The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

TOM OF TEN THOUSAND by Edward Marston

12 February 1682

The crime occurred in broad daylight. When the coach reached the main street, it slowed down and rumbled around the corner, its iron-rimmed wheels slipping on the frosted cobbles. Before it could pick up speed again, it was ambushed. Coming out of nowhere, three men rode alongside the coach so that they could discharge their weapons at its occupant. Two of the attackers had pistols but it was the blunderbuss held by the third that proved fatal. It went off with a deafening bang and split the victim’s stomach wide open. Blood gushed out over his velvet breeches and dripped on to the floor. Confident that the man had been killed, the villains kicked their horses into a gallop and disappeared at once from the scene.

Christopher Redmayne saw it all from a distance. He had just entered the other end of the street when the murder took place. He heard the sounds of shooting clearly and the horrified screams from passers-by. He watched the coachman pull the horses to a sudden halt and caught a glimpse of the attackers, escaping in the confusion. Christopher did not hesitate. Riding at a canter, he made straight for the coach around which a small crowd was now gathering. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. An aspiring young architect, he was on his way to meet a wealthy potential client at a tavern in that street. The closer he got to the coach, the more convinced he became that it belonged to the very man with whom he had arranged to dine that day.

Having leapt down from his seat, the coachman opened the door to find his employer doubled up on the floor. He was still alive but he was fading with each second. Christopher’s horse skidded to a halt and the architect dismounted at speed. He looked over the coachman’s shoulder.

“Is that Mr Thynne?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied the other.

“Is he injured?”

Without waiting for an answer, Christopher eased the man aside so that he could see for himself. Thomas Thynne was beyond help. Face contorted in agony, he made a futile attempt to speak then his eyes rolled and he collapsed in a heap. The coachman gasped. Christopher leaned in close to examine the body. When he was certain that Thynne was dead, he offered up a silent prayer before taking control of the situation. Having sent a bystander to fetch an officer, he turned to the coachman, a stout man of middle years, deeply shocked at the murder of his employer.

“Do you know who those men were?” asked Christopher.

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen any of them before?”

“Never.”

“Were they lying in wait for you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the coachman, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. “As soon as we turned the corner, they were there.”

“Can you think of any reason why they should do this?”

“None, sir.”

“Did Mr Thynne have any enemies?”

“No, sir. He was the kindest man in the world.”

Prompted by loyalty, and annoyed by people staring at the corpse with ghoulish interest, the coachman took off his coat and used to it to cover Thomas Thynne’s face. Then he waved his arms to force the onlookers back.

Christopher asked for any witnesses and half-a-dozen came forward to tell the same gabbled tale. None of them, however, had been able to identify the men. It was only when a constable came running to take charge of the incident that Christopher spotted a short, thin, ragged individual, lurking in a doorway on the other side of the street. He beckoned the architect across to him.

“I might know who one of them is, sir,” said the man, slyly.

“You might know?”

“If my memory was jogged, sir.”

Christopher understood. “Who was the fellow?” he said, reaching into his purse for a coin. “Give me his name.”

“I could give you his address as well,” promised the other, eyeing the purse meaningfully. Christopher took out a second coin and pressed both into the man’s grubby palm. “Thank you, sir.” He snapped his hand shut. “The person you want is Ned Bagwell. He stays at the Feathers, not two hundred yards from here.”

Christopher knew the inn by reputation. After thanking the man, he mounted his horse and urged it forward. He was soon trotting briskly in the direction of the Feathers, situated in one of the less salubrious areas of Westminster. London was a dangerous city and Christopher was always armed when he went abroad. In addition to his sword, he wore a dagger and was adept with both. He was not deterred by the fact that there had been three men in the ambush. They had not only robbed a respectable gentleman of his life. They had deprived the architect of a handsome commission to build a house for Thomas Thynne. It served to harden Christopher’s resolve to find the killers.

When he got to the Feathers, he tethered his horse and went into the taproom. Filled with smoke from the fire in the grate, it was a dark, dingy, unappealing place. Customers looked up in surprise. The inn was not used to welcoming someone as wholesome and well-dressed as the young architect. Christopher went across to the man behind the counter.

“Does one Ned Bagwell lodge here?” he asked.

“Aye,” came the surly reply. “What do you want with Ned?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“And supposing he doesn’t want to speak to you?”

“Then my sword will give him some encouragement,” warned Christopher, meeting the landlord’s hostile stare. “Is he here now?”

