The King's Evil

Molly Mandrake was more than just a notorious whore. She was an excellent businesswoman who ran her establishment efficiently and profitably. Attention to detail was her guiding principle. Before any of her guests arrived that evening, she made a tour of the house to inspect every room and to issue instructions. None of the whores was allowed to meet any clients until Molly had scrutinised each woman and made slight adjustments to her hair or her attire. Cosmetics and perfume had to be used with great subtlety before she would approve.

When the first coach arrived, Molly Mandrake stood at the door to welcome the two gentlemen who sauntered in and to collect their fulsome compliments about her own appearance. She was a shapely woman of medium height with a vitality which shone out of her like sunlight. Her silk gown was emerald green in colour, its close-fitting boned bodice dipping to a deep point in front to suggest a slimmer waist than she actually possessed. The neckline was low cut in a rounded shape which encircled the decolletage and bared her shoulders. Huge breasts all but escaped their moorings, the left one bearing a beauty spot which matched another high on her left cheek. The handsome face consisted of one big smile, the teeth white, the lips sensuous, the nose attractively upturned and the brown eyes awash with roguish delight. She favoured a coiffure a la ninon with hair pushed back from the face and bunched curls on each side of her head, falling in ringlets to her shoulders.

'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she said with a warm grin. 'How agreeable to see you once again, sir! And who have you brought along with you?'

'This is my brother, Molly.'

'Two Redmaynes in one night. We are honoured. Your name, sir?'

'Christopher,' he said with a polite smile. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Mandrake. Henry has told me much about you.'

'I wish that he had mentioned you before now,' she said, running a practised eye over him. 'You are a proper man, young sir. Do come in.'

She took Christopher's arm as he passed and gave it a meaningful squeeze. Dressed in his most fashionable apparel, he did his best to appear relaxed and sophisticated but there was an immediacy about Molly Mandrake's charms which was almost overwhelming. She took the two of them through into a large room with a round table at its centre. Set out on the table were decanters of wine and goblets made of Venetian glass. A selection of salted meats was carefully displayed on a series of oval dishes. A black manservant was in attendance, wearing dark blue livery with gold buttons. He bowed to the newcomers and handed them goblets of wine. Their hostess ushered them across to some upholstered chairs in a corner and chatted for a few minutes until the sound of the doorbell drew her away.

Christopher sipped his wine and looked around the room. A few other guests were present, seated against the far wall and vying for the attention of a tall, stately young woman with fair hair which brushed her alabaster shoulders. Henry identified her with an obscene comment which his brother chose to ignore. The room was elegant and well-appointed but what Christopher admired was the clever positioning of the candelabra. Subdued light created a feeling of intimacy. He watched the fair-haired woman opposite. Like trained actresses, both she and Molly Mandrake knew exactly where to stand in relation to the flames in order to show themselves off to best advantage.

The wine was rich and Henry's glass was soon empty. Without waiting for it to be refilled, he went off to intercept a buxom woman who had just sailed into the room wearing Egyptian costume. Christopher was not left alone for long. Having guided the newcomers to the table, Mrs Mandrake beckoned someone from the shadows then led her by the hand towards Christopher. He rose politely from his chair.

'I would like you to meet Sweet Ellen,' she said with a knowing smile. 'She is worth five guineas of any man's money.'

The doorbell rang again and she wafted out of the room. Sweet Ellen eased Christopher back into his seat and nestled beside him. Her manner was at once familiar and reserved. Christopher could see why she had been chosen for him. Sweet Ellen was younger and more slender than any of the women he had so far seen. There was nothing gross or threatening about her. Framed in auburn hair, her face had a kind of demure beauty. Christopher was fleetingly reminded of Marie Louise Oilier. While his companion interrogated him gently, Christopher saw the manservant pour more wine liberally into his goblet. Sweet Ellen probed on. When she learned Christopher's name, she giggled and cast an affectionate glance across at his brother.

'Why have we not seen you here before?' she asked.

'It was a terrible oversight on my part.'

'I hope that you will visit us again often.'

'I have every intention of doing so,' he lied.

'Are you enjoying our company?'

'Very much.'

'Do you work at the Navy Office with your brother?'

'No, Ellen.'

'What is your profession?'

'I am an architect.'

'Ah!' She was impressed. 'You design houses and churches?'

'Whatever I am commissioned to do.'

'Then you have an eye for fine buildings,' she said, putting a hand on his wrist. 'What do you think of this house, Mr Redmayne?'

