The Parliament House

Chapter Eight

Patrick McCoy was single-minded. Having decided that he would one day be an officer of the law, he thought about nothing else. Jonathan Bale may have taken the final crude portrait but there were half-a-dozen others that Bridget McCoy had drawn and her son had kept all of them. After careful study of each one, he felt that he had a good idea of what Field had looked like. Even though the Saracens Head would need no more provisions for days, Patrick decided to go to Leadenhall Market that morning. In his pocket were the sketches of the killer and he referred to them constantly.

It was a long walk and he was still well short of the market when he was distracted by a commotion. Jeering and laughing, a small crowd was walking along the street. When he saw what they were carrying, Patrick soon understood why they were so excited. At the heart of the crowd, a man was being dragged along to the pillory by two constables. What the onlookers were waiting for was the chance to pelt the prisoner with the various missiles they had collected on the way. Rotten fruit was preferred by most of them but some had stones or pieces of wood, and there was even a dead cat being held in readiness.

The prisoner was a scrawny man in his twenties, protesting his innocence and begging for mercy. The constables ignored his pleas. When they reached the pillory, one of them unlocked it and lifted up the top half so that the man's head and hands could be thrust into the rough shapes carved out of the wood. Because he was so short, the prisoner had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pillory and he was obviously in great discomfort. No sympathy was shown. The top half was slammed down and locked, securing him immovably in a position that would gradually become more and more agonising.

One of the constables read out the charge but it went unheard beneath the baying of the mob. No sooner had the officers stood back than the real punishment began. Missiles of all kinds were flung at him from close range. A ripe tomato splattered across the prisoner's nose and a piece of brick took the skin off the knuckles of one hand. When he yelled for mercy, he was hit full in the face by the putrid cat. Unable to defend himself, he was exposed to the ridicule and cruelty of the crowd. Sticks, stones, fruit, vegetables, and even a live frog were hurled at him.

Patrick watched it all with absent-minded interest. When he was younger, he had helped to bait such malefactors and take his turn at throwing anything that came to hand at a hapless target. The treatment meted out was brutal. Those trapped in the pillory could be cut, bruised, blinded, deprived of teeth or, in some cases, killed by the ferocity of the attack. They were fair game to any passing citizen and the ordeal might last all day. Patrick decided that this particular man was getting off quite lightly. He sidled across to one of the constables, a sturdy man in his forties with a thick brown beard.

'What's his offence, sir?' asked Patrick.

'Sedition,' replied the other.

'What's that?'

'Speaking against the King and his government.'

'Is that what he did?'

'Yes,' said the constable. 'In the presence of witnesses, this villain swore that His Majesty was a creeping Roman Catholic, that he went to Mass six times a day and that he and his bloodsucking ministers were in the pay of the Pope. That was sedition.'

'Then he deserves what he gets.'

'Every last minute of it.'

Patrick thrust out his chest. 'I'm going to be a constable one day.'

'Are you?' said the other with amusement.

'I'll enjoy putting rogues like him in the pillory.'

Snatching up a handful of offal from the street, he flung it hard at the man's head and secured a direct hit. The prisoner did not even feel it. He had already been knocked unconscious by a well- aimed horseshoe.

It was still morning when they finally returned to London. Having stayed overnight at an inn, they completed the rest of their journey and pulled up outside Sir Julius Cheever's house in

Westminster. As on the previous day, Christopher Redmayne travelled in the relative comfort of the coach, listening to his companion's strong political views while feeling unable to challenge them. He was grateful to be released from the litany.

As soon as the coach appeared, Susan and Brilliana came out of the house to greet their father and to ask if he had had a safe journey. Christopher had intended to ride back home but a glance from Susan kept him there. He could tell at once that she knew. The plan to keep her ignorant of what had been going on was instantly abandoned. Christopher felt chastened.

Brilliana made much of her father before sweeping him into the house. Susan was left alone with Christopher. He was subjected to a long and hostile stare before being invited into the house. She led him into the drawing room and shut the door firmly behind them. Hands on her hips, she rounded accusingly on her friend.

'I think that I owe you an explanation,' he said, apologetically.

'It's too late for that.'

'Susan, I did not want you to be hurt.'

'What is more hurtful than being deceived by the one person in my life that I thought I could trust? Really, Christopher,' she said. 'This has made me look at you in a whole new light.'

'I'm still the same person.'