“Aye – Ned is always here.”

“I fancy that he went out a little earlier.”

“Then you must think again.”

“He had two friends with him. Are they here as well?”

The man folded his arms. “Ned’s not stirred from here all day.”

“I’ve only your word for that,” said Christopher, whipping out his dagger and holding it to the man’s throat, “and I wouldn’t trust you for a second. Take me to him.”

“No need,” said the other, unperturbed. “I’ll call him for you.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Ned! Ned Bagwell, you’ve a visitor!”

A string of ripe obscenities issued from the next room then Christopher heard the thump of crutches on the wooden floor. When he appeared in the doorway, Ned Bagwell was a one-legged old man who let loose another stream of abuse. Christopher had been tricked. The man to whom he had given the money was already spending it in another tavern.

“Tom Thynne shot down in the street by ruffians!” cried Henry Redmayne in dismay. “It’s a devilish crime.”

“I mean to solve it,” vowed his brother.

“I was at Court when the news came. His Majesty was greatly upset. Tom Thynne was a leading member of the Duke of Monmouth’s party. It was his money that has been helping the King’s bastard to win support around the country. There’s your motive, Christopher,” he went on, wagging a finger. “Some scurvy Roman Catholic has set these men on to kill poor Tom.”

“I make no assumptions, Henry.”

“But it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Not to me,” said Christopher.

They were in the parlour of Henry’s house in Bedford Street. It was he who had recommended Christopher to Thomas Thynne. The contrast between the two brothers was startling. Christopher was tall, slim and well favoured while Henry’s features showed clear signs of dissipation. As one led a decent, healthy, conscientious life, the other pursued vice in every corner of the city. Though he did not approve of Henry’s passion for drink, gambling and lechery, Christopher was grateful for the many introductions his brother had given him to people in search of a talented architect. Henry Redmayne knew everyone of consequence in London society.

“Tell me about Mr Thynne,” said Christopher. “All that I know is that he was very rich and recently married.”

“Yes,” replied Henry. “We called him Tom of Ten Thousand. How I envied him! Think what I could do with an annual income of that size.”

“You’d drink yourself to death in a fortnight.”

“That was not what Tom Thynne did. He was a sober gentleman but not without an eye for the ladies. The beautiful widow, Lady Ogle, was half his age yet he wooed and won her. There was only one problem.”

“Was there?”

“Yes, Christopher. She let him wed her but not bed her. Repenting of the marriage, she fled abroad to Holland and is rumoured to be staying with Lady Temple. One of the ways her husband hoped to lure his wife back was to have a new house built for her. That’s why I whispered your name into Tom’s ear.”

“We were supposed to dine at the Golden Fleece today so that we could discuss the project. Mr Thynne was murdered on his way there.”

“The blackguards must be punished.”

“They will be,” said Christopher, gritting his teeth, “but I may need your help to catch them.”

“What can I possibly do?”

“Find out who else knew about the arrangements for dinner. Those men were waiting for him, Henry. Someone told them when and where he would be at a certain time.”

“So?”

“The most likely person is employed in Mr Thynne’s household. You were a guest there in the past. See what you can learn at the house. The body was taken there. You’ll be able to pay your respects.”

“But I’m expected at the card table within the hour.”

Christopher was decisive. “Solving a murder is more important than gambling away money that you can ill afford,” he argued. “Get over there at once.”

“I take no orders from you.”

“Then take them from His Majesty. You told me how alarmed he was by the turn of events. This news will inflame those who hate the Court and its political friends. What better way to curry the King’s favour than by helping to track down the culprits? He would be eternally grateful to you. Now ride across to Mr Thynne’s house.”

“Very well,” said Henry, peevishly. He adjusted his periwig in the mirror then preened himself. “What will you be doing in the meantime?”

“Seeing what Jonathan has managed to find out.”

“Jonathan?”

“Jonathan Bale.”

“That gloomy constable? A sour-faced rogue, if ever there was one. He has far too many Puritan principles to be allowed in respectable company.” Henry snorted. “A hue and cry will have been granted. Westminster will be crawling with officers. Why bother to involve Bale?”

“Because he is so tenacious.”

“Too damned tenacious!”

“He once helped to save your life, Henry.”

“Yes,” wailed the other, “then he read me a lecture on the need to abandon my evil ways. The brazen audacity of the man!”