'Most elegant. I would love to see more of it.'

'Then you shall, sir.'

With a little laugh, she got to her feet and led him across the room, collecting an approving nod from Molly Mandrake, who was arm in arm with the latest arrival. Sweet Ellen flitted along on her toes and showed Christopher all the rooms on the ground floor with the exception of the kitchen. She paused at the bottom of the staircase and simpered.

'Would you like to see where I sleep?'

'Very much.'

'Then I will show you.'

As she took him upstairs, she squeezed his hand and rubbed her naked shoulder softly against him. He took a long sip of his wine.

'How long have you been in the house, Ellen?'

'Long enough, sir.'

She simpered again and guided him along the landing. Some of the bedchambers were clearly occupied and telltale noises came through the doors. Raucous laughter from inside one was followed by urgent grunts from inside the next. Sweet Ellen turned down a corridor then opened the door at the end of it. Christopher was swept into a small, neat room which was dominated by a four-poster and lit by a candelabrum. A heady perfume invaded his nostrils. When the door was shut behind them, he heard the key turned in the lock.

'Do you like my little apartment, sir?' she asked coyly.

'It is perfect.'

'Are you glad that your brother brought you here tonight?'

'Yes,' he said, 'but it was a friend who recommended the house.'

'A friend?'

'Monsieur Charentin. Do you know Jean-Paul?'

'Oh, yes, of course. I always enjoy it when he visits us. Jean-Paul is a most generous man. But tell me more about yourself, Mr Redmayne,' she said, easing him down on a chair. 'You are an architect, you say. A house in London is always expensive to build. You must work for some very wealthy men.'

'When I have the opportunity.'

'Where do you meet them?'

'Chiefly in the coffee houses.'

'And at Court, perhaps?' she enquired.

'Naturally,' he said. 'Henry takes me there.'

Her face ignited. 'Have you ever met His Majesty?'

'Well, yes. In a manner of speaking.'

'Tell me about him.'

Sweet Ellen seemed inordinately interested in the King and his circle and her questions poured out. Christopher obliged her with ready answers, giving the impression that he was a seasoned courtier with access to the royal ear. He also took care to find out as much as he could about the running of the establishment. As they talked, Sweet Ellen slipped behind a screen in the corner of the room and spoke from behind it. Christopher was so caught up in their conversation that he did not realise what she was doing. When she reappeared wearing nothing but a petticoat, he almost choked on the wine he had just drunk.

She rushed forward solicitously to pat him on the back.

'Oh, you poor man!' she soothed. 'Are you all right, sir?'

'No,' he said, seeing the polite way to escape. 'I am unwell.'

'Let me nurse you. Come and lie on the bed.'

'Not now, Ellen. I fear I shall disgrace myself.'

He clutched his stomach with both hands and went off into such a frenzy of coughing that she backed away from him. Taking some coins from his purse, he tossed them on the bed, gestured his apologies then unlocked the door to leave. When he got downstairs, he made his way to the side door so that he could slip away unobtrusively. Christopher was glad that he had come on foot. A bracing walk would help to clear his head and allow him to assimilate all that he had learned from Sweet Ellen. She had been a most helpful tutor but there was a critical point beyond which he could not allow her lesson to go. He tried to work out why she had reminded him of Marie Louise Oilier.

A busy mind and a long stride combined to get him back to Fetter Lane before he realised it and he was astonished when his house came into sight. He got no closer to it. Two figures suddenly emerged from the shadows to attack him with cudgels. Before he could defend himself, he was felled by a blow to the head then beaten and kicked by both men. Curling into a ball, he brought his arms up over his head to ward off the worst of the attack but it ceased as abruptly as it had started. Someone came running over the cobbles to hurl one man aside and to deprive the second of his cudgel. Before he could inflict injury on them, a peremptory voice came out of the darkness.

'Leave him be! We have taught him a lesson!'

The two attackers ran gratefully from the scene and their master went after them on his horse. Jonathan Bale watched them go then reached down to help Christopher up from the ground.

'Are you hurt badly, sir?'

'No,' said Christopher, still slightly dazed. 'But my pride is.'

'I warned you that you needed a bodyguard. It is just as well that I followed you from Lincoln's Inn Fields or you might be lying dead.'

'No, Mr Bale. They were not paid to kill me.'

'How do you know?'

'I recognised the voice which gave the order.'

'Who was it?'

'A man with a score to settle. George Strype.'