'You mean that you were always given to lies and dissembling?'

'No, of course not.'

'I begin to think so.'

'Then let me put your mind at rest on that score.'

'Put it at rest?' she returned, harshly. 'You've set it ablaze.'

'There was no point in telling you about my anxieties with regard to your father,' he explained. 'I needed to find more proof.'

'Your own brother did that.'

'Henry?'

'He told you from the start that Mr Everett was an unlikely victim of any political plot. Father is the man with sworn enemies. Henry even arranged for you to speak to two Members of Parliament.' 'How do you know all this?'

'Brilliana had a long conversation with your brother.'

'But they've never even met.'

'They have now,' explained Susan. 'Having decided to push the two of us closer together, my sister took it upon herself to discover more about your family background. She and her husband went off to see what sort of a house your brother owned.'

Christopher was aghast. 'Are you telling me that they arrived in Bedford Street and knocked on Henry's door?'

'Even Brilliana would not be that impudent. They just happened to be there when your brother returned from the Navy Office. They fell into conversation. When he realised who they were, Henry invited them in. And that,' said Susan, bitterly, 'is how I came to hear something I should have been told days ago.'

'I concede that.'

'So why did you mislead me?'

'It was an error of judgement, Susan.'

'It was more than that,' she rejoined. 'It was proof that you neither understand nor care about me in the way that I'd naively assumed.'

'I do care about you,' he declared, going to her with outstretched arms. 'How can you possibly doubt that?'

'Then why did you betray me like this?'

'Susan-'

'Am I so weak and tender that I'm not able to hear bad news? Do you think that I'll burst into tears if you tell me that Father is in danger? Your memory is wondrous short, Christopher,' she went on, shaking with emotion. 'When my brother, Gabriel, was murdered, I did not take to my bed in a fit of despair. I did my best to help you in tracking down the man who was responsible.'

'You showed amazing courage.'

'I was the only member of the family who kept in touch with him.'

'That, too, was an example of your steadfastness.'

'It has not fled,' she told him. 'Had I been warned in advance that my brother's life was at risk, I'd have gone to any lengths to protect him. The same is true of my father. I love him. I'd do anything to save him. But only if I knew in advance that he was in jeopardy.'

'This is all true,' he confessed. 'I deserve your reproaches.'

'Supposing that he'd been killed in the last few days?' she said. 'How do you think I'd have felt when I learned that you were already aware of the fact that someone sought his life?'

It was a sobering question and he could find no immediate answer. Instead, he wrestled with his conscience. Should he tell her about the attempted murder of Sir Julius, or suppress the information? Should he risk upsetting her or should he compound his earlier mistake by hiding something from her yet again? Looking into her eyes, he saw the swirling confusion in them. Susan wanted to trust him yet she felt hurt and disregarded. He could deny her no more.

'I only went to the funeral to keep an eye on your father,' he said.

'Without a single word of it to me.'

'I failed, Susan. We were followed.'

He told her about the incident and how he had agreed with her father to say nothing about it. As a result of the conversation with her, Christopher had changed his mind. Shocked by the revelation, she did at least give him credit for confiding in her at last and she wanted to know every detail of what had occurred on their journey. Some of the vehemence had gone from her voice. He was relieved.

'I'll take the matter up with Father,' she said.

'No, no. Let me speak to him first.'

'The pair of you have done enough whispering together. I'll not be led astray again. Thanks to your brother, I know the truth. Brilliana had the whole story from him.'

'That surprises me.'

'Why?'

'Because I'd not have thought that she and Henry would have been in any way compatible. To speak more plainly, I'd have expected Brilliana to be less than complimentary about my brother and the sort of life that he leads. If she went into the house,' said Christopher, 'she must have seen some of those lurid paintings that he favours.'

'Brilliana saw them and liked them.'

' Liked them?'

'It was Lancelot who found them scandalous. He could not stop talking about a picture of a Roman orgy. As for Henry, my sister was very impressed. Brilliana had never met anyone remotely like him.'

'No,' said Christopher, sighing, 'I suppose that Henry does have a uniqueness about him. It's always been a cause for profound regret to me. On the other hand,' he added, keen to state one thing in his brother's favour, 'he can be extraordinarily helpful. He seems to know almost everyone in London.'

'Including Dorothy Kitson.'

Christopher blanched. 'Henry is acquainted with her as well?'

