going to volunteer any information on the subject. She stared at him for some time as if trying to communicate something. Relaxing slightly, she glanced at the satchel he had brought with him.

'Is the design for my new house finished?'

'It is, my lady.'

'Let me see it,' she said, rising to her feet. 'I've been looking forward to this moment for weeks. So has Letitia.'

'Yes,' agreed her daughter, getting up. 'It's very exciting.'

Christopher opened his satchel. 'I hope that the drawings meet with your approval,' he said, taking them out and unfolding them. 'Shall I put them on the table?'

'Please do, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia.

'Did you include the modifications?' asked Lady Whitcombe.

'Every suggestion you made has been followed to the letter,' he said.

Christopher went over to the table under the window. When some ornaments had been moved off it, he set out his drawings. The women were either side of him, bending over to study the designs and brushing his legs with their skirts as they did so. He caught a whiff of the most enchanting perfume. Letitia giggled with pleasure at what she saw but her mother inspected every detail in silence. Eventually, she gave a murmur of assent. Letitia pointed to an upstairs window in one drawing.

'Is this my bedchamber, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.

'It is, indeed,' he said, 'and it overlooks the river, as you see.'

'Which is Egerton's room?'

'Here at the front of the house,' said her mother, tapping the spot with her finger. 'You've not met my son yet, have you, Mr Redmayne?'

"That's a pleasure still to come.'

'He's due back from France very soon. It was Egerton who kept agitating for a house in London. Life in Sheen is idyllic in some respects but our opportunities for entertaining are rather limited. In London, our table will be more readily supplied with guests.' She straightened up to look at him. 'I trust that you'll be one of them.'

'How could I refuse such an invitation?'

'We look upon you as rather more than our architect, Mr Redmayne.'

'I'm very flattered, Lady Whitcombe.'

'Your company is so congenial.'

'I hope that my work brings satisfaction as well.'

'Oh, it does. I cannot fault it.'

'Nor can I, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia, still surveying the drawings. 'How on earth did you conjure such a beautiful house out of your imagination? It is magical.'

"Thank you,' he said.

'I have always wanted to live in the city.'

'It is only an occasional residence for us, Letitia,' her mother reminded her. 'This will always remain our principal home. Egerton will spend most of his time in London because he needs the society of young men. Country pleasures are no longer enough for him. You and I, however, will be more selective in our visits.'

'Yes, Mother.'

'We'll certainly not spend winter months in the capital.'

'You'll be warm enough, if you do so, my lady,' promised Christopher. 'I took especial care to give you large fireplaces in every room. Italian marble.'

'That was exactly what I required. Well,' she said, taking a final look at the drawings, 'I think that you deserve our congratulations, Mr Redmayne.'

'It was a labour of love, Lady Whitcombe.'

'We, too, have found it a most pleasurable experience.'

'Yes,' said Letitia with a grin.

'All that remains,' added her mother, 'is to get the house built. Who was the fellow you recommended?'

'Mr Popejoy,' replied Christopher. 'I've worked with him before. He built the house in Westminster that you admired so much. I'd recommend Sidney Popejoy without the slightest reservation. There are few more conscientious builders in London.'

'Would he be available?'

'I took the liberty of speaking to him about the project at the very start.'

"Then engage him forthwith.'

'Will your son need to approve the designs first?'

'Egerton?' she asked. 'No, he has no interest in architecture. His only demand was for a large house in London where we could entertain a much wider circle of friends than is possible here in Sheen. My son will be very grateful for what you've done, Mr Redmayne. His needs are simple and you've met every one of them.'

Christopher would never have described the house in terms of simple needs. It was a large property that would occupy a site overlooking the river and contain features that bordered on extravagance. Cost had been incidental. Lady Whitcombe had not merely inherited her husband's substantial wealth, she had independent means of her own. She was ready to lavish a huge amount of money on a house that she would only occupy at certain times of the year. It was her son, Egerton, who would derive most benefit from the place. As a wave of fatigue hit him, Christopher's legs buckled slightly.

'Are you hungry, Mr Redmayne?' asked his hostess.

'I am, Lady Whitcombe.'

'We shall dine very shortly.'

"Thank you.'

'It will give you time to get used to sharing our table.'

'I regard that as a privilege.'

'And we regard you as a friend, Mr Redmayne,' she said, bestowing her sweetest smile on him. 'Letitia made the same observation only this morning. We have not seen all that much of you and yet it feels as if you are one of the family.'

Letitia gave a nervous giggle. Christopher's legs wobbled again.

Jonathan Bale walked along the riverbank that afternoon until he was roughly opposite the point where the body had been found.