“Jonathan Bale is a godsend,” insisted Christopher. “He’s not without his faults, I grant you, but he has a gift for finding out things that other men would never even sniff.”

“When was this, Reuben?” asked Jonathan Bale.

“Soon after I heard the shots being fired.”

“And you saw the men?”

“I did,” confirmed Reuben Hopkiss. “The three galloped straight past me and all but knocked over our chair.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“I recognized one of them, Mr Bale. We carried him from his lodging here in Westminster only yesterday.”

“And where did you take him?”

“To the Black Bull.”

Hopkiss was a brawny man in his fifties with the strength and stamina needed to carry heavy passengers in a sedan chair. He knew Jonathan Bale of old but was surprised to see him so far from his own parish of Baynard’s Castle. Bale seemed to read his mind.

“A certain gentleman has taken an interest in this case,” he explained, “and he sent me a note. I was asked to search for anyone who could put a name to the face of any of the killers.”

“Lieutenant Stern – that’s what he was called.”

“Lieutenant?”

“A naval man.”

“And a foreigner to boot, then?”

“A Swede.”

“That will make him easier to find. Describe the fellow, Reuben.”

“Gladly.”

As the chairman gave a description of the man, Jonathan Bale memorised every detail. The constable was a big, solid, serious man in his late thirties with an ugly face that was puckered in concentration. He and Christopher Redmayne had been thrown together in an unlikely friendship, and they had solved a number of crimes together. When the request from Christopher came, Bale had responded at once. Other constables had combed the scene of the crime for witnesses. Bale was the only one to wander off into the side streets. His encounter with Reuben Hopkiss had been productive. He now had a clear description of one of the attackers. He also knew where the man lodged and in which tavern he preferred to drink.

Jonathan Bale walked swiftly off to the Black Bull, hoping to catch the Swede – if not his two confederates – at the place. He was out of luck. Stern was not there and neither were any friends of his. Bale therefore retraced his steps and made for the man’s lodging. Once again, he was thwarted. The landlord told him that Stern had left early that morning and not been seen since. That worried the constable. He feared that the Swede might have quit London altogether after the crime.

The booming of a bell reminded him that he had been asked to meet Christopher Redmayne at two o’clock. Hastening to Tuthill Street, he found his friend waiting impatiently at the corner. After an exchange of greetings, Bale told him what had been gleaned so far. Christopher was impressed with his diligence.

“I’ve just come from my brother,” he said, noting the look of disapproval in Bale’s eye at the mention of his sibling. “Henry spoke to the steward at Mr Thynne’s house. It appears that his master used to dine at the Golden Fleece at least four times a week. Those who lurked in ambush must have known that he would come that way sooner or later.”

“Can you tell me why Mr Thynne was killed?” asked Bale.

“Henry believes that it may be linked to his support of the Duke of Monmouth’s cause.”

Bale frowned. “Yet another of the King’s many bastard sons.”

“The duke is claiming to be the legitimate heir to His Majesty, insisting that he has written proof that the King was legally married to his mother, Lucy Walter, at the time of his birth.” Bale said nothing. Having fought against the Royalists at the Battle of Worcester, he remained an unrepentant Roundhead. “It provoked the Exclusion crisis,” Christopher went on. “Monmouth is resolved to exclude the King’s brother, James, Duke of York, from the succession because he is an ardent Roman Catholic.”

“Then you believe this murder to be a Catholic conspiracy?”

“Henry does, certainly.”

“What of you, Mr Redmayne?”

“I think that we should look to the lady.”

“What lady?”

“Mr Thynne’s wife,” said Christopher. “No sooner did she marry him than she took to her heels and fled to Holland. Now, why should any wife do such a thing?”

Bale shook his head. “It’s beyond my comprehension.”

“I can’t imagine your wife behaving so recklessly.”

“Sarah would never let me down – nor I, her.”

“Yours is a real marriage. Mr Thynne’s, alas, was a sham. I think that it behoves us to find out why.”

“How can we do that?”

“We begin with the Swedish gentleman, Lieutenant Stern.”

“But we have no idea where he is, Mr Redmayne.”

“Oh, I think I can hazard a guess,” said Christopher. “Let’s go to the Black Bull. He may not be there but I’ll wager that someone will know where to find him. A few coins will soon loosen a tongue. If he is a hired killer, he’ll have collected his payment by now.”

“That was my reasoning,” said Bale. “I thought that he would be spending his blood money with his accomplices.”

