The King's Evil

As he strolled towards the stables, Christopher asked himself why such a lovely young lady should allow herself to become engaged to such a disagreeable man. Strype looked ten years older than his fiancée and clearly set in his attitudes. He had the arrogant manner of someone whose authority was never challenged. Christopher felt even more pity for Penelope Northcott. At a time when she most needed sympathy, she was in the hands of George Strype. The man's arrival did have one advantage. It robbed Christopher himself of all vain interest in Penelope. She was spoken for and that was that. His mind was liberated to concentrate on the important task of tracking down the man who killed her father.

The stables were at the side of the house but curiosity got the better of him. Instead of retrieving his horse, he went on to take a look at the garden which now stretched out before him. It was breathtaking in its sense of order. Neat rectangular lawns were fringed with colourful borders and dotted with circular flowerbeds. Trees and shrubs grew in serried ranks. Paths criss-crossed with geometrical precision and water met the eye in every direction. Gauging the amount of work which must have gone into its creation and maintenence, he could only marvel.

Its most startling feature was sitting on a bench. She blended so perfectly with her surroundings that at first Christopher did not see her. Lady Frances Northcott was resting in the shade of an arbour as she looked across to the willows edging the lake. Where she might have been tense and doleful, she seemed at that distance to be surprisingly at ease. Christopher could not resist getting a little closer to make sure that it really was the widow of Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had borne the news of his murder with extraordinary composure and Christopher fully expected her to return to him once she had escorted her daughter to her bedchamber. In the event, it was Penelope who came back, giving the impression that it was her mother who was so consumed by grief that she could not face the visitor again.

Lady Northcott was not consumed with grief now. Christopher crept across a lawn until he was only ten yards or so away. Concealing himself behind some rhododendrons, he watched her with fascination for a few minutes. When her head turned briefly in his direction, giving him a clear view of her face, he was shocked. Instead of mourning the death of her husband, Lady Frances Northcott had a smile of contentment on her lips.