The King's Evil

Arnaud Bastiat owned a fine house in the Faubourg St Germain. Alone in the room which served as a library and study, he sat at his table, lost in contemplation. The book which lay open before him was unnoticed and the booming of the nearby church clock went unheard.

Bastiat was a rotund man of middle years with a pale face which was pierced by two intelligent blue eyes and a high forehead which was covered in a network of veins. Lank grey hair hung to his shoulders, complemented by a small grey beard. Dressed largely in black, he had white cuffs and a white lace collar which spread its intricate pattern across his barrel chest. When his servant knocked and entered, it took Arnaud Bastiat a while to become fully aware of his presence. The servant, a compact young man with a dark moustache, stood there in silence until his master spoke.

'Yes, Marcel?'

'You have a visitor, monsieur,' said the man.

'I am expecting no callers this evening. Who is it?'

'A young man from England.'

'From England?' said the other guardedly. 'Did he give a name?'

'Christopher Redmayne.'

'I do not know him. What business can he have with me?'

'He did not come in search of you, monsieur.'

'Oh?'

'The person he seeks is Mademoiselle Oilier.'

Bastiat sat back in surprise and stroked his beard. He signalled that the visitor was to be brought in then rose from his chair, closing the book gently before walking around the table. When Christopher entered, his host was standing in the middle of the room, composed but alert, his eyes and ears now attuned to what was in front of him. Introductions were made and each man tried to weigh up the other as they spoke in French.

'You have come all the way from England?' began Bastiat.

'Yes, monsieur. A long journey but an unavoidable one.'

'Why is that?'

'I must see Mademoiselle Oilier at the earliest opportunity.'

'And your reason?'

'That is a matter between myself and the young lady.' 'What brought you to this address?'

'It was the one given in a letter which Mademoiselle Oilier sent to a mutual friend of ours.'

'Have you seen this letter?'

'I carry it with me,' said Christopher, tapping his pocket.

'May I look at it?'

'No, Monsieur Bastiat. It is of a very private nature. I will only show it to Mademoiselle Oilier to establish my credentials.'

A lengthy pause. 'This mutual friend,' said Bastiat at length. 'Are you able to tell me his name?'

'I am afraid not.'

'Then it is a gentleman of whom we speak?'

'My tidings are for Mademoiselle Oilier.'

'May I at least know your relation to this mutual friend?'

'I was employed by him as his architect.'

'An architect? An exalted position for a messenger.'

Christopher tired of his probing. 'The message I bring is of the most urgent nature, monsieur,' he said. 'I implore you to tell me where I can find the young lady.'

'Mademoiselle Oilier does not live here.'

'So I deduce.'

'But she could be sent for in an emergency.'

'I believe that this qualifies as an emergency.'

'Why?'

'I am sure that the young lady will tell you in due course.'

Bastiat raked him with a shrewd gaze then moved to the door.

'Excuse me one moment, monsieur.'

Christopher noted that he went out to speak to the servant instead of summoning him and giving him instructions in front of the visitor. Evidently, a private warning was being sent to Marie Louise Oilier and Christopher wished that he could hear what it was. He took advantage of his host's brief absence to look at some of the books which filled the shelves. Bastiat was clearly a studious man. Before the other returned, Christopher was just in time to observe that the volume which lay on the table was an edition of the Bible.

'Mademoiselle Oilier will be here soon,' said Bastiat.

'Thank you, monsieur.'

'I take it that you will have no objection if I am present during your conversation with her?'

Christopher was adamant. 'I object most strongly,' he said, 'and I suspect that the young lady will do likewise when she realises the nature of what I have to reveal to her.'

'But I am her uncle, Monsieur Redmayne.'

'Were you her father, I would still bar you from the room.'

'Then your message must be of a very delicate nature.'

'It is.'

'Can you give me no hint of its content?'

'None, monsieur.'