“Perhaps he sought choicer company.”

“What do you mean?”

Christopher smiled grimly. “Look to the lady,” he repeated, “though this particular one may not merit that title.”

Her name was Jenny Teale and she picked up most of her trade at the Black Bull. The majority of her clients were eager sailors who took their pleasure quickly in a dark alley before moving on. Lieutenant Stern was different. He bought her favours for a whole night. In this instance, he had come to her at midday and adjourned to her lodging. They had spent frantic hours in bed before falling asleep in a drunken stupor. Jenny Teale lay naked across his body. When someone pounded on her door, she did not even hear the noise at first. It was only when Christopher Redmayne’s shoulder was put to the timber that she was hauled unceremoniously out of her slumber.

There was a loud crash, the lock burst apart and the door was flung wide open. Christopher stood framed in the doorway. Jumping off the bed, Jenny Teale confronted him.

“You’ll have to wait your turn, young sir,” she said, angrily.

“I’m here for Lieutenant Stern,” declared Christopher, averting his gaze from her naked body. His eye fell on the rapier lying beside the bed and he snatched it up at once, using it to prod the sleeping foreigner. “Wake up!” he demanded. “You’re coming with me.”

The Swede let out a yelp of pain then swore volubly in his own language. Sitting up in bed, he saw Christopher standing over him and tried to retrieve his sword from the floor.

“I have your weapon, lieutenant,” said Christopher, “and I daresay that I’ll find your pistol in here somewhere as well. I’m arresting you for your part in the murder of Thomas Thynne.”

“Ze devil you are!” roared Stern.

“Get dressed and come with me.”

“No!”

Grabbing a pillow, Stern leapt out of bed and used it to beat back Christopher. The Swede then hurled the pillow in his face and, clad only in his shirt, opened the window and dropped to the ground below. Christopher had no need to pursue him. He had taken the precaution of stationing Jonathan Bale in the garden. When he glanced through the window, he saw that the constable had easily overpowered the suspect. Christopher gathered up the rest of the man’s clothing together with the pistol that had been used in the shooting. He turned to leave but found that Jenny Teale was blocking his way.

Naked and unashamed, she gave him a bewitching smile.

“Do you have to leave so soon?” she asked.

“I fear so.”

She spread her arms. “Don’t you like what you see?”

“The only person I’m interested in is the man we just apprehended. He’s a vicious killer,” Christopher told her. “Try to choose your clients with more care in future.”

Moving her politely aside, he went out of the room.

Henry Redmayne had repaired to a coffee-house near Temple Bar. He was deep in conversation with his friends when he saw his brother enter the room. Excusing himself from the table, he took Christopher aside.

“Really, sir!” he complained. “Must you always come between me and my pleasures?”

“Count yourself lucky that you are not Lieutenant Stern.”

“Who?”

“One of the men who attacked Thomas Thynne,” said Christopher. “I caught him in bed with his whore. He is now in safe custody. You might pass on that intelligence to His Majesty, and you can assure him that this crime did not arise from political intrigue.”

“It must have done.”

“No, Henry.”

“The Duke of Monmouth has grown bold. The King exiled him yet he insists on returning to this country to press his absurd claims to the throne. Tom Thynne endorsed those claims to the hilt. He paid for his folly with his life.”

“I think not.”

Henry was petulant. “That’s only because you are so ignorant about affairs of state. I move among the great and the good, and know how corrupt their greatness and goodness really is. What prompts them in the main,” he said, airily, “is envy, malice and perverse ambition. There are hundreds of people who seek to pull Monmouth down. What better way to do it than by having his chief paymaster assassinated?”

“Lieutenant Stern has never heard of the Duke of Monmouth

“Has he confessed who suborned him?”

“No,” said Christopher. “He admits that he was one of the three men who shot at Mr Thynne but it’s all he will tell us. That’s why I must turn to you again.”

“But I’m enjoying a coffee with my friends.”

“Thomas Thynne was a friend of yours once.”

“Yes,” said Henry, blithely, “and I mourn his death.”

“By carousing in here?”

“I gave you help. You can’t ask any more of me than that.”

“I can,” returned Christopher. “Your aid is crucial. You can provide information that is way beyond the reach of Jonathan and myself. We must learn more about Mr Thynne’s wife.”

“Elizabeth, the former Lady Ogle? A pretty little thing.”

“Why did she betray her marriage vows and flee the country? Had her husband been unkind to her? Was any violence involved?”