'He knows of the lady,' said Susan, 'and had actually met her last husband. According to Brilliana, he spoke very highly of Mrs Kitson. It made me feel rather contrite.'

'Contrite?'

'I'd had some unkind thoughts about her.'

'Only because you'd never had the advantage of meeting her, Susan. It was natural that should want to shield your father from any inappropriate advances.' He gave a short laugh. 'Though I pity any woman bold enough to make such an approach to Sir Julius.'

'He loves Mrs Kitson,' she said. 'I ought to accept that.'

'Only one question remains, then - does Mrs Kitson love him?'

The Parliament House was part of the Palace of Westminster. It was situated in what had been, before it was secularised, St Stephen's Chapel, a tall, two-storied building with high turrets at the four corners and long stained-glass windows that reflected its earlier sacred function. Irreverent language was now more likely to be heard in the former chapel, and some of the rituals observed would have been regarded as profanities on consecrated ground. Maurice Farwell had been a Member of Parliament for many years and had risen to occupy an important place on the Privy Council. The House of Commons was his second home. As he alighted from his coach, he saw many familiar figures walking towards the chamber. The man who first accosted him, however, was not a politician.

'You have a lot to answer for, Maurice,' said Orlando Golland.

'I'm not responsible for all the legislation that comes out of parliament,' replied Farwell, pleasantly. 'Do not call me to account for it, Orlando.'

'This has nothing to do with the statute book.'

'Then why do you look so sullen?'

'Because I am deeply worried about my sister.'

'There's no novelty in that,' said Farwell. 'You've spent an entire lifetime, worrying about Dorothy. When she was single, you feared that she might never wed. And when she did take a husband - on two separate occasions - you felt that they were palpably unworthy of her.'

'They were saints compared to her latest suitor.'

'And who might that be?'

'Sir Julius Cheever, of course,' said Golland. 'When we met him at the races, you not only acknowledged the rascal, you introduced him to Dorothy and set catastrophe in motion.'

'What can you mean?'

'He wishes to marry her.'

Farwell's jaw dropped. 'Marry her? I'm astounded.'

'It was you who played Cupid to this bizarre romance.'

Well into his forties, Maurice Farwell was tall, rangy and passably handsome. There was an air of conspicuous prosperity about him and a natural dignity that came into its own during parliamentary debates. The last person he had expected to waylay him was Orlando Golland.

'Have you been waiting to ambush me?' he asked.

'No,' said Golland. 'I had legal business at the Palace today. When I saw your coach arrive, I felt that I had to speak. This development has been more than worrying, Maurice. It's a daily torment.'

'Put it out of your mind.' 'How can you say that?'

'Because I cannot believe that someone as refined and well- bred as your sister would let a boor like Sir Julius anywhere near her. He may want to marry Dorothy - London is full of men who would happily fling themselves at her feet - but there's not the slightest danger that she would accept his proposal.'

'But there is, Maurice.'

'Surely not.'

'Dorothy has agreed to meet his children.'

Farwell's eyebrows shot up. 'Good gracious!'

'And she has had a number of clandestine meetings with him.'

'With that grotesque old buffoon? It verges on indecency. What can possibly have attracted her?'

'Whatever it is,' moaned Golland, 'I fail to see it. He's a roaring bear of a man. The only thing I can say in favour of him is that he's a good judge of horses. Sir Julius picked the winner in almost every race at Newmarket that day - including my own filly.'

'And is that when this unlikely friendship started?'

'Apparently.'

'Then I suppose that I must take the blame,' said Farwell with a shrug. 'Had I known that this would happen, I'd have kept Dorothy well away from him.' He became pensive. 'It's rather curious, though.'

'What is?'

'My wife may be more prescient than she knows.'

'Prescient?'

'Yes,' said Farwell. 'Adele has never shown any gift for prophecy before. When we got back from the races that day, however, she told me that she had a strong impression that your sister was ready for marriage again. Adele sensed it.'

'She could not have sensed that Sir Julius would be the husband.'

'Never in a hundred years!'

'What am I to do, Maurice?' said Golland, anxiously. 'I can hardly speak to her as a man of the world. Dorothy has been married twice whereas I regard holy matrimony as the grossest intrusion of privacy.' 'Yes, you like to have control of your life.'

'A wife would insist on rearranging it for me.'

