The King's Evil

Whitehall Palace consisted of a motley collection of buildings scattered over a large acreage. If the Banqueting House formed its architectural pearl, it was surrounded by many semi-precious stones, some of which were badly chipped. The royal apartments were situated in the southern half of the palace, looking out across a well-trimmed green sward which swept down to the river. Christopher Redmayne and his brother entered through the Palace Gate and made their way towards the Great Hall. When they entered the building, a guard was waiting to lead them through a bewildering maze to the royal Drawing Room.

Henry glided into it with the confidence of a man who was at his ease in the palace but Christopher looked in awe at the opulence around him. The room was a fruitful source of study for any architect and he quite forgot the purpose of their visit. He was still trying to estimate the cost of the superb chandeliers when his brother's cough alerted him to the presence of the King. Charles entered from a door at the far end and posed before the fireplace. After bowing politely, the brothers approached.

Proximity filled Christopher with the glow of privilege.

The King had been imposing when viewed from the rear of the Banqueting Hall but he was much more striking when only yards away. It was not just the exquisite apparel and the dignified posture. There was a grandeur about the man which set him above ordinary mortals. Christopher found it faintly disappointing when the glorious demi-god before him resorted to something as mundane as human speech.

'What is this nonsense about a Popish plot?' he asked.

'It is not nonsense, Your Majesty,' said Henry. 'At least, I hope that it is not, for all our sakes. My brother will explain.'

Christopher inclined his head respectfully. Charles regarded him.

'An architect, I hear?'

'That is so, Your Majesty.'

'What do you think of my palace?'

'May I be candid?'

'I will accept nothing less from you.'

'You are worthy of something much finer.'

'That is what I tell my Parliament year after year but they will not give me the money to improve it. Kings need kingly surroundings. Parts of this palace make me feel more like a tradesman than a monarch.' He beckoned his visitor forward. 'Stand here by me, Mr Redmayne. I await your explanation of this alleged conspiracy.'

Christopher took a couple of steps forward, noting that he had been placed within earshot of the door. The King was alone but Christopher had a strong feeling that someone else was listening. It did not hamper his recitation of the facts.

'Your Majesty,' he began, 'will be aware of the cruel murder of Sir Ambrose Northcott, stabbed to death by an unknown assailant. Shortly afterwards, a second victim, Mr Solomon Creech, fell to the same killer. Mr Creech was Sir Ambrose's lawyer and privy to the many secrets in his life. I have been trying to unravel those secrets and they have brought me to a stark conclusion.' 'Give it to me in one concise sentence,' ordered Charles.

'The murders were preliminaries to your assassination.'

'That is a bold claim, Mr Redmayne.'

'So I told him, Your Majesty,' said Henry, determined not to be left out. 'But he convinced me. Listen patiently and I am quite sure that my brother will convince you as well.'

Charles looked pained. 'I am not easily convinced.'

'May I go on, Your Majesty?' asked Christopher.

'If you must. A warning, however.'

'Your Majesty?'

'It is time for my walk. Be brisk.'

Christopher needed no second invitation. His account was succinct but persuasive. It was the mention of Paris which took the cynicism out of the royal gaze and the discovery aboard the Marie Louise made him stroke his moustache reflectively. When Christopher stopped, the King gave him an approving nod.

'You can present a cogent argument, sir.'

'Thank you, Your Majesty.'

'I have done my share,' said Henry plaintively.

Charles ignored him. 'Where is this list?' he asked.

'I have it here, Your Majesty,' said Christopher, taking the document from his pocket to pass it over. 'When I first saw the names, I did not realise their full significance. It was only when Henry arranged them in order for me that I could see just how many members of Your Majesty's government have responded to the blandishments of Mrs Mandrake.'

Charles was torn between amusement and surprise.

'Everyone but the Earl of Clarendon is here,' he said, studying the names. 'By Jupiter! Can Sir Roger Shorthorn really have the gall to visit a house of resort? What do the ladies do with him - take it in turns to search for his missing member?' He became serious. 'But you are quite correct, Mr Redmayne. There is a pattern here.'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' said Christopher. 'Over half of the men on that list are in a position to divulge sensitive information about affairs of state. When I visited the house myself, the young lady assigned to me showed more than interest when I pretended to be a regular visitor at Court. She positively interrogated me about you.'

'What was her name?'

'Sweet Ellen.'

'She always takes charge of newcomers to the house,' explained Henry. 'It was Sweet Ellen who favoured me on my first visit there. I was so busy enjoying myself that I thought her endless questions were simple curiosity. Now I know otherwise.'

'My brother was being pumped, Your Majesty,' said Christopher. 'Subtly but effectively. And I am certain that many of the other men on that list had a similar experience. Quite unwittingly, they have been parting with all kinds of state secrets to Mrs Mandrake and her ladies.'

'And where do those secrets end up?' said the King.

'In France. Carried there by Monsieur Charentin aboard the Marie Louise. That is why he is so generous a benefactor. He is not just paying for any services which the ladies render. He is rewarding his spies.'

The King examined the list again then strolled to the door. Without a word, he let himself out. Christopher and Henry watched with growing dismay as the minutes past.

'Have I said something to vex him?' asked Christopher.

'I hope not.'

'Where has he gone, Henry?'

'For his daily walk, by the look of it.'

The door suddenly opened again and Charles strode in to take up the same position. They noticed that he no longer carried the list.

'Tell me, Mr Redmayne,' he said slowly. 'Was Sir Ambrose Northcott party to this deceit among the bedclothes?'

'No, Your Majesty,' replied Christopher. 'I believe that he was killed before he could find out. If he had known that his house was being used for the purposes of spying, he would sooner have razed it to the ground than condone the intrigue.' 'I find that reassuring.'

'Why so, Your Majesty?'

'Because, on more than one occasion, he invited me to visit the establishment. Sir Ambrose was most insistent. I, of course, invariably declined,' he said airily. 'I would never dream of setting foot in such a disreputable place.'

'Yet that was ever Molly Mandrake's theme,' recalled Henry. 'She begged me to entice you there, Your Majesty. In order to give her house royal approbation.'

Charles was aloof. 'Quite out of the question.'

'Is it, Your Majesty?' said Christopher. 'I think that it is perhaps time to answer her plea.'

'Why on earth should I do that?'

'I will tell you. Might I first make a suggestion?'

'What is it?'

'Leave the door ajar so that we can be heard more easily. I know that someone is listening to every word we say.'

Charles burst out laughing. 'I have a better idea,' he said, putting a hand on Christopher's shoulder. 'Join me on my walk. This subject is best discussed in the Privy Garden. Only the birds will eavesdrop there.'