Bastiat continued to fish for information but Christopher would not be drawn. Having braved a taxing journey, he was not going to spill his news into the wrong pair of ears. Besides, he was there to listen as well as to inform and he sensed that he would learn far more from Marie Louise Oilier if they were alone than if her uncle were in attendance. Bastiat was a quiet, softly-spoken man but he exuded an authority which was bound to have an influence on his niece. The size of the house suggested that its owner was a man of some means but it was not clear what profession he followed. He did not look to Christopher like a person who lived on inherited wealth. There was an air of diligence about him. He was also very circumspect. Probing for detail about his visitor, Bastiat gave away almost nothing about himself.

It was twenty minutes before the servant returned and tapped on the door. Bastiat excused himself again and Christopher could hear him conversing in a low voice with someone in the hall. When he reappeared, he brought in Mademoiselle Oilier and performed the introductions, lingering until his niece was seated and assuring her that she only had to call if she wished to summon him.

Left alone with the newcomer, Christopher needed time to adjust his thoughts because Marie Louise Oilier bore no resemblance whatsoever to the person of his expectations.

Penelope Northcott had made a judgement about her based on a rough portrait which she had seen but Christopher realised that no artist could possibly have conveyed her essence in a sketch. Marie Louise Oilier had the kind of striking beauty which was all the more potent for being unaware of itself. She was a tall, slender, almost frail young lady with a fair complexion and fair hair which was trained in a mass of short curls all over her head. The blue and white stripes on her dress accentuated her height and poise. Its bodice was long and tight-fitting and the low decolletage was encircled with lace frills. The full skirt was closely gathered in pleats at the waist then hung to the ground. On her head was a lawn cap with a standing frill in front and long lappets falling behind the shoulders.

The two things which struck Christopher most were the softness of her skin and her aura of innocence. Marie Louise Oilier was not the coquette whom he thought he saw on a first reading of her letters. She was much nearer to the victim who seemed to emerge from a closer perusal of them. Yet she was not timid or submissive. Framed in the window, she sat there with great self-possession as she appraised him through large pale green eyes. Christopher took note of the small crucifix which hung on a gold chain around her neck. Marie Louise Oilier was a porcelain saint. The idea that she could be entangled with a man like Sir Ambrose Northcott seemed ludicrous.

'You must excuse my uncle,' she said softly. 'He is very protective. Since my parents died, he believes that it is his duty to look after me.'

'I see.'

'He was afraid to leave me alone with you.'

'Are you afraid, mademoiselle?'

'Yes,' she admitted.

'Of me.'

'Of what you have come to tell me.'

'It is not good news, I fear.'

'I know.'

'How?'

'Because I sense it, monsieur. He has not written to me since he left for England. That is a bad sign. Something has happened. Something to stop him sending a letter. Is he unwell?' Christopher shook his head. 'Worse than that?'

'Much worse,' he whispered.

She gave a little whimper then tightened her fists as she fought to control herself. Her eyes were filled with tears and her face puckered with apprehension but she insisted on hearing the truth. Christopher broke the news to her as gently as he could. Her body convulsed and he moved across to her, fearing that she was about to faint, but she waved him away and brought a lace handkerchief up to her face. She sobbed quietly for some minutes and all that he could do was to stand and wait. When she finally mastered her grief, she found the strength to look up at him.

'Why did you come to me?' she asked.

'I felt that you had a right to be told.'

'Thank you.'

'I know how much Sir Ambrose meant to you.'

'Everything,' she murmured. 'He was everything.'

The bundle of letters suddenly became like a lead weight in his pocket. He took them guiltily out, feeling that he was intruding into a private relationship simply by holding them. He offered them to her.

'You might want these back.'

She took them sadly. 'Did you read them?' He nodded. 'They were not meant for anyone else's eyes. They were for him. Only for him.'

'I realise that, mademoiselle. But I needed to find you. It was one of the letters which brought me to Paris.'

'I am glad you came.'

'It was not a welcome undertaking.'