'But she would bring many compensating virtues,' said Farwell with a fond smile. 'That's what Adele has done for me.- She's a perfect helpmeet, a true partner.' He pondered. 'As to the best course of action with regard to your sister,' he resumed after a while, 'I know exactly what you should do.'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'Let it runs its course, Orlando.'

'But what if she gets hopelessly entangled with Sir Julius?'

'I have more faith in Dorothy than you.'

'She seems to be genuinely enamoured of him.'

'It will pass,' said Farwell, smoothly. 'She'll soon see through that blundering fool. Ha! Your sister ought to be here this afternoon so that she could watch the bloated oaf pontificate. That would teach her what an irritating fellow he is. Later on, I'll be jousting with Sir Julius Cheever once more. He'll lead strong opposition to a bill that we mean to introduce.'

'How do you know?'

'He's a born rebel. Whatever we propose, he'll raise endless and unnecessary objections. I'll have to do battle with the old curmudgeon yet again. He's a menace, Orlando.'

'And he may end up as my brother-in-law.'

'Marry him?' he said with a laugh. 'If Dorothy knew him as well as I do, she'd run a mile from Sir Julius Cheever.'

'Stay here, Sir Julius,' she pleaded. 'Remain where you are safe.'

'I'll be out of harm's way at the House of Commons.'

'How do you know that? That man tried to kill you. He may do so again. I care for you too much to let you put your life at risk again.'

'Thank you,' he said, enjoying her attention and glad that he had decided to confide in her. 'But I'll not present such an easy target again. Now that I know what to expect, I'll have eyes in the back of my head.'

Sir Julius Cheever had called at the house in Covent Garden to let Dorothy Kitson know that he had returned, and to test her affection for him by telling her about the ambush he had survived. The news had jolted her and, for the first time, she had reached out to touch him in a spontaneous gesture of concern.

'Did you receive my letter?' he said.

'Yes,' she replied, 'and I was pleased to hear that both of your daughters are in London. I'm ready to meet them whenever they wish.' She gave him an inquisitive smile. 'What have you told them about me?'

'Only that you are the most wonderful woman in the world.'

'That was very silly of you, Sir Julius.'

'I was only speaking the truth.'

'But you were not being very tactful,' she pointed out. 'For any daughters, the most wonderful woman in the world is their mother. I could never compete with your wife. Nor would I wish to do so.' He nodded soulfully. 'Be more judicious in future. If you praise me to the skies, your daughters are bound to find me wanting.'

'You are entirely without fault, Dorothy.'

'I've learned to hide my shortcomings, that's all.'

'Mine are all too visible,' he confessed. 'But I fear that I must away,' he added, moving to the door. 'I've work to do in that yapping menagerie we call a parliament.'

'Take care, Sir Julius.'

'I'll be Caution itself.'

'And speak to my brother about this outrage you suffered.'

'What can Mr Golland do?'

'Orlando can arrange some bodyguards for you.'

'I have one waiting for me beside my coach. And like me,' he said, opening his coat to reveal the pistol that he carried, 'he is well-armed and primed for action.'

'I find this all so troubling.'

'You may rest easy, dear lady. Nothing can touch me now. I have a more potent weapon at my disposal.'

'Oh? And what's that?' 'A young friend who has helped me in the past. He has a genius for hunting down villains. Christopher will not fail me. It's only a matter of time before this killer is behind bars.'

Within minutes of arriving back at his house, Christopher Redmayne had a visitor. Eager to speak with his brother, Henry was even more peevish than usual. He adopted a tone of rebuke.

'Where on earth have you been, Christopher?' he complained. 'This is the third time today that I've called.'

'I thought you were shackled to your desk at the Navy Office.'

'Fortunately, the hateful Surveyer has gone to Chatham. I was able to sneak away - and I expected you to be here.'

'I was attending a funeral in Cambridgeshire.'

'That's a paltry excuse.'

'Nevertheless, it accounts for my absence. I went with Sir Julius Cheever to see his friend, Mr Everett, laid to rest.'

Henry sneered. 'It's a shame that there was no room in the grave for Sir Julius himself. No, no,' he corrected immediately, 'I withdraw that calumny. It's unjust. Any man who can bring such glory into the world deserves respect.'

'What are you talking about, Henry?'

'His daughter. She is a positive divinity.'

'I agree,' said Christopher with a warm smile. 'Susan is the most gorgeous woman alive.'

'Then you have obviously not seen her sister.'

'Brilliana?'

