The King's Evil

Chapter Twelve

'Woe into the bloody city of London! It is full of sinful and ungodly men!'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was preaching to a small, hostile congregation from an unlikely pulpit. Head and hands trapped in the pillory, he was a target both for the cheerful abuse of the onlookers and the various missiles which they threw at him for sport. A rotten tomato struck him on the forehead and bled profusely down his face but it did not interrupt the torrent of words which flowed from his mouth. Being locked in the pillory was a hazardous punishment. It exposed the victim to vile taunts and, in some cases, vicious behaviour by spectators. More than one person had been stoned to death while immobilised by the rough, chafing wood. Thorpe was more fortunate. The worst blow that he had to suffer came when a dead cat was hurled at him and split open to dribble with gore.

'Turn to God in truth and humility or ye are all doomed!'

His denunciation continued unchecked until someone pulled away the box on which he was standing and almost broke his neck. Thorpe's head was suddenly jerked backwards and he had to stretch hard in order to touch the ground with his toes. The pain was agonising. Without a box to stand on, he was virtually dangling from the pillory. All the breath was knocked out of him and the crowd bayed in triumph. Too proud to beg mercy from them, the little Quaker closed his eyes in prayer.

It was soon answered. He heard a grating noise as the box was put back in position beneath his feet and his pain eased at once. The jeers of the crowd also subsided and most people began to drift away. When he opened his eyes, Thorpe saw the solid figure of Jonathan Bale standing between him and further humiliation. Only when the audience had largely dispersed did the constable step out from in front of the pillory and turn to his neighbour. He used a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mess from the Quaker's face.

'Thank ye, Mr Bale,' said Thorpe. 'It is a strange world indeed. One constable puts me in the pillory and another comes to my aid.'

'You have only yourself to blame for being here.'

'I suffer my punishment willingly.'

'You need not have suffered it at all,' said Jonathan. 'Your offence was to be caught working on a Sunday. Had you expressed remorse, you might have got away with a fine. But you were too truculent. According to Tom Warburton, you more or less challenged the Justice of the Peace to pillory you. From what I hear, you were lucky that he did not order your ears to be nailed to the wood.'

'I do not respect corrupt justice.'

'Then try to avoid it, Mr Thorpe.'

He retrieved his neighbour's hat from the ground and set it on the man's head to shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Jonathan had sympathy for any man imprisoned in the pillory but it was difficult to feel sorry for someone who actively gloried in suffering. The constable's real sympathy was reserved for Hail-Mary Thorpe and her children. He was just about to remind the Quaker of his family responsibilities when the approaching clatter of hooves made him swing round.

Christopher Redmayne was in a hurry. As he pulled his horse to a halt, he dropped from the saddle and beckoned Jonathan across to him. They stepped into the privacy of an alley to converse.

'I thought we arranged to meet this evening, sir,' said Jonathan.

'My news would not wait that long.'

'Then tell it me straight.'

'Solomon Creech is dead,' said Christopher. 'Murdered.'

'How?'

'First bludgeoned then flung into the Thames to drown. They found the body this morning. It had been in the water for days.'

'Then it must have been in a sorry state,' said Jonathan. 'The river changes a man beyond all recognition. How did they identify Mr Creech?'

'From his clothing. The name of his tailor was in his coat and the fellow remembered for whom he made the garment. Corroboration came from a gold ring they found in the dead man's stomach.'

'His stomach?'

'That is why his clerk was so certain it must be him.'

The constable blinked. 'Mr Creech swallowed a gold ring?'

'Deliberately, it seems,' explained Christopher. 'The ring was a wedding gift from his late wife and he treasured it above all else. He told his clerk that he would sooner part with his life than with that ring and that, if ever he were set upon by robbers, he would swallow the token of his wife's love.' He shook his head sadly. 'I wronged Mr Creech. I never took him for a married man, still less for one with such a romantic streak. His clerk recognised the ring at once. It was inscribed with his employer's initials. That put the identity of the body beyond all question.'

'And is that what happened?' asked Jonathan. 'He swallowed the ring because he was set on by robbers?'

'No, Mr Bale. His purse was untouched and his watch still on its chain. This is no murder for gain unless it be to gain his silence.'

'Where was he last seen?'

'Leaving his office some days ago. He told his clerk that he had business aboard the Marie Louise. No word was heard from him after that. This was no random killing.' It is linked in some way to the death of Sir Ambrose. The river binds both men together. Solomon Creech was pulled out of it and the man who killed Sir Ambrose was last seen at that landing stage. I am forced to wonder if the murderer was waiting to be rowed out to the Marie Louise.'

'I found out a few more things about that vessel.'

'So did I, Mr Bale.'

'It was bound for France.'

'Everything seems to lead there.'

Christopher told him about Penelope Northcott's unheralded visit to his house, omitting the fact that she spent the night there in order to avoid any misunderstanding. Jonathan clicked his tongue in disapproval when he heard about the love letters from Marie Louise Oilier but held back from adverse comment. At the end of the tale, he reached the same conclusion as Christopher himself.

'Your brother should have warned you about this.'

'I mean to tax him on that very topic.'

'He must have known that the new house was being built for this Marie Louise. It would have been a kindness to tell you.'

'I think I can see why Henry kept the truth from me.'

'Supposing he had not, Mr Redmayne?'

'What do you mean?'

'Supposing that you knew your house would be lived in by a rich man and his mistress. Would you still have agreed to design it?'

'Yes,' said Christopher without hesitation.

'In your place,' said the other steadfastly, 'I would have refused.'

'Then you will never make an architect, my friend. My commission was simply to design a house, not to examine the morals of the people who might inhabit it.'

'But that is exactly what you are forced to do now, sir.'

'That irony has not been lost on me, Mr Bale.'

A jeer went up nearby. Now that the constable had moved aside from the pillory, a small knot of people had gathered around it again. Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe found his voice once more and upbraided them sternly. Christopher moved to the corner to look across at him.

'I thought that Quakers were men of peace.' 'Not this one, sir. He is too belligerent for his own good.'

'What was his offence?'

'Working on the Sabbath.'

'I may be guilty of the same crime myself this Sunday.'

'You, sir?'

'Yes, Mr Bale,' said Christopher. 'Before I call on my brother, I will find the quickest way to sail to France. I am convinced that the answers we seek lie with Marie Louise Oilier or with the ship that carries her name. Sunday will find me working hard to track down a killer. Is that a sinful labour on the Sabbath?'

'No, Mr Redmayne.'

'Would you arrest me for it?'

'Only if you fail.'