The King's Evil

Henry Redmayne was in the last place where his brother expected to find him. When Christopher ran him to earth, he was working late at the Navy Office in Seething Lane, a building which had escaped the Great Fire by dint of being upwind of it. Bent over his desk, Henry was inspecting the designs for a new ship and he did not welcome the interruption.

'What do you want, Christopher?' he said peevishly.

'To search that murky vault known as your memory.'

'Your sarcasm is in bad taste.'

'And so are your lies, Henry,' said his brother, confronting him. 'Why did you not tell me that the house I was designing for Sir Ambrose was destined for him and his mistress?'

'Was it?' asked the other, feigning surprise.

'You know quite well that it was. You also knew that he changed the name of his ship to the Marie Louise in honour of her. Yet somehow you failed to mention either of these things to me.'

'I did not think them pertinent.'

'Well, they are extremely pertinent now.'

'Are they?'

'Yes,' said Christopher tartly. 'But let us begin with news which has evidently not reached you. Solomon Creech has been murdered.'

Henry jumped to his feet. 'Creech? When? How?'

'His body was dragged out of the river this morning.'

'Poor devil!'

'It explains why Mr Creech was so terrified when Sir Ambrose was killed. He clearly feared for his own life - and with good cause.'

'Do they have any idea who killed him?'

'Not yet. I believe that he is the second victim of the same man. First Sir Ambrose, and now his lawyer. How many more victims must there be before you start to help me?'

'I have helped you,' stuttered the other.

'Only fitfully.'

'Tell me more about Creech. How was he found?'

Christopher recapitulated the facts and watched his brother's reaction carefully. To his credit, Henry was genuinely remorseful and he managed to say a few kind words about Solomon Creech by way of a valedictory tribute even though he had never liked the man.

'How did you learn of this, Christopher?'

'I was at Mr Creech's office when the ring was brought.'

'It must have made his clerk turn white with fear.'

'He almost fainted at the sight of it, Henry, but he was able to confirm whose it was and how it came to be in such an unlikely place.'

'Did he have any idea why his employer was murdered?'

'None whatsoever.'

'Do you?' 'Oh, yes,' said Christopher. 'I think he was killed because of his close association with Sir Ambrose Northcott. Nobody knew as much about his business affairs and his private life as Solomon Creech. Some of that information was too dangerous to leave in his possession. That is why he had to be silenced.'

'Is this fact or supposition?'

'A blend of both.'

'So you could be wildly wrong?'

'I could be, Henry. But my instinct tells me otherwise. However, let me come back to you,' he said, fixing his brother with a stare. 'You lied to me about receiving a percentage of my fee and you lied to me about the real purpose behind the building of that house. Why?'

'I did not lie, Christopher. I merely withheld the truth.'

'It amounts to the same thing.'

'Oh, no. There is a subtle distinction.'

'I shall be grateful if you can explain it to me.'

'A lie is a deliberate act of deception,' said Henry, 'and I would never knowingly foist one on my brother. If, on the other hand, I felt there was something which he had no real need to know, I would conceal it.'

'Such as your theft from me.'

'It was not a theft, Christopher. It was fair payment.'

'For what?'

'I do not want to have that argument all over again,' said the other, waving an irritable hand. 'Put it behind us and concentrate on what brought you here. Why did I not tell you about Marie Louise Oilier? Simple. Because it was none of your business.'

'It was, Henry.'

'In what way? Does it matter if Sir Ambrose intended to share that house with his lawful wife or with a harem of naked women? He could have leased it out to a tribe of piccaninnies with rings through their noses and flowers in their hair. He hired you as an architect, not as a parish priest.'

'I still feel that you might have mentioned it to me.' 'Sir Ambrose chose you precisely because I did not need to mention such matters to you. It was a first condition of hiring you. He insisted on absolute discretion.'

'That was beforehand,' Christopher reminded him. 'Once he was dead, there was no need to hide the truth from me. It would have saved me valuable time if I heard about Marie Louise Oilier from you and not from another source.'

'What other source?'

'It does not matter.'

'I want to know.'

'Well, I am not in a position to tell you.'