'You are very considerate, monsieur.' She used the handkerchief to wipe away a tear and looked at him with more interest. 'So you are the architect,' she said with a wan smile. 'Ambrose talked so much about our house. He was delighted with what you had done, Monsieur Redmayne. I was so looking forward to living in London. I dreamed of nothing else. What will happen to the house now?'

'It will probably never be built.'

'That is such a shame.'

She stroked the bundle of letters with her fingers and he noticed for the first time the handsome diamond ring on her left hand. Marie Louise Oilier went off into a reverie and he did not dare to break into it. He waited patiently until she blinked as if suddenly coming awake.

'Do please excuse me, sir.'

'There is nothing to excuse.'

'How did you find the letters?' she asked.

'I did not, mademoiselle. They were given to me.'

'By whom?'

'Sir Ambrose's daughter.'

'Daughter?' She recoiled as if from a blow. 'He had a daughter?'

'Did you not know that?'

'No, monsieur. Ambrose told me that his wife died years ago. There was no mention of any children. I was led to believe that he lived alone.'

'You were deceived, I fear,' said Christopher, distressed that he had to inflict further pain. 'Sir Ambrose owned a house in Kent which he shared with his wife and daughter. Lady Northcott did not die. I have met her and she is in good health.'

'But he was going to marry me,' she protested.

'That would not have been possible under English law.'

'Nor in the eyes of God!'

Her hand went to the crucifix and Christopher began to wonder if he had misread her letters. A close physical relationship was implied in them yet he was now getting the impression that Marie Louise Oilier was far from being an experienced lover. If that were the case, a startling paradox was revealed. After years of consorting with ladies of easy virtue, Sir Ambrose Northcott had become obsessed with a virgin. He could only attain her with a promise of marriage.

'Mademoiselle,' he said, sitting beside her. 'You told me earlier that you sensed something was amiss because Sir Ambrose had not written to you since he went to England.'

'That is so.'

'Was he recently in France, then?'

'Yes, he spent ten days here.'

'Together with you?'

'Some of the time,' she recalled. 'He stayed here at my uncle's house. Before that, he had business to transact in Calais and Boulogne. And, of course, he had to travel to the vineyard.'

'Vineyard?'

'In Bordeaux. It is owned by my family.'

'Is that where Sir Ambrose bought his wine?'

'Most of it.'

'And is that how you met?'

'No,' she said wistfully. 'We met in Calais. He was so kind to me.' She turned to Christopher. 'I know what you must think, monsieur. A young girl, being spoiled by a rich man who takes advantage of her innocence. But it was not like that. He was attentive. He treated me with respect. He just liked to be with me. And the truth of it is, I have always felt more at ease with older men. They are not foolish or impetuous.' She gave a little shrug. 'I loved him. I still love him even though he lied to me. He must have planned to leave his wife,' she continued, as if desperate to repair the damage which had been done to a cherished memory. 'That was it. He was working to free himself from this other woman. Proceedings must already have been under way. They had to be. Ambrose was mine. That house in London was not being built for anyone else. It belonged to us. He encouraged me to make suggestions about it.'

'I remember commenting on the French influence.'

'That came from me, monsieur.'

'So I see.'

She gazed down at the ring and fondled it with her other hand.

'Ambrose gave this to me,' she said.

'It is beautiful.'

'I will never part with it.' She looked at the bundle of letters which lay in her lap. 'Why did you bring these to me, monsieur?'

'I felt that you would want them back.'

'I do but there was no need for you to bring them. A courier could have been sent. That is how Ambrose kept in touch with me. By courier.' She stared up at him. 'Why come in person?'

'Because I hoped to break the news as gently as I could.'

'Was that the only reason?'

'No, I wanted to meet you.'

'Why?'

'I need your help, mademoiselle.'

'What can I do?'

'Tell me about Sir Ambrose,' he explained. 'I owe him a great debt and it can only be repaid by tracking down the man who killed him. I have dedicated myself to that task.'