'An angel in human form,' said Henry, fervently. 'A queen of her sex. Beauty personified.'

'Brilliana cannot compare with Susan.'

'She can, Christopher. You may be drawn by the virginal charm of the younger sister but it pales beside the seasoned excellence of the elder. I've never met such an alluring creature.'

'You should not have met her now,' said Christopher.

'It was destiny!'

'It was unwarranted curiosity, Henry, and her sister has told her so in blunt terms. Brilliana had no call to pry into my private life. What right did she have to pester my brother?'

'Every right,' said Henry. 'I grant it freely.'

'You should have behaved with more discretion.'

'In the face of such a temptress? It was impossible. The hour we spent together was magical.' A nostalgic beam lit up his face. 'Dare I hope that Brilliana enjoyed her visit to Bedford Street?'

'It seems that she was rather impressed with you, Henry.'

'Wonder of wonders!'

'But I doubt if the same can be said of Lancelot.'

'Who?'

'Her husband,' said Christopher, pointedly. 'Not that you even noticed him, I daresay. Lancelot was horrified by your taste in art.'

'How strange! Brilliana approved of it.'

'That amazes me.'

'It shows that she and I have a close affinity.'

'Henry, she's married. She's beyond your reach. I refuse to let you entertain libidinous thoughts about her. Brilliana Serle is not available.'

'Many women think that until they feel the first hot pang of desire. As for marriage, no man could have more respect for the institution. It's an inexhaustible hunting ground for me,' he boasted. 'I've helped to rescue many a bored wife from a dull husband.'

'Well, you'll not add Brilliana Serle to your list of conquests,' said Christopher, sternly. 'I can tell you for a fact that she is neither bored nor trapped in a dull marriage. More to the point, she is Susan's sister and that means I have a strong personal interest here.'

'I would not dream of embarrassing you.'

'You've already done so - many times.'

'One sister is surely enough for any man. Leave the other to me.'

'No, Henry!'

'I'll move stealthily. Nobody will ever know.'

'I'll know,' said Christopher, 'and so will the lady herself. You misjudge her completely. Brilliana will not welcome your blandishments. She'll be very distressed.'

'She was not distressed by my paintings. They awakened her.'

'No more of this. I forbid you to continue.'

'Pish, man! Don't moralise. When you have designs on one daughter, it ill becomes you to climb into the pulpit about another. Besides, I have enough sermons from our benighted father. I came here for one simple reason,' said Henry, briskly. 'I need a brother's help. Contrive a situation so that I can meet Brilliana once again - without the distracting presence of her husband this time. Have I not helped you with regard to this murder investigation in which you are embroiled?'

'You have,' said Christopher. 'I am very grateful.'

'Then display that gratitude by doing what I ask.'

Henry turned on his heel and sailed gracefully out of the room.

Christopher was dumbfounded. Wanting to remonstrate with his brother, he saw how pointless his strictures were. He was also aware of how prudish he sounded when he tried to warn Henry about the pitfalls of a dissolute life. Christopher felt the same natural impulses as all men but he had learned to control them instead of being at their mercy. Henry was different. Having rejected the homilies of his father, the dean of Gloucester, he would hardly listen to the warnings of a younger brother.

It was disturbing for Christopher. Any pursuit of Brilliana was doomed. If she rejected Henry - as was most likely - she would turn against the whole Redmayne family. If, on the other hand, she chose to encourage his interest, then the consequences were unthinkable. Either way, Christopher's friendship with Susan would be adversely affected and he resolved that that must never happen. Were she to discover that Henry was harbouring lustful thoughts about her sister, Susan would be truly appalled. And if the information ever reached the ears of Sir Julius, nothing short of disaster would follow.

Christopher heard voices in the hall. Thinking that Henry might not, after all, have left, he went out to challenge him, only to discover that one visitor had been replaced by another. Jonathan Bale had just been let into the house. Christopher was pleased to see him. After the abrasive meeting with his brother, he needed stable companionship. He led the constable into the parlour and they sat down.

'When did you return, Mr Redmayne?' asked Bale.

'This morning. Sir Julius and I stayed overnight in Essex.'

'Did everything go without incident?'

'No, Jonathan.' 'Oh?'

'Someone tried to kill Sir Julius.'

He explained what had happened. Bale was reassured to hear that Sir Julius Cheever had escaped with only a minor injury. Like his friend, however, he feared that a third attempt might be made to shoot him.

