The King's Evil

The nightwatchman was hopelessly confused. When the theft was first discovered, he was all but accused by Samuel Littlejohn of being a party to the crime yet twelve hours later, as he came on duty again, the old man was given a handsome apology by the builder and a large flagon of beer by the architect. It made him resolve to discharge his office with more care that night.

Good intentions were not enough. Loneliness soon began to peck away at his resolution and fatigue slowly set in. He tried to stave off the latter by walking around the site and checking that all was well but his legs quickly tired and his lids began to droop. The flagon of beer was inevitably pressed into service. The first few swigs revived him for a while and he was confident that he could, after all, remain awake at his post all night. He allowed himself one more long drink. It was fatal.

Watching him from the bottom of the garden, the three thieves were growing restless. They had been there for well over an hour now. It was a starlit night and they had a good view of the whole site. They could see the night- watchman in dark profile, lifting the flagon to his lips.

The man with the cudgel took it out in readiness.

'The old fool will never go to sleep!' he grumbled.

'We cannot wait much longer,' said a second man.

'We'll not wait at all. I'll knock him out.'

'Hold!' advised the third man. 'I think he is going to lie down.'

The nightwatchman could no longer maintain the pretence of being diligent. It was good beer and its seductive taste could not be resisted. He emptied the whole flagon. By the time he discarded it, he was barely able to sit upright on his bench. A short nap was urgently required. Summoning up the last of his strength, he hauled himself off the bench and staggered across to a pile of soft earth, dug from the ground to create space for the cellars. It made an inviting bed. No sooner had he stretched himself on its gentle gradient than he fell asleep. Gentle snores rose up into the night air.

After waiting a short while, the man with the cudgel crept furtively up the garden to investigate. Weapon raised, he stood menacingly over the nightwatchman but he was not called upon to strike. The old man was fast asleep and unlikely to be roused by any sounds. After beckoning his companions, the thief made his way across to the tarpaulin which covered the building materials and which had been protection enough until the pilfering began. Stakes had been hammered into the ground so that the tarpaulin could be tied to them and thus rendered safe against high winds. Since it would be their last visit to the site, there was no point in untying the ropes, then later retying them to their stakes, as they had done on previous occasions when trying to conceal their theft. A knife was used to cut through the ropes then two of the men held a corner each of the tarpaulin and drew it back to expose their target.

Expecting to see nothing more than piles of bricks and stacks of timber, they were taken completely unawares when two figures suddenly sprang out at them. Christopher Redmayne unleashed his pent-up rage by flinging himself at one of the thieves and knocking him to the ground. Samuel Littlejohn, sweating profusely from his close confinement beneath the tarpaulin, grappled with another man and showed no mercy. It was not simply a case of apprehending the thieves. Architect and builder alike wanted revenge. They were possessive about their house. It had been defiled by intruders. It made the pair of them rain hard, unforgiving blows on their respective quarries.

Still free, the man with the cudgel did not know whether to save himself or help his fellows. In the event, self- interest won his vote. After a few ineffective swings at Littlejohn with his cudgel, he took to his heels and raced towards the boat which was moored at the jetty. He did not get far. Lurking in the shadows was a bulky figure who stepped out to block his way. The cudgel swung again but the blow was easily parried by a staff. Before the thief could defend himself, the end of the staff jabbed deep into his stomach to take the wind out of him then it clipped him hard on the side of the head. He dropped his cudgel and fell.

Jonathan Bale caught him before he hit the ground.

'Come, sir,' he said. 'Let us get you back to your fellows.'

The constable gave a call and three watchmen came out of their hiding place to take charge of the thief. When they had deprived him of a dagger, they dragged him up the garden of the house.

Surprise had been decisive in catching the other men. Swiftly overpowered, they now lay groaning on the ground. Christopher stood over them with a sword in his hand while Littlejohn used an arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Blood dripped from the builder's cheek but it was not his own. It belonged to the man whose lip he had opened with his angry knuckles. Littlejohn was now panting heavily but delighted with his night's work.

'We did well, Mr Redmayne,' he boasted. 'Very well.'

'Not well enough,' said Christopher. 'We only caught two of them.'

'The third is also taken,' announced a voice. 'I had thought to arrest all three myself but it seems that you have done my office for me.'

Christopher and Littlejohn were amazed to see the constable coming towards them with the thieves' accomplice in the grip of the watchmen. They were thrilled that all the malefactors had been caught. In the gloom, Christopher did not at first recognise the constable.

'You came at an opportune moment,' he said.

'I was acting on information, sir,' explained Jonathan.

'Information?'

'Yes, sir. I was roused from my bed and advised that a crime was about to take place on this site.'

'Who gave you such advice?'

'Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe.'

Littlejohn was baffled. 'Who?'

'A neighbour of mine, sir. A Quaker. He chanced to overhear these rogues plotting their crime. After following them here, Mr Thorpe came straight to my house to warn me.'

'We are most grateful to him,' said the builder. 'And grateful to you as well. These villains have already stolen far too much from this site and they had to be caught. They deserve to rot in prison.'

'They will, sir.'

'We hope we may recover some of the property taken earlier.'

'That depends where it went,' said Jonathan, glancing at the men on the ground. 'These men came by boat so the likelihood is that they had a warehouse nearby where they could take the stolen goods. Do not worry, sir, I am sure they will tell us all we wish to know.'

Jonathan grabbed each of them in turn by the scruff of his neck and pulled him upright. Both were too dazed to resist, let alone to attempt an escape. Two of the watchmen seized a man apiece. The constable was very pleased. In a crime-infested ward, the forces of law and order had achieved a small triumph. Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe had been instrumental in securing one arrest. A man who had violated several laws on his own account that night had helped to foil a serious crime.

Christopher took a closer look at the providential constable.

'Do I not know you, friend?' he said.

'No, sir,' protested Jonathan. 'We have never met.'

'Yes, we have. I remember you now.'

'I have no memory whatsoever of you, sir.'

'But you must have,' said Christopher, warming to him. 'You came to my aid once before. It was near St Paul's when a pickpocket robbed me of my purse. Yes, you are Jonathan Bale, are you not?' he recalled. 'I had a feeling we would meet again one day. I am Christopher Redmayne. I offered you a drawing of the cathedral by way of thanks. Surely, you remember me now, my friend? I was the artist whose purse you restored. Christopher Redmayne.'

Jonathan took a deep breath before issuing a polite rebuff.

'You are mistaken, sir. I have never heard that name before.'