“Tom Thynne would not harm a fly.”

“Then what made his wife desert him?”

“Covetousness,” said Henry, knowledgeably. “The fault that mars all women. She left one man because another one must have offered her more than he could. Tom of Ten Thousand was outbid by someone with even more money and, most probably, with a title to dangle before her.”

“We need his name.”

Henry tried to move away. “I need my cup of coffee.”

“No,” said Christopher, restraining him. “It will have to wait, Henry. You are part of a murder hunt. Something is missing and only you can track it down.”

“Am I to be allowed no leisure?”

“Not until this case is solved. We have one villain behind bars but two others remain at liberty. Additional people may yet be involved but the person who interests me most is the wife.”

“Any man with red blood in his veins would be interested in her,” said Henry with a lewd grin. “A most bed-worthy lady in every sense. Tom Thynne was by no means her only suitor.”

“She must have preferred someone else.”

“I told you – she covets wealth and position.”

“Then give us the name of the man who offered it to her.”

The second arrest was made early that evening. Bribed by Christopher Redmayne, the landlord of the Black Bull had not merely supplied the name and whereabouts of Lieutenant’s Stern’s favourite prostitute. He had told them that the Swede’s closest friend was a Polish sailor called Borosky. Jonathan Bale went in search of him but not in the guise of a constable. He first returned to his house on Addle Hill to change into the clothing he had worn in his former life as a shipwright. Bale then worked his way through the various taverns frequented by sailors.

He was at ease in their company. Bale talked their language and shared their interest in a seafaring life. He met more than one man who had sailed with Stern and Borosky, but it was not until he called at the Blue Anchor, the fifth tavern on his list, that he actually came face to face with the Pole. Borosky was a sturdy man of middle height with a flat face and high cheekbones. He had clearly been drinking heavily and was off guard. Bale had no difficulty getting into conversation with him.

“Where do you sail next, my friend?” he asked.

“To the Baltic,” replied Borosky.

“Under which captain?”

“Captain Vrats of the Adventure.”

“I helped to build a ship of that name once,” confided Bale. “She was a frigate of thirty-two guns with a crew of a hundred and twenty. But your Adventure is just a merchant ship, I daresay. What do you carry?”

Borosky talked freely about the vessel and mentioned that it would be sailing in a few days. Bale acted promptly. He enticed his new acquaintance out of the Blue Anchor with the promise of a meal at another tavern. As soon as they stepped into the fresh air, however, Bale arrested him. There was a brief scuffle but Borosky was too drunk to offer much resistance. He was marched off to join Lieutenant Stern in a dank cell.

Buoyed up by his success, Bale went immediately to Christopher Redmayne’s house in Fetter Lane to tell him what had transpired. The architect was delighted to hear of the second arrest and, like Bale, guessed the name of the third suspect.

“Captain Vrats of the Adventure,” he said.

“The Polander talked of him with affection.”

“Did he say that the captain instigated the crime?”

“No,” admitted Bale, shaking his head, “he swore that the man had nothing to do with it. He told me over and over again that Captain Vrats was innocent.”

“What conclusion did you reach?”

“He was hiding something.”

“I think we should pay Captain Vrats a visit.”

“But he’s aboard his ship in the Thames.”

“So? You know how to row a boat, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mr Redmayne.”

“Then let’s go out to the Adventure,” said Christopher, reaching for his sword. “My instinct tells me that we’re getting closer to solving this crime. We are entitled to congratulate ourselves – all three of us.”

Bale was mystified. “All three?”

“Do not forget my brother.”

“What has he done to help us?”

“Henry discovered that Mr Thynne was a regular visitor to the Golden Fleece in Westminster. All that the villains had to do was to lie in wait nearby, knowing that he would eventually turn up there.”

“Reuben Hopkiss was far more use to us than that,” contended Bale. “He guided us towards Lieutenant Stern. With respect to your brother, sir, he has not pointed us towards any of the suspects.”

“But he has,” said Christopher, holding up a letter.

“What’s that?”

“A message from Henry. It arrived minutes before you did.”

“What does the letter contain?”

“The one thing that I wanted above all else.”

“And what was that, Mr Redmayne?”

“A name.”

The Adventure was anchored in the middle of the river, its masts pointing up into the clear night sky like giant fingers. Two watchmen had been left aboard but they were too busy playing dice by the light of a lantern to see the boat that was being rowed out to them. A call from below alerted them to the fact that their ship had visitors.