His sons would not be able to skate on the ice now. Cracks had been turned into deep crevices and thinner patches had broken up altogether. Blocks of ice floated in open water, melting gently in the sun. As the Thames slowly reasserted itself, the frost fair had been abandoned. Jonathan was glad. The city might be deprived of its winter merriment but the constable's younger son would be spared the visible reminder of the discovery he had made in the ice. There was a secondary reason why Jonathan was pleased at the thaw. Many of his friends earned their living from the river. In places like Shadwell, Ratcliffe, Poplar and Wapping, something like six out of ten men worked either as sailors, watermen or lightermen, occupations that had been frozen out of the Thames. Fishermen, too, had suffered. Sole, cod, herring, sprat and whitebait had continued to be caught in the estuary but those whose income depended on the smelt, eels, salmon and other fish they netted in the shadow of London had been badly hit.

As he gazed out of the river, Jonathan tried to work out where the body had been thrown in and how it had reached the spot where the ice had formed around it. He knew that the current could do strange things with any object tossed into the water. Human and animal bodies had been carried several miles downstream from the point where they had been hurled into the Thames. In this case, however, he sensed that the corpse had not drifted very far. Indeed, it might well have entered the water no more than a few hundred yards from where he stood. Jonathan looked up and down the riverbank, estimating the nearest point to the tavern that Henry Redmayne and his friends had visited on the night when the murder had probably taken place.

After pondering for some time, he moved away and walked along Thames Street in the direction of his home. His thoughts turned to his meeting with the jovial Captain Harvest. Before he met the soldier, Jonathan had been convinced that the killer had already been arrested and imprisoned in Newgate. Yet when his judgement had been buttressed by the confident assertions of Captain Harvest, he began to have doubts. There was something about the man that provoked distrust. He was too glib, too plausible and far too hasty to condemn Henry Redmayne. Harvest claimed to have been a friend of the murder victim. Jonathan asked himself why, if Henry had had left the tavern that night in such a vengeful mood, Harvest had not tried to restrain him or at least have gone off to warn Jeronimo Maldini of the imminent danger. The constable still believed in Henry's guilt but with far less certainty than before.

When he got back to Addle Street, he found his wife cleaning the house with a broom. After collecting a kiss from him, Sarah passed on her news.

'Jacob called here earlier on,' she said.

'Jacob?'

'Mr Redmayne's servant.'

'Oh,' said Jonathan. 'That Jacob. What did he want?'

'To give you a message. Mr Redmayne had to go out of London today. He'll not be back until tomorrow but is anxious to speak to you then.'

'I'm just as eager to talk to him, Sarah, and hoped to do so this evening.'

'Jacob saved you a wasted journey to Fetter Lane.'

'So it seems.' He looked around. 'Where are the boys?'

'Oliver is in the kitchen and Richard is upstairs. I had to separate them.'

'Why?'

'For the usual reason,' she said, leaning on her broom. 'They were arguing over who first saw that body in the ice. Oliver insists that it was him even though he knows perfectly well that it was Richard.'

'They must try to forget the whole thing, not argue about it.'

"That's what I told them, Jonathan.'

'I'll speak to Oliver later,' he decided, crossing to the staircase. 'Richard is the one who needs most attention. I'll not be long.'

As he ascended the steps, they creaked under his weight. Jonathan went into the little room at the rear of the house where his sons slept. Richard was huddled in a corner with his collar turned up against the cold.

'It's warmer downstairs by the fire,' said his father, kneeling beside him.

'I was sent up here.'

'Only because you and Oliver were bickering again. I warned you about that.'

'I'm sorry.'

'We both know that you were the first person to see that poor wretch in the ice,' said Jonathan, slipping an arm around the boy. 'Nobody can dispute it. I'll make sure that Oliver understands that. But it's time to put it behind you, Richard.'

'I've tried, Father. I've tried so hard.'

'Does it still prey on your mind?'

'Day and night.'

Jonathan gave him an affectionate squeeze. 'The memory will fade away in time.'

'Not until it's all over.'

'Over?'

"That man was murdered. Someone has to pay for that.'

'He will, Richard.'

'When he does, I may stop thinking about it.'

'I hope so, son.'

The boy looked up at him. 'Do you know the man?'

"The victim?'

'No, the one who killed him. Mother says he's in prison.'

'Yes,' said Jonathan. 'He's locked away in Newgate so you need have no fears about him. And I do know the man slightly, though he's no friend of mine.'

'What's his name?'

'Never mind about that.'

'I want to know, Father.'

'You know too much already.'