'That is very noble of you, monsieur.'

'His death must be avenged.'

'Oh, yes!' she exclaimed. 'The murderer cannot go unpunished. He must be caught quickly. Do you know who he is?'

'No, mademoiselle.'

'But you have some idea?'

'I feel that I am getting closer all the time,' he said with a measure of confidence. 'The trail led to Paris.'

'Why here?'

'That is what I am hoping you can tell me.'

'But this was where Ambrose came to escape. To be with me.'

'When did you last see him?'

'Let me see ...'

Christopher plied her with questions for a long time and she gave ready answers but none of them contained any clues as to why Sir Ambrose was murdered and by whom. Marie Louise Oilier had been kept largely ignorant of his business affairs and he had told her nothing whatsoever about the true nature of his domestic situation. Time spent together had been limited, taken up for the most part with discussions about the new house and its furnishings. She made flattering comments about his design and Christopher realised that some of his earlier drawings of the house must have been shown to her. The man she described was very different from the confirmed rake who sought pleasure in the company of men such as Henry Redmayne.

As he listened to her fond reminiscences, Christopher was left in no doubt about the fact that she truly loved him and he could understand very clearly why Sir Ambrose had been besotted with her. Now that he was so close to her, he could see that she was perhaps a few years older than Penelope Northcott but she had a childlike charm which made her seem much younger.

Having described her own history, she asked him about his memories of Sir Ambrose. Christopher searched for positive things to say about the man, concealing anything which might strike a discordant note. It was only when she gave a slight shiver that he realised something was amiss.

Marie Louise Oilier was sitting in the chair closest to the open shutters and an evening breeze was disturbing her headdress. When there were more comfortable chairs in the room, it seemed odd that her uncle should conduct her to that one. The library looked out on the garden at the rear of the house and it suddenly occurred to Christopher that anyone standing outside could eavesdrop on them with ease. He was about to stand up and investigate when she reached out to grab his arm.

'Will you send word to me, monsieur?' she begged.

'Word?'

'When you catch the man who killed him, please let me know.'

'I will,'

'Send word to this address.'

'Even though you do not live here?'

'It will reach me.'

'Would it not be easier if I had your own address?'

'No, monsieur.'

'Is your own house nearby?'

'Send word here.'

Christopher detached her hand and got up to cross to the window. When he glanced out into the garden, he could see nobody but he still had the uncomfortable feeling that they had been overheard.

'Evening is drawing in,' he announced. 'I must away.'

'Will you not stay the night in Paris?'

'No, mademoiselle. It is a long ride. I would like to put a few miles between myself and the city tonight.'

'I understand. Wait here while I call my uncle.'

She moved to the door and let herself out, leaving the room still inhabited with her presence and charged with her fragrance. Christopher had a moment to compose himself. Though he had not been given the valuable clues he sought, he had discovered much that would be useful once he had sifted carefully through it. Yet he was still left with many imponderables. Before Christopher could rehearse them, Bastiat came into the room on his own. There was concern in his voice.

'My niece tells me that you are leaving, monsieur.'

'I fear that I must.'

'You are most welcome to spend the night here as my guest.'

'That is very tempting, Monsieur Bastiat, but I must begin the homeward journey tonight.'

'Are you sure?'

'I have no choice.'

'Where will you stay?' 'There is an inn which I passed on the way here,' said Christopher. 'It must be ten or twelve miles along the road to Beauvais. I will lodge there and make an early start in the morning.'

'Very well. I can see that there is no point in trying to persuade you against your will.'

'None at all.'

'You are a determined young man, Monsieur Redmayne.'

'Of necessity.'

'Why?'

'You niece will explain.'

'Then I bid you adieu.'

He conducted his visitor out into the hall and opened the front door for him. Christopher looked around in disappointment.

'I would like to take my leave of Mademoiselle Oilier.'

'That will not be possible, monsieur.'

'Why not?'