'Will he take more care in future?' he asked.

'He has a bodyguard with him at all times,' said Christopher, 'and he'll remain vigilant. His daughters only consented to let him out of the house if he took precautions.'

'Good.'

'But what about you, Jonathan? Did you get my letter?'

'Yes. I called on Lewis Bircroft in Coleman Street.'

'An apposite address for him for a Puritan.'

'At first, he refused to accept that his beating had any political connection but I sensed that he was lying. I pressed him hard.'

'And?'

'I eventually squeezed some of the truth out of him,' said Bale, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Mr Bircroft told me that it was to do with a political pamphlet. Here,' he went on, handing the paper to Christopher. 'I asked him to write down the title because there was no way that I could remember it.'

Christopher read it out. 'Observations on the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England. I've heard of this before. There were references to it in the newspapers.'

'It caused a scandal, Mr Redmayne.'

'I know. I remember a huge outcry against the pamphlet. It was published anonymously, wasn't it?'

'Nobody would dare to put his name to it. A reward of £200 was offered for information that would lead to the arrest of the author.' 'And did Mr Bircroft tell you who that was?'

'No,' said Bale, sadly, 'but he did admit that many people thought it was his work. He's been an assiduous pamphleteer in the past and is very critical of the government.'

'So that's why he was attacked.'

'They tried to beat a confession out of him with cudgels. Though he swore that he was not the author, they refused to believe him. It took him months to get over his injuries and he now uses a walking stick.'

'The pamphlet must have been very seditious.'

'Yet it was not written by Lewis Bircroft.'

'Who was responsible for it, Jonathan?'

'He could not tell me. However, one thing he did know.'

'Go on.'

'Suspicion has now moved to Sir Julius Cheever. Some people are convinced that he wrote that pamphlet. They are so enraged,' said Bale, 'they they've taken the law into their own hands. They want him executed for what he did.'

'Sir Julius has said nothing to me about the pamphlet.'

'Then he may not be its author.'

'The title certainly bears his stamp,' said Christopher, 'but he is not a man to hide behind anonymity. Also, of course - if the pamphlet really had been his - he would not have told me in case I tried to collect that reward.'

'You'd never have done that, Mr Redmayne.'

'I know that. Sir Julius, perhaps, may have doubts about me.'

'Even though you've done your best to protect him?'

'Even then.' Christopher put the paper aside. 'You've done well, Jonathan. We finally have a motive. Sir Julius may be wrongly accused but that will not make his enemies stay their hand. A pamphlet that somebody else wrote may bring about his downfall.'

'That's unfair, sir.'

'Granted, but it's the situation with which we have to deal. Before he can strike again, we simply must catch the killer between us.'

'We may have some assistance.' 'From where?'

'The Saracen's Head. Mrs McCoy drew a picture of the man who rented a room there. She says it's a good likeness. Her son cannot wait to go in search of the man. For some reason,' he explained, 'Patrick wants to be a constable like me. He's determined to find Mr Field for us.'

They set out even earlier than usual. Bridget McCoy was not optimistic.

'He'll not be there,' she said, gloomily.

'He may be, Mother. You never know.'

'He was not at the market when you went there yesterday.'

'He might have been,' said Patrick, lumbering along beside her. 'I could easily have missed him in the crowd. That's why it needs two of us to catch Mr Field.'

'That's not his name, Patrick.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I've been thinking about it,' she said. 'If a man was about to commit a terrible murder, would he give his real name to me? No, it would be foolish of him. A name can be used to hunt someone down.'

Patrick was bewildered. 'If his name is not Mr Field,' he said with a frown, 'then what is it?'

'We may never know.'

'We will if we catch him today. I'll make him tell us the truth.'

'No, Patrick.'

'He lied to you, Mother. That was wrong.'

'Yes,' she agreed, 'and he deserves to be punished but it's not for us to touch him. That's Mr Bale's job. I made that mistake the first time. When I saw him in the market, I ran after Mr Field - or whatever his name was - and he must have seen me coming. I scared him off.'

'I can run faster than you.'

'He may have a weapon.'

Patrick held up his fists. 'I have two.'

'They're no use against a dagger or a pistol,' she said. 'Save them for rowdy customers at the tavern. This is a job for a constable.'

'That's what I'll be one day, Mother.'

'One day - perhaps.'