'Ah, I see,' said Henry with a lift of his eyebrow. 'You accuse me of concealing information yet you are happy to do so yourself. There is one rule for me and another for Christopher Redmayne. What is your purpose'

'I am trying to protect my brother's life.'

Sudden panic. 'My life?'

'Do you not realise that it may be at risk?'

'No. Why should it be? I have done nothing wrong.'

'You were an intimate of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. That may be enough. We are dealing with a ruthless killer, Henry. If his motive is revenge, he may not stop at Sir Ambrose's lawyer. Close friends could be his next targets.'

'Why?' gulped Henry.

'Perhaps you know too much. Like Solomon Creech.'

'I know nothing!'

'Be honest, Henry.'

'Sir Ambrose was a chance acquaintance, that is all.'

'Yet he entrusted you with secrets denied to others,' reasoned Christopher. 'To his wife and daughter, for instance. You shared his passion for gambling and for women. You dined with him, discussed the affairs of the day with him, even went to Court with him. That is more than a chance acquaintanceship, Henry.'

'You really think that I am in danger?'

'Until this villain is caught.'

'What must I do, Christopher?'

'Be more truthful with me. The longer you hold back secrets, the more you imperil yourself. I need to know everything about your relationship with Sir Ambrose, especially where the new house is concerned. It is no accident that he was murdered on the premises. That property had a vital significance. Help me to find out what it was.'

'How?'

'Go back to the start, Henry. Tell me how and when Sir Ambrose first decided to commission another house. Why did he choose that site? And how did you persuade him that your brother was the ideal architect for him to employ on the project?'

Henry sat back down again to gather his thoughts. Having failed to get the answers he wanted, Christopher had decided to frighten them out of him. He did not really believe that his brother was at risk but it was the only way to ensure his full co-operation.

His ruse worked. Important new information gushed out of Henry in a continuous stream and further aspects of the character of Sir Ambrose Northcott were laid bare. Henry knew far more about the man's political activities than he had hitherto disclosed and, it transpired, had once sailed with him in the Marie Louise. When the confession came to an end, Christopher told him the one thing about his friend which he obviously did not know. Henry paled.

'Sir Ambrose owned that house in Lincoln's Inn Fields?'

'I had it on good authority.'

'Why did he never tell me?' said Henry, wounded that such a fact had been kept from him. 'We went there several times together yet he never even hinted that he was the owner. I always assumed that the house belonged to Molly Mandrake.'

'What sort of an establishment is it?'

'A wondrous edifice in every way.' A beatific smile spread over Henry's face. 'We were fortunate enough to see Molly Mandrake in her prime. What a truly extraordinary woman! The most remarkable piece of architecture in London. Such symmetry, such proportions!'

'I will take your word for it, Henry.'

'She would inspire any artist.'

'That is a matter of opinion,' said Christopher with a tolerant smile. 'I just hope that the name of Mrs Mandrake does not come to Father's ears. I doubt that he would appreciate her architectural pre-eminence. But enough of the lady,' he continued. 'I will have to ask Mr Bale to take a look at her establishment in my absence.'

'Mr Bale? Is that the constable you have mentioned?'

'Yes, Henry. A staunch fellow. Jonathan Bale is a dour Roundhead but as solid as a rock for all that. He and I have been working together. I sail from Deptford tomorrow on the morning tide. While I am in France, he can follow up other lines of enquiry here.'

'And what of me?'

'Study Sir Ambrose's political enemies more closely.'

'I am talking of my safety. What must I do?'

'Go armed, brother.'

'I will, I will.'

'And do not venture near the river on your own.'

'I will immure myself in my house.'

'There is no need for that,' said Christopher. 'Sensible precautions will suffice. And you must go to Court. How else can you keep a wary eye on those politicians?'

When he left the Navy Office, he was confident for the first time that Henry had been completely honest with him.

Christopher collected his horse and rode to Addle Hill to acquaint Jonathan Bale with what he had just learned and to suggest that he kept a certain house in Lincoln's Inn Fields under surveillance. The constable accepted the assignment with some reluctance then surprised Christopher by warning him to look after himself while in France.

