The Parliament House

Chapter Nine

Crimes and disturbances did not obligingly cease in Baynard's Castle ward to allow Jonathan Bale to devote his whole time to the murder hunt. That morning, he and Tom Warburton were called to Great Carter Street to intervene in a violent quarrel. A customer had visited the barber-surgeon, who, among his many talents, was able to draw teeth. It was a painful exercise but less of a torment than the bad tooth that had infected the customer's whole mouth and made his cheek swell to twice its size. The extraction was swift and decisive. On only one small detail could the barber-surgeon be faulted. He had removed the wrong tooth.

When the constables arrived on the scene, the men were trading blows and roaring spectators were urging them on. Bale grabbed the barber, Warburton took hold of the customer, and they dragged the adversaries apart. Struggling for release, the two men continued the fight with robust language and dire threats. It was minutes before Bale was able to calm them down enough to hear the cause of their dispute. He was still trying to act as a mediator when he saw two people hurrying along the street towards him.

Bridget McCoy was flushed and agitated but it was her son who made the constable stare. A hideous bruise darkened one side of Patrick's face and there was an ugly swelling on his temple. One eye was almost closed. Even the disgruntled customer felt sorry for him. A lost tooth did not compare with a vicious beating. Leaving Warburton to sort out the argument, Bale detached himself to speak to the newcomers.

'What happened?' he said.

'We saw him,' replied Bridget. 'We saw that bastard again.'

'Where?'

'At the market.'

'Why did you not send word, Mrs McCoy?'

'It would have taken too long,' said Patrick. 'So I tried to arrest him myself. I tried to be like you, Mr Bale.'

Bridget indicated the wounds. 'You can see the result,' she said, rancorously. 'He almost kicked my son's head off. Wait till I catch up with the knave. I'll bite his balls off and spit them in the Thames.'

'Tell me exactly what happened, Mrs McCoy,' suggested Bale.

'I'll slice him into tiny bits and feed him to the dogs.'

'We have to apprehend him first, and we can't do that while you're railing against him. Now, then, let me hear the full story.'

Supported and sometimes contradicted by her son, Bridget gave a bitter description of events. The crowd had now abandoned the dental dispute and turned their attention to this new development. Given an audience, Bridget responded by introducing gruesome details, couched in the sort of language that most of them had never before heard coming from the lips of a woman. Bale seized on the salient details.

'He's a porter,' he concluded. 'Mr Field is a porter.'

Patrick rubbed his sore face. 'Mother says that's not his name.'

'I think that she's right, lad.'

'So we don't know who he really is.'

'But we know where he works.'

'Do we, Mr Bale?' said Bridget.

'Yes,' he told her. 'If he had a side of beef with him, he was delivering it to market. So we can guess where he took his name from.'

'Where?'

'Smithfield. He's a meat porter from Smithfield. Take out the Smith and what do you have left, Mrs McCoy?' 'Field.'

'I'll wager that's how he christened himself.'

'Let's catch him, Mr Bale,' urged Patrick. 'Let's go to Smithfield.'

'The only place you're going to is bed,' said his mother, tenderly. 'You must have a terrible headache. Wait until you see yourself in a mirror, Patrick. You shouldn't be abroad in a state like that.'

'I agree,' said Bale. 'Take him home. I have to tell someone else what you managed to find out. Then we'll need to speak to you again.'

'And to me,' insisted Patrick. 'I was there as well.'

'You need to rest, lad.' 'I only did what you'd have done, Mr Bale.'

'That was very brave of you.'

'He used our tavern for a murder. That was sinful.'

'It was a bloody disgrace!' asserted Bridget.

'Take him away, Mrs McCoy,' advised Bale. 'I think a doctor ought to look at those wounds of his. They were got honourably, Patrick,' he said, hoping to cheer him up. 'But it's time to step aside now, lad. Leave this fellow to us.'

'It's not a criticism, Brilliana,' said her husband. 'It's an observation.'

'Well, it's one that is quite uncalled for, Lancelot.'

'Do you deny that you paid excessive attention to Mr Henry Redmayne?'

'No, I do not.'

'Or that you praised his paintings?'

'I adored them,' said Brilliana.

'They were thoroughly indecent.'

'Nakedness can be beautiful in the hands of a skilful artist.'