'She is deeply upset by the terrible news which you brought. In your presence, she held up bravely but it has taken its toll. She wishes to be alone with her grief now.' He hunched his shoulders. 'There is darkness in her heart. It would be a cruelty to intrude.'

'Say no more, monsieur. I understand.'

'It was good of you to come all this way.'

'I felt that it was an obligation.'

'An obligation?'

'Nobody else would have come here.'

'You deserve our thanks,' said the other. 'My niece did not need to tell me why you travelled to Paris. I saw it in her face. Poor creature! She is suffering badly.' He touched his guest's shoulder. 'I hope your journey will not be too onerous. Do you sail from Calais?'

'Yes, Monsieur Bastiat.'

'You will have much to reflect upon, I suspect.'

'Oh, yes,' said Christopher warmly. 'I did not simply come on an errand of mercy. I was in search of guidance.'

'Indeed?'

'Thanks to Mademoiselle Oilier, I found it.'

Jonathan Bale had always believed that honesty was the best policy, especially where matrimonial exchanges were concerned. He was proved right once again. Unskilled in hiding anything from his wife, he told her exactly where he went when he returned from his first night's vigil in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Sarah was at once critical and curious, disapproving strongly of places such as Molly Mandrake's establishment yet wanting to know exactly what happened inside their walls and who patronised them. Her husband was reticent about activities within the house but he gave her several names from the memorised list of visitors. That list had been committed to paper and added to substantially as a result of two subsequent visits.

As Jonathan prepared to set out for Lincoln's Inn Fields for a fourth time, he sat in the kitchen of his home and consulted his list of names once again. It contained one earl and more than a scattering of baronets. In his view nothing more clearly mirrored a degenerate aristocracy. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and rose to leave. His wife got up from the table with him.

'At least you had time to put the boys to bed this evening,' she said gratefully. 'When shall I expect you back?'

'I have no idea, Sarah.'

'As long as you do not get lured inside that place.'

'It holds no attraction for me.'

'Even though it must be filled with gorgeous young ladies?'

'They are poor women, led astray,' said Jonathan sadly. 'Besides, I could never afford to keep company with them. They charge more for one night than most men earn in a month.'

'How do you know?' teased his wife.

He grinned. 'That is a secret.'

'What happened to that man with the mask?'

'I only saw him on that first visit.'

'Has he not been back to the house?'

'Not while I have been there, Sarah.'

'Why would a man wear a mask like that?' she said.

'To conceal his identity. I guess him to be a person of high rank who does not wish anyone to know that he frequents the place. Who knows? It might even have been the King himself.'

She was shocked. 'He would never sink so low!'

'Do not put it past him, my love. The rumour is that he tires of his mistresses on occasion and seeks entertainment elsewhere.'

'Well, it is a scurvy rumour and I will not believe it.'

He was worried. 'I hope you are not turning into a royalist, Sarah.'

'Of course not,' she said stoutly. 'I deplored the Restoration as much as you did. Life was better under the Lord Protector. But while we have a King on the throne, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt. Now, off with you and prove me wrong.'

'I may well do so.'

She gave him a kiss then walked with him to the front door.

'When is Mr Redmayne coming back?' she wondered.

'I do not know.'

'He has been gone for days now. Why did you not offer to go with him, Jonathan? It is dangerous for someone to travel all that way on his own. You could have been his bodyguard.'

'Mr Redmayne can look after himself, Sarah. He would never have considered taking me and I would certainly not have enjoyed spending so much time alone with him.'

'It would have given you chance to get to know him better.'

'That was my fear.'

He let himself out of the house, gave her a wave and strode off. The route was familiar now and he seemed to arrive in Lincoln's Inn Fields sooner than ever. Clouds drifted across the moon to keep the whole area largely in darkness. It enabled him to slip into his accustomed hiding-place with no danger of being seen. Revellers soon began to arrive. Some were regular visitors whose names had already been recorded but others were memorised for the first time. When another coach arrived, its lone passenger was given an especially warm welcome by Molly Mandrake as she opened the door to greet him. It was a French name and Jonathan doubted if he would be able to spell it correctly when he added it to his list.