“Ahoy, there!” yelled a voice.

“Who’s below?” asked one of the men, leaning over the bulwark to peer at the boat. “Give me your name.”

“Christopher Redmayne.”

“What’s your business?”

“I wish to see Captain Vrats,” said Christopher. “I have news for him about a member of your crew – Lieutenant Stern.”

“Has something happened to him?”

“He’s been badly injured and cannot be moved. But he’s calling for your captain. We promised him that we’d convey the message.”

The watchman pondered. “You’d best come aboard,” he said at length. “The captain is in his cabin.”

Jonathan Bale secured the rowing boat then, in spite of his bulk, shinned up the rope ladder with consummate ease. Christopher found the ascent much more difficult and he was grateful that the ship was so stable. He clambered over the bulwark and stood on the deck. One of the watchmen held up a lantern so that he could study them carefully. Satisfied that they presented no danger, he led them to the captain’s cabin and introduced them. The watchman returned to his post.

Two lanterns burned in the cabin, illumining a room that was small, cluttered and filled with curling tobacco smoke. Captain Vrats took one more puff on his pipe before setting it aside. He appraised the visitors shrewdly.

“What’s this about Lieutenant Stern?” he asked.

“He was stabbed in a fight at the Black Bull,” replied Christopher. “It seems that he was drinking with a young woman named Jenny Teale when another man tried to take her away from him. There was a brawl and the lieutenant came off worst.”

“You don’t look like the sort of man who’d deign to enter the Black Bull,” said Vrats, suspiciously, looking at Christopher’s fine apparel. “It’s not for the likes of you, Mr Redmayne.”

“Too true, captain,” Bale put in, “but I drink there from time to time. And I saw the fight with my own eyes. I helped to carry the wounded man to Mr Redmayne’s house nearby and he sent for a surgeon. There was not much that could be done, sir.”

“Stern is dying?”

“He’ll not live through the night.”

“And he’s calling for me?”

“He has something important to tell you,” said Christopher. “He begged me to fetch you so I asked Mr Bale to row me out to your ship.”

“I see.”

Captain Vrats sat down behind a table that was littered with documents and maps. He watched them through narrowed lids. He was a handsome man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His command of English was good though he spoke with a strong German accent. He pretended to search for something on the table.

“Lieutenant Stern and I are old shipmates,” he observed.

“That’s what he told us,” said Christopher.

“And he’s no stranger to tavern brawls.”

“He fought well,” claimed Bale. “Then a knife was pulled on him. He was stabbed in the stomach. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“You’ll lose some of your own if you tell me any more lies,” said Vrats, seizing a pistol from beneath a pile of papers. “I don’t believe that Stern is injured at all. This story is just a device to get me ashore.”

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t come with us?”

“I’m holding it in my hand.”

Captain Vrats stood up and pointed the pistol at each of them in turn. Their ruse had failed. Bale bided his time, hoping for the opportunity to disable the man. Christopher took over.

“That weapon is a confession of guilt,” he decided.

“I confess nothing.”

“You ambushed Thomas Thynne with the aid of two others.”

“I spent the whole day aboard,” asserted Vrats, “and I have members of my crew who will vouch for me.”

“Then they’ll be committing perjury,” said Christopher. “You are right about one thing. Lieutenant Stern was not injured in a brawl. He and Borosky have been arrested. They will hang for their crime and you will take your place on the gallows beside them.”

Captain Vrats laughed. “Nobody will catch me.”

“You can only kill one of us with that pistol,” noted Bale. “Whoever survives will arrest you on the spot.”

“What chance would one man have against three? As soon as they hear the sound of gunfire, the watchmen will come running.”

“Then we must be ready for them,” said Christopher.

He had been edging slowly towards the table and now made his move. Diving suddenly at the captain, he grabbed the barrel of the pistol and turned it upwards. The gun went off with a loud report. Bale reacted quickly. As Christopher grappled with the captain, Bale stepped forward to fell Vrats with a powerful punch to the ear. He then indicated that Christopher should stand behind the door. After blowing out both lanterns, Bale took up his position on the other side of the door. It was a matter of seconds before the two watchmen came hurrying down the steps to see what had happened. Bale knocked the first one senseless and Christopher held his dagger at the other’s throat.

“Find some rope,” ordered Christopher.

“No shortage of that aboard a ship,” said Bale.