They walked on in silence. Bridget felt it would be too unkind to dampen his enthusiasm by reminding him of some of the other aspects of a parish constable's occupation. All that Patrick thought about was the pursuit and arrest of criminals. On the previous day, he had returned in a state of exhilaration because he had watched a prisoner being locked in the pillory by two constables. It was a task that he relished doing himself. It simply required brute force. When it came to giving evidence in court, or to interrogating a suspect, it was a very different matter. Patrick would flounder badly. He would be a figure of fun once again.

'I could have brought a cudgel,' said Patrick, bravely. 'I took one off that man I had to throw out last Saturday. He tried to hit me with it. With a cudgel in my hand, I could take on anybody.'

'You'd only get hurt.'

'Not if I get in the first blow.'

Bridget was firm. 'No, Patrick. All that we can do is to find him. We have to leave it to Mr Bale and Mr Warburton to arrest him.'

'We can't let him get away.'

'No, we'll follow him. We'll find out where he lives and then report it to the constables.' Her despondency returned. 'If we ever catch sight of him, that is, and I don't believe we will. He's gone forever. That lousy, scurvy, villainous son of a pox-ridden whore may not even be in London.'

They walked on. While his mother was unhopeful, Patrick was full of confidence. He felt certain that they would see the man this time. He straightened his shoulders and marched along with pride. It was almost as if he were on patrol as a parish constable. The market was already busy by the time they reached Leadenhall Street and all four courtyards were swarming with people. In such a heaving multitude, it would not be easy to pick out one person.

Beginning with the courtyard where the man had been seen before, they walked slowly through the crowd. Bridget wished that she were taller so that she could see over the heads of the people all around her. Unable to retain a mental picture of the suspect for long, Patrick kept taking out one of the pictures that his mother had drawn in order to refresh his memory. When he looked up again, his eyes searched for a broken nose and a mole. As they moved from one courtyard to another, he saw both frequently but they were never on the same person. Having taken the crumpled drawing from his pocket for the tenth time, Patrick resolved to rely on his mother. Bridget had seen and talked to the man. She would know him.

'He's not here,' she decided.

'The market is still young. More people are coming in all the time.'

'We can't stay here all morning.'

'I can,' he volunteered.

'No, Patrick. We've too much work to do.'

'What's more important than catching Mr Field?'

'Nothing,' she said. 'Nothing at all.'

'Then we stay.'

Bridget nodded. Bolstered by her son's resolve, she continued the search, going back to the first courtyard and starting all over again. It was painstaking work. The more faces that flashed in front of her, the more confused she became and the ear-shattering noise all around her was a further distraction. She seemed to be at the very heart of the turmoil. Pushed and jostled from all sides, Bridget started to lose faith in the whole enterprise yet again.

Then a man's face passed within a yard of her. It took her a moment to register the shape of his head, the large ears, the colour of his complexion, the hang of his lip, the ugliness of the broken nose and that mole on the cheek that she had noticed at their first encounter. When she put all the elements together, she was certain of his identity.

'That's him, Patrick!' she said.

'Where?'

'That man carrying the side of beef on his shoulder.'

'Are you sure?'

'As sure as I'll ever be - that's the rogue.'

'Then let me get him,' said Patrick, bunching his fists.

She held him back. 'No!'

'We can't miss a chance like this, Mother.'

'Follow him. See where he goes.'

'He could easily shake us off in this crowd.'

'Stay here!' she ordered.

But she had reckoned without the strength of his ambition. Patrick McCoy was a young man with little in life beyond the desire to better himself. And the only way he could conceive of doing that was to be a parish constable. Here was a chance to display his abilities. In a situation like this, Jonathan Bale would not hold back. Ten yards away was a man who had committed murder from the vantage point of the Saracens's Head. He had to be apprehended.

Pushing his mother aside, Patrick bullocked his way forward.

'Stop!' he yelled. 'Stop there right now!'

Like everyone else in the vicinity, the man with the side of beef over his shoulder turned to look in Patrick's direction. Then he noticed the woman who was trying to follow the youth and he realised who she was.

'Wait there!' shouted Patrick. 'I want a word with you, Mr Field!'

The man immediately took a defensive stance. As Patrick charged at him, he swung the side of beef so hard that it knocked his attacker to the ground. Flinging his cargo down on top of Patrick, he delivered several swift kicks to the youth's head to disable him. Then he fled at full speed into the crowd with a stream of abuse from Bridget McCoy filling his ears.