The King's Evil

'But what happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' she said. 'Were you hurt?'

'Not really, Miss Northcott.'

'George boasted to me that you had been assaulted.'

'I was,' said Christopher, fingering the back of his skull, 'and I still have a lump on my head to prove it. Beyond that, the only injuries I suffered were a few bruises. The aches and pains will soon wear off.'

'How can you dismiss it so lightly?'

'Oh, I am not doing that, I assure you.'

'George could be arrested for attacking you like that.'

'Mr Strype did not actually touch me,' he explained. 'He paid two ruffians to do so. Fortunately, I had help nearby. Mr Bale frightened them off before they could inflict any real damage.'

'I am so sorry, Mr Redmayne,' she said, tormented with guilt.

'It was not your fault.'

'But it was, indirectly. If I had not come here with those letters and then spent the night under your roof, this would never have happened.'

'I would take any beating for the pleasure of seeing you again.'

Christopher's declaration came out so easily that it took them both by surprise. She smiled uncertainly and he became self-conscious. Waving her to a chair, he sat opposite her and offered up a prayer of thanks that he had been at home when she called. Penelope searched his face for signs of injury and felt glad that she had broken off her engagement to George Strype. He had deliberately given her the impression that he had fought with Christopher himself but, she now learned, he had taken the more cowardly option of hiring bullies to do his work for him. Having removed one man from her life, Penelope was now able to appreciate the depth of her feeling for another.

'When did you return from France?' she asked.

'Some days ago.'

'Did you find anything out?'

'A great deal, Miss Northcott,' he said with enthusiasm. 'In spite of everything, the journey was very worthwhile.'

'In spite of everything?'

'The trip was not without incident.'

Christopher gave her the salient facts about his visit to Paris. His face was taut as he talked about Marie Louise Oilier but it creased into dismay when he described the attempt on his life at the inn. Penelope sat forward on the edge of her chair.

'Why did they try to kill you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because I stumbled on the truth,' he said. 'Or part of it, anyway. I knew too much. Solomon Creech was murdered for the same reason. He was your father's confidante, the one person in London who knew the full details of your father's liaison with Mademoiselle Oilier.' He checked himself. 'I take it that you have heard about Mr Creech?'

'Belatedly. It came as a hideous shock.'

'One advantage has followed. His clerk has been able to release information to me which Mr Creech refused to divulge. I now know a great deal about Sir Ambrose's commercial transactions with France.'

'George could have told you about those,' she began then her voice faded away. She shook her head. 'Perhaps not. He might not have proved very forthcoming.' A thought pricked her. 'You do not think that he is involved in all this, do you?'

'No, Miss Northcott. I do not have the highest opinion of Mr Strype but I can absolve him of any involvement here. Sir Ambrose kept him ignorant of too many things. Besides, he would hardly collude in the death of his partner and future father-in-law.' He noticed the glint in her eye. 'Have I said something out of turn?'

'Our engagement has been terminated,' she said quietly.

He smiled inwardly. 'This is a surprising development.'

'I prefer not to talk about it, Mr Redmayne. There are more important topics to discuss. Tell me more about her.'

'Marie Louise Oilier?'

'Was she very beautiful?'

'Some might think so,' he said tactfully.

'How old was she?'

'Not as young as you thought.'

'Describe her to me.'

Choosing his words with care, Christopher drew his own sketch of the striking young woman whom he had met in Paris, astonished at how much it varied from his first impression of her. He no longer saw Marie Louise Oilier as the complete innocent who had sat before him in Arnaud Bastiat's house. His visit to Lincoln's Inn Fields had helped to revise that assessment. Sweet Ellen had shown him how easy it was to feign childlike purity.

It distressed him to talk about someone whose existence gave Penelope such obvious pain. Though she pressed him relentlessly for details, she winced when she heard them and her cheeks coloured at the mention of the claim made by Mademoiselle Oilier.

'She intended to many my father?'

'That is what she told me.'

'But how? He already had a wife.'

'Sir Ambrose led her to believe that your mother had died.'

'He would never do that!' she protested.

'I am only reporting what I heard.'

'Did you believe her?'

'At the time.'

'And now?'

'I am not so sure,' said Christopher. 'I suspect that I was too ready to accept her word. My opinion of her changed radically when I realised that she was keeping me talking so that her uncle could eavesdrop on us and discover exactly how much I knew. I begin to wonder how sincere her love for Sir Ambrose really was.'

'You read her letters. They were vastly sincere.'

'Save for one thing, Miss Northcott.' 'What is that?'

'I am not even sure that she wrote them.'

'But they bore her signature.'

'Her hand may have penned the words,' he said, 'but I think that someone else may have dictated them.'

'What do you conclude, Mr Redmayne?'

'Your father was duped. Sir Ambrose loved her deeply, of that I am certain. He would not have changed the name of his ship to the Marie Louise unless he were wholly committed to her. But love throws people off guard. It makes them vulnerable.'

'To what? Blackmail?'

'I fancy that this goes deeper than that,' said Christopher, rubbing his chin. 'Mademoiselle Oilier insisted that he told her he was a widower and therefore free to marry. But she would never consider marriage to a man like Sir Ambrose.'

'Why not?'

'She is a devout Roman Catholic.'