The most interesting snatch of dialogue which he overheard came towards the end of his stay in the shadows. A man arrived on horseback, tethered his mount then pulled the doorbell. Caught between the two torches under the portico, he gave Jonathan a clear view of his profile and the constable was forced to ask once again why yet another elegant young gentleman had to pay for pleasures which he could more properly enjoy within a lawful marriage. When the door swung open, light blazed out and brought Molly Mandrake's rich voice with it.

'Why, Mr Strype!' she said happily. 'This is a pleasant surprise.'

'Have you missed me, Molly?'

'We all have, sir. Desperately.'

'I have not been able to visit London for some time.'

'More's the pity!' A deep sigh followed. 'We were so shocked to hear about what happened to Sir Ambrose.'

'A dreadful business, Molly. Quite devastating!'

'I hope that it has not dragged you down too much, sir.'

'I must confess that it has.'

'Are you sad and lonely?'

'Sad, lonely and in need of jollity.'

'Then step inside, Mr Strype,' she said with a ripe chuckle, taking him by the arm. 'We have the cure for your malady right here. Nobody is allowed to be sad or lonely in my house. Jollity reigns supreme.'

'Lead me to it, Molly.'

One door shut in Jonathan's face but another one had

just opened. It gave him something to think about on the walk back home.

**********************************

Christopher was a mile away from his destination when he realised that he was being followed. He slowed his horse and listened for the sound of hoofbeats behind him. Only one rider could be discerned. When he came to a stand of poplars, he reined in his mount and waited among the trees. The hoofbeats had stopped. After waiting a few minutes, he decided that the other horseman must have turned off the road and taken another route. Christopher continued on his way but instinct told him that he was still being trailed. He doubted if it was a highwayman. Such men usually operated in bands and lurked in ambush. There was no attempt to catch him up. Whoever rode behind him was content to keep an appreciable distance between them.

Knowing how treacherous the roads could be, Christopher was well armed, carrying a loaded pistol as well as a rapier and dagger. He hoped that he would not be called upon to use any of the weapons.

When the lights of the inn finally came into sight, he kicked a last burst of speed out of his horse. Clattering into the courtyard, he dropped from the saddle, handed the reins to the ostler who came running and noted to which stable his horse was taken. Then he shook off the night and went into a hostelry which blazed with dozens of candles.

Business was scarce so the landlord gave him a cheerful welcome. He was a scrawny old man with a ragged beard and a gap-toothed grin.

'Do you need a bed for the night, monsieur?'

'Yes, please.'

'We can offer you our best room.'

'I want somewhere which overlooks the stables.'

'As you wish.'

'And I will need something to eat before I retire.'

'My wife will see to your needs, sir.'

There were no more than half a dozen other guests in the taproom and most took no notice of him, engaged either in desultory conversation or in the important ritual of sampling the hostelry's stock of wine. Christopher found himself a table in a corner from which he could watch the door. The landlord's wife brought him bread and cheese. A full-bodied red wine helped to wash it down and revive him after his travels. Nobody came or left. After an hour, Christopher paid his bill in advance and followed the landlord up a rickety staircase and along a narrow passageway to his room. His host opened the door and set down the lighted candle on the table beside the bed.

'You will be comfortable enough here, monsieur.'

'Thank you,' said Christopher, giving the room a cursory glance. 'This will be most adequate, landlord. Good night.'

'If you need anything else, just call.'

'I will.'

When the man went out, Christopher closed the door behind him and saw that there was no bolt on it. He crossed to the window to gaze down into the courtyard. It was deserted. Only the occasional whinny from the stables disturbed the silence. There was no sign at all of the mysterious rider who had shadowed him. Closing the shutters, he took a closer look at his room. Small, musty and simply furnished, it had a low ceiling and undulating oak floorboards but it was reasonably clean and its bed looked inviting. Christopher was annoyed that he would not get to sleep in it because a sixth sense rearranged his accommodation.