It was not the only reason that he held back the name of Henry Redmayne from his son. Both boys were very fond of Henry's brother. Christopher had been very kind to them and, on one occasion, even read to them from the Bible when they were in bed. To tell them that the murder suspect was his elder brother would be to destroy their faith in the architect and Jonathan did not want to do that. If and when Henry was convicted, it might be impossible to keep the name from them. Until that time, however, Jonathan wanted the suspect to remain anonymous.

'Did you help to catch him, Father?' asked the boy.

'No, Richard.'

'But you're helping in some way?'

'That's part of my job.'

'When are they going to hang him?'

"There has to be a trial first.'

'But they know that he did it.'

'They believe that they do,' corrected Jonathan. 'There's evidence against him and it will be presented in court in due course.'

'Will they hang him then?'

'If he's found guilty.'

'Oliver wants to be there,' said the boy. 'So do I. Will you take us, Father?'

'No!'

'But we'd like to see him hang for what he's done.'

'You'll do nothing of the kind,' said Jonathan sternly, 'and you're not to talk about it with Oliver ever again. Do you understand? As far as you're concerned, the matter is over and done with. Forget all about it, Richard. Pretend that it never happened.'

It was late afternoon before Christopher Redmayne finally rode away from Whitcombe Manor and it required an effort of will to do so. Lady Whitcombe had pressed him to stay, offering him a bed for the night and doing all she could by way of persuasion. It was a tempting offer. Under other circumstances, he might have accepted since he felt far too weary to travel back to London but something prompted him to leave. During the long discussion they had over dinner about the new house, Christopher became aware of Letitia's growing fondness for him. It became so obvious that it was embarrassing. Letitia praised his drawings, hung on his every word and never took her eyes off him. Every time she giggled aloud at one of his remarks, he cringed. What convinced him that he should depart was the fact that Lady Whitcombe quit the table at one point and left him alone with the daughter. Letitia was too gauche and unsophisticated to initiate an intelligent conversation herself so she merely agreed enthusiastically with everything that he said. Christopher's discomfort increased markedly. It was one thing to be promoted from architect to friend of the family but Letitia, abetted by her mother, seemed to have an even closer relationship in mind for him. Escape was imperative.

Back in the saddle, he rode swiftly in the direction of Richmond. When he came to a wayside inn, he stayed long enough to reserve a room for the night before continuing his journey. Silhouetted against the darkening sky, Serle Court eventually came into sight on its high eminence. Christopher was not impressed with it as a piece of architecture. It looked striking from afar but had too many contradictory elements in it to appeal to his taste. Its jagged outline was a denial of symmetry. He felt such a great need to see Susan Cheever once more that he did not even think of postponing his visit until the following morning when he would be in a better physical condition. At such a difficult time, Christopher sought the warmth of her friendship and the reassurance of her support.

Reaching the house, he dismounted, tethered his horse and rang the bell. The prospect of meeting her again helped him to shrug off his exhaustion. When the door was opened, Christopher introduced himself to the manservant and asked if he might see Susan. He was invited into the hall while the man went off to pass on his request. It produced an immediate response. The door of the parlour opened and a woman came bustling out but it was not Susan Cheever. It was her sister, Brilliana, and her mood was anything but hospitable.

'What on earth are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' she asked indignantly.

'I was hoping to see your sister.'

'You came all the way from London for that purpose?'

'No, Mrs Serle,' he explained. 'I was visiting a client in Sheen. As I was so close, I thought I would take the liberty of calling here.'

'I suggest that you think twice before you do so again.'

'All that I wanted was a chance to speak to Susan.'

"That's impossible,' she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. 'She's not here.'

'But your servant gave me the impression that she was.'

'He was mistaken.'

'Sir Julius talked of leaving London as soon as the weather improved.'

Her eyes flashed. 'Pray, sir, do not concern yourself with the travel arrangements of our family. I should have thought that it was your own family that required your attention. As it happens, my father has indeed quit the city.'

"Then Susan must have come to Richmond.'

'I've told you she is not here and that is all I'm prepared to say.'

Christopher could see that she was lying but he did not dare to challenge her. Brilliana's hostility was so blatant that she had obviously heard about the arrest of Henry Redmayne. Her response was no surprise to him and he sensed that it would identical to that of her father. Polite withdrawal was the only option for him.

'As you wish,' he said, backing away. 'If, by any chance, your sister arrives this evening, be so good as to tell her that I'll be staying overnight at the Falcon Inn, a few miles from here.'

'I'll do no such thing,' said Brilliana with vehemence. 'You are not welcome here, Mr Redmayne, for reasons that I need hardly explain. The next time you come knocking on our door, you'll not be admitted. My husband and I have no wish to see you and neither, I am sure, does my sister. I bid you farewell, sir.'

When Christopher backed out, she closed the door firmly in his face.