Penelope stiffened as she remembered the purpose of her visit. Opening the bag which lay in her lap, she took out two objects and handed them to him. Christopher looked in astonishment at the rosary beads and the Catholic missal.

'I found them at the house in Westminster,' she said.

'Was your father planning to convert?'

'In view of what you have said, it seems a possibility.'

'More than that, Miss Northcott. In all likelihood he had been taking instruction. It shows how far he was prepared to go to meet the demands of Mademoiselle Oilier. It is strange,' he murmured. 'I never took Sir Ambrose for a religious man.'

'Then you mistake him,' she said with unexpected loyalty. 'In the light of his infidelity, this may seem an odd thing to say but my father took the spiritual side of life very seriously.'

'Did he?'

'That is why he was so proud of our house in Kent.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look what it is called, Mr Redmayne.'

'Of course,' he said. 'Priestfield Place.'

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

Jonathan Bale was thrilled to see the return of the Marie Louise. After sailing up the Thames, it anchored in midstream to unload its cargo. As its crew brought casks and boxes ashore, he tried to engage them in conversation but they would tell him little beyond the fact that they had sailed from Calais and would be returning there within a few days. Certain that the vessel held important secrets, Jonathan did everything he could to contrive a visit to it but all his requests were met with blank refusal. The Marie Louise would allow no strangers aboard. Even a London constable would need a warrant before he was permitted to inspect the craft. A law-abiding man was forced to contemplate the disconcerting notion of trespass.

'Where are you going?' asked Sarah.

'Back to the wharf.'

'At this time of night? It is almost dark, Jonathan.'

'It needs to be, my love.'

'Why?'

'I am going out on the river.'

'Is that why you are leaving your hat and greatcoat behind?'

'It is part of the reason.'

Jonathan would say no more than that. Kissing his wife goodbye, he let himself out and began the long walk, grateful that the darkness was slowly throwing its blanket over the city. Dressed in the clothes he once wore as a shipwright, he felt a sense of release. Anonymity liberated him and gave him the confidence to do something which he would never even attempt in the guise of a constable. When he reached the river, he could see the myriad lights of Southwark on the opposite bank. He went down the steps and on to the landing stage.

The boat had been borrowed from a friend and he had no qualms about rowing it until he was caught up in the current. He had forgotten how treacherous the river could be. It took him some time to master its swirling rhythms and his bare forearms were soaked in the process but he persevered until old skills returned. Craft of all kinds dotted the river and he had to pick his way through them in order to reach the Marie Louise. She towered above him. The ship was largely in darkness but lanterns burned on deck and he could see light in some of the cabin windows. Most of the crew were still ashore but some surely remained on watch. Stealth was vital.

He shipped his oars and moored his boat to the sheet anchor. When he was certain that nobody on deck had seen him, he went hand over hand up the cable, grateful that it was not too slimy to allow a firm grip. It was slow work which made demands on his muscles but he eventually reached the bulwark. Climbing over it, he rolled behind the windlass then peeped out to take his bearings. Several lanterns burned at strategic intervals. Two men were on watch, chatting together outside the fo'c's'le, taking it in turns to swig from a flagon of beer to offset the tedium of their duty. Their casual attitude suggested that they did not expect visitors.

Though Jonathan had never been aboard the Marie Louise before, he had an intimate knowledge of its design. He had helped to build three almost identical vessels and could feel his way around them in the dark. Keeping low and hugging the bulwark, he crept past the two men and made his way towards the cabins at the stern. He was tempted to search the hold while he was there but saw the folly of that without a lantern. His real target was the captain's cabin where the ship's log book and manifest were kept. It well might yield up other secrets about the ship. Jonathan felt certain that the captain would be ashore. No red-blooded sailor would spurn the delights of London for a lonely night aboard a merchant ship.

Voices came up from below to warn him that one of the cabins was occupied. He moved with extra care, descending the wooden steps very slowly, glad that his movements were disguised by the gentle creaking of the timbers.

Inching his way towards what he took to be the captain's cabin, he tried the door and found it predictably locked. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and used its point to explore the lock. There was a loud click and the door gave before him. He sheathed his dagger and stepped inside, grateful for the lantern which swung from the beam. It cast an uncertain light but he was able to see that it was not the captain's cabin at all. Jonathan was disappointed yet his visit brought him one reward. Lying on a bunk and staring up at him with sightless eyes was an object he felt he might have seen before.

It was a large white mask.

Before he could take a closer look at it, something hard and cold was thrust against the side of his head. He heard the pistol being cocked.

'What are you doing here?' growled a voice.

'Is this the Peppercorn!' asked Jonathan, thinking fast.

'No!'

'Then I have come aboard the wrong ship, friend.'

'That is certainly true. Turn round so that I can see you.'

It was his only chance of escape and he took it bravely. As the man stepped back to allow him to turn, Jonathan swung round quickly to knock the barrel of the pistol upwards so that it discharged its bullet harmlessly at the ceiling. His other fist sank into the man's stomach and took all the wind out of him. Thrusting him roughly aside, Jonathan went scrambling up the steps and raced across the deck. The sound of the pistol alerted the two men on night watch and they came running towards the stern with muskets in their hands but they were far too slow. All that they saw was a bulky figure, diving headfirst into the river. When they hung over the bulwark with a lantern, they could see no sign of him. He had disappeared beneath the water.