The constable left the cabin but came back with some rope almost immediately. He trussed up both of the watchmen then hauled Vrats off the floor. The captain was still dazed. Christopher lit one of the lanterns before holding it a few inches from the captain’s face.

“Tell me where we can find him,” he demanded.

“Who?” asked Vrats, clearly in pain.

“The man who set you on to kill Thomas Thynne.”

“Nobody set me on.”

“His name is Count Konigsmark.”

Captain Vrats was astounded. “How ever did you find that out?”

“My brother, Henry, kindly provided the name,” said Christopher, cheerfully. “He has a gift for smelling out scandal.”

Gravesend was rimed with frost. The passengers who waited at the harbour that morning shivered in the cold. A rowing boat arrived to take them out to the ship. Before they could climb aboard, however, they heard the clatter of hooves and half-a-dozen horsemen came galloping out of the gloom towards them. Reining in his mount, Christopher Redmayne leapt from the saddle and surveyed the passengers. He was disappointed. The man he sought did not appear to be among them.

“Count Konigsmark?” he asked.

Nobody answered. Some of the passengers shrugged, others shook their heads. Christopher’s gaze shifted to the man on the fringe of the group. Tall and lean, he had long, fair hair that spilled out beneath his hat to reach his waist. He was shabbily dressed but, when Christopher took a closer look at him, he saw how impeccably well-groomed he was. The man had poise and striking good looks. There was an aristocratic disdain in his eye. Christopher gave a signal and two of the riders dismounted to stand either side of the passenger.

“You must come with us, Count Konigsmark,” said Christopher.

“But my name is Lindegren,” argued the other, reaching into his pocket. “You may see my passport, if you wish. I am sailing back to Stockholm.”

“No, you are fleeing the country to avoid arrest. The passport is a forgery. This, however,” Christopher went on, producing a letter to wave in front of him, “is not. Do you recognize your own hand?”

“I told you. I am Oscar Lindegren.”

“Then we will arrest you in that name, though we know full well that you are Count Konigsmark. Your countrymen will be shocked to learn that one of the leading figures in their kingdom is party to a brutal murder.” He snapped his fingers. “Take him.”

The two officers grabbed hold of the man. He was outraged.

“Is this the way you treat innocent people in England?” he protested. “You have made a terrible mistake.”

“It was you who made the mistake,” said Christopher, indicating the letter. “You should not have sent word to Captain Vrats that you were leaving Gravesend on a Swedish ship this morning. We found this in his cabin when we arrested him. I’ve ridden through the night to catch up with you, Count Konigsmark.”

“I committed no crime.”

“You paid others to do it for you and that is just as bad. And if you are as innocent as you pretend, why are you sneaking away in disguise with a false passport?”

Konigsmark was trapped. He was hopelessly outnumbered and was, in any case, unarmed. There was no point in further denial.

“Tell these men to unhand me,” he said, peremptorily, “I demand the right to be treated with respect.”

“You did not treat Thomas Thynne with respect.”

“Mr Thynne was a fool.”

“Yet it was he whom Lady Ogle married and not you.” Christopher saw the flash of anger in the other man’s eyes. “I know that you courted her as well for a time. Was that why you had Mr Thynne ambushed in Westminster? Were you racked with envy?”

“I would never envy such a man. He was beneath contempt.”

“From what I hear, he did not have too high a regard for you either.” Konigsmark scowled. “Is that what provoked your ire? Were you upset by slighting remarks that Mr Thynne made about you?”

“He should have remembered who I am,” growled the other.

“Save your breath for the trial,” advised Christopher, slipping the letter back into his pocket. “Captain Vrats is languishing in prison with two other villains. You will soon join them.”

The officers tried to move him away. Konigsmark held his ground.

“I am a member of the Swedish aristocracy,” he said with dignity, “and I insist on the privileges due to my rank.”

“Of course,” said Christopher with a deferential smile. “I’ll make absolutely sure that you are hanged first.”

In fact, Count Konigsmark did not hang at all. Captain Vrats, Lieutenant Stern and Borosky were found guilty of murder and were hanged in the street where the crime occurred. At the Old Bailey trial, Konigsmark was charged with being an accessory but he was acquitted. Captain Vrats went to his death with remarkable equanimity. His body was then embalmed by a new method devised by William Russell, an undertaker. When he was shipped back to Germany fifteen days after execution, the body of Captain Vrats was in an exceptional state of preservation.