After making up the bed to look as if it were occupied, he took the solitary chair into the corner behind the door and settled down on it. None of his apparel was removed. His sword rested within reach against the wall and the pistol was on the floor at his feet. The dagger remained in its sheath at his belt. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them again as if disturbed and crossed to the bed in four short strides. Confident that he could do so again in the dark, he blew out the candle and returned to his position in the corner. The chair was hard but he endured the discomfort willingly.

With so much to ponder, he found it difficult to keep his mind alert for sounds of danger and fatigue began to steal over him. Eventually he dropped off to sleep.

The creaking of the floorboards in the passageway brought him out of his slumber. His hand went swiftly to his belt, to the wall and to the floor. Dagger, sword and pistol were all there. A faint glimmer of light came under his door, then it inched slowly open. Candlelight illumined the bed for a second before the flame was snuffed out. Christopher heard the sound of the candle-holder being set down on the floor; a murky figure entered the room and surged towards the bed.

The man's dagger flashed but its point found nothing more than a couple of blankets which had been rolled up. There was an angry grunt from the intruder then a gasp of surprise as Christopher jumped on him from behind and knocked him forward on to the bed. He tried to jab behind his back with the dagger but Christopher already had a firm grasp on his wrist and he twisted it until the man let his weapon go with a cry of pain. Before he could struggle, the intruder felt the point of Christopher's own dagger pricking the nape of his neck and he froze.

'Who are you?' demanded Christopher.

'Let me go,' begged the man. 'Do not kill me, monsieur.'

'Tell me who sent you.'

'Nobody sent me. I saw you on the road.'

'What were you after?'

'Your purse, monsieur. That is all.'

'Don't lie!'

Christopher stood up and dragged the man after him by the hair, spinning him around and buffeting him across the face with his arm. The man rocked back but quickly recovered, aiming a kick at Christopher's legs and scything him to the floor before flinging himself on top of him. A firm hand closed on the wrist which held the dagger and the weapon was twisted inexorably around until its point threatened Christopher's eye. Though he could barely see it in the gloom, he felt its proximity and the sweat of fear began to flow. The man exerted additional power then suddenly put all his strength into a downward thrust. Christopher's head rolled out of the way just in time as the dagger sank into the floorboards.

Releasing the weapon, he grappled with the man and rolled him over on his back, getting in a relay of punches which took some of the energy out of his assailant. When Christopher felt a thumb trying to gouge his eye, his temper flared and he smashed a fist into the man's nose, splitting it open and sending blood all over his face. Rage served to revive the intruder and he found enough strength to hurl Christopher off before groping around in the dark for the dagger. Christopher was too quick for him. As he fell against the chair in the corner, he knew exactly where his rapier was standing and his hand closed gratefully on it. He hauled himself quickly to his feet.

The intruder saw only the outline of his body in the darkness. When he found the dagger on the floor, he leaped up and ran straight at Christopher, intending to stab him viciously in the chest. Instead, he let out a long agonised wheeze as he found himself impaled on a sharp and merciless sword. He dropped the dagger, flailed uselessly at Christopher with both hands then slumped to the floor on his side. As the sword was withdrawn, he remained motionless. Christopher waited for a couple of minutes to see if the noise of the brawl would bring anyone running but he was relieved that nobody came. He did not relish having to explain the situation in which he had unwittingly been caught.

Stepping over the fallen body, he groped his way to his candle and lit the wick. He then held the flame over his visitor and saw that the man was comprehensively dead, islanded by a sea of blood. Turning him over on his back, he let the candle illumine the man's face. The shock of recognition made him reel for a second. He had met the man before.

The dark moustache was unforgettable. It was the servant Marcel, who had admitted him to the house of Arnaud Bastiat.