'I will, Mr Bale. We reach Calais on Sunday.'

'Desperate men do not respect the Sabbath.' 'Nor do desperate women,' said Christopher with a grin. 'I suspect that activity will continue unabated in Lincoln's Inn Fields. If your feet take you in that direction, you may learn something of interest.'

'I am no Peeping Tom, sir.'

'We must both look through keyholes if we are to get to the bottom of this, Mr Bale. I must find Mademoiselle Oilier and you must renew your friendship with Mrs Mandrake.'

'The lady is no friend of mine.'

'In time she might become one,' advised Christopher mischievously.

'A century would not suffice,' said Jonathan proudly. 'I am a married man and more than happy with my lot.'

'You have every right to be. Mrs Bale is a delightful woman.'

'Then no more jests, sir.'

'I am sorry if I appear to treat the matter lightly,' said the other seriously, 'for I am in earnest. The bedchamber seems to have been the natural milieu of Sir Ambrose Northcott. Neither of us must shrink from peeping into it.'

'Necessity will dictate.'

Jonathan showed him to the door and waited while he mounted.

'Good luck, sir!'

'Thank you, Mr Bale.'

'When will I hear from you again?'

'As soon as may be. Farewell!'

Christopher rode off through the darkening streets, pondering the mystery of Jonathan Bale. The investigation which had drawn the two of them together allowed him to see the constable's merits and compassion yet some kind of impassable barrier remained between them. Sarah Bale was open and friendly towards him but her husband was somehow unable to follow her example. Christopher wondered why.

Speculation took him all the way back to Fetter Lane where he stabled his horse and came round to the front of the house. He was just about to go inside when he saw a coach lurching up the street out of the gloom. His spirits soared as he recognised it as belonging to Penelope Northcott. He waited until the coachman brought the vehicle to a halt then reached out to open the door for her, smiling broadly in welcome.

But it was George Strype who glared out at him. He was the sole passenger and he took note of Christopher's evident disappointment.

'Were you expecting someone else, Mr Redmayne?' he asked.

'No, Mr Strype.'

'I see that you remember my name.'

'I can hardly forget it.'

'You seem to have forgotten that it is linked with the name of Penelope Northcott,' said the other pointedly. 'She and I are engaged to be married. I take a dim view of any man who lures my betrothed into spending a night beneath his roof.'

Christopher tried to douse the man's smouldering anger.

'Perhaps you would care to step inside my house,' he said with great courtesy. 'We can discuss this like gentlemen and I promise you that I will be able to put your mind at rest.'

'I did not come here to discuss anything with you, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then what is the purpose of this visit?'

'To retrieve those letters.'

'Miss Northcott entrusted them to me.'

'She now wants them back.'

'I beg leave to doubt that.'

'Give me the letters, man!'

'They are valuable evidence. I need them.'

'Miss Northcott wishes to have them back!'

'Do you have a written request to that effect?'

'Of course not.'

'Then I will not return them.'

'She empowered me to speak on her behalf.'

'I find that unlikely, Mr Strype,' said Christopher evenly. 'When the letters first came to light, Miss Northcott chose to keep their existence from you. I can see why.'

'Damn you, man! Hand them over.'

'Not unless she comes here in person.'

'Must I take those letters from you?'

George Strype hauled himself up and stood menacingly in the doorway of the coach, back crouched and head thrust forward. One hand closed on his sword and he drew it halfway from its sheath. Christopher did not move an inch. When their eyes locked, his were glistening with quiet determination.

'You are most welcome to try to take them, Mr Strype,' he said.

His pugnacious visitor ducked out of the coach then paused on the step when he saw that Christopher did not budge. He was almost inviting attack. Strype noticed his hand, resting on the handle of his own sword with the nonchalance of a man who knew how to use the weapon. The prospect of a duel in the street suddenly lost all appeal. There was a long pause while the visitor reviewed the situation. With a snort of anger, George Strype then stepped back into the coach and slammed the door behind him. Christopher gave him a cheery wave.

'I will return!' warned Strype.

Then he ordered the coachman to drive off.