'All I saw was filth and obscenity,' he argued, wrinkling his nose, 'and if that is an accurate reflection of the man's taste, I vote that we shun the society of Henry Redmayne forthwith.'

'Then you'll be cutting off your nose to spite your face.'

'In what way?'

'He can help you, Lancelot,' she said, kissing him softly on the cheek. 'That was the only reason I pandered to him. I did it for you.'

'Really?'

'Is a wife not allowed to advance her husband's interests?'

'Of course.'

'Then you should give me thanks instead of berating me.'

They were in the garden of the Westminster house, seated on a bench that occupied a little arbour. It was a fine summer's day. Insects buzzed happily around them and the mingled scent of flowers filled the air. Lancelot Serle was so unaccustomed to offering his wife even the slightest reproach that it had taken him a long time to work up the courage to do so. She was quick to defend herself.

'Henry Redmayne is a means to an end,' she explained. 'That's why I chose to flatter him. He attends Court and is on familiar terms with anyone of note in parliament. We must cultivate him, Lancelot. He is your passport to greater things.'

'But he ignored me completely.'

'He'll not do so again.'

'Those lecherous eyes of his never strayed from you.'

'I encouraged his interest,' said Brilliana, 'so that he would feel obligated to me. When I have a more secure hold on him, I'll ask Henry to introduce you to people who can assist your own political career. In due course, he will also present you at court. Would you not like to rub shoulders with the King?'

'Who needs a king when I live with a queen?' he said, gallantly.

'A pretty compliment but it evades my question.'

Serle was more forceful. 'Then my answer is this: yes, I would like to enter parliament. Yes, I do want to have my say in the government of the country. And yes, moving in court circles would be - if you'll forgive a crude pun - the crowning achievement. However,' he went on, seriously, 'I'd like to do it by my own efforts, Brilliana, and not be beholden to a man who nurses improper thoughts about my wife.'

'Henry does not have improper thoughts.'

'Judging by those paintings, he never has any other kind.'

'His father is the dean of Gloucester Cathedral.'

'I discerned no ecclesiastical leanings in his elder son.'

'Lancelot,' she said, stamping a foot, 'I cannot help you if you will not be helped. Knowing the right people is everything.'

'My suspicion is that Henry Redmayne knows all the wrong ones.'

Brilliana gasped. 'What has possessed you?'

'I'm sorry, my dear. I know that you mean well but I think that there are other ways to fulfil my ambitions. Dangling the person I love as tempting bait in front of another man is not one of them, especially when the man in question is Mr Henry Redmayne.'

She stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, piqued that he should deny her a role in his political advancement yet stirred by the boldness with which he had spoken. Brilliana did not know how to respond. The need to do so was removed by the arrival of Susan.

'Ah, there you are,' she said. 'Am I interrupting anything?'

'Yes,' replied Serle.

'No,' overruled his wife, putting a hand on his knee. 'Lancelot and I were engaged in idle gossip, nothing more. Do join us, Susan.' Her sister held her straw hat as she ducked under the arbour. 'You look as if you've brought news.'

'I have,' said Susan, taking a seat beside her. 'A message has come from Father. He's called on Mrs Kitson again.'

'I thought that he went straight to the Parliament House.'

'He could not resist going to Covent Garden first, even though it took him right out of his way. His message is simple. We are to expect Mrs Kitson this evening.'

'Splendid!' said Brilliana, clapping her hands.

'And it seems that her brother will be coming as well.'

'Her brother?'

'Mr Golland. He's a justice of the peace.'

'I've always wanted to sit on the bench,' said Serle, alerted by the news. 'I look forward to meeting him.'

'We must not let Father down,' warned Brilliana. 'We must be on our best behaviour. Her brother as well, you say? It sounds as if it will be quite a party. Listen, Susan,' she said, artlessly, 'perhaps you should invite Christopher to join us.'

'I think not,' said Susan, 'this is a family affair.'

'Well, he is practically one of the family.'

'Not yet, Brilliana.'

'But he's such a presentable young man and would add some interest for Mrs Kitson. And I have an even better idea,' she continued. 'Since we are enlarging our number, why not add one more and include Christopher's brother as well? I should like to meet Henry again.'

Henry Redmayne could not get her out of his mind. Though he appeared to be working at the Navy Office that morning, his thoughts were with Brilliana Serle and that bewitching smile she had given him as they parted. She had come into his life at an opportune moment. Spurned by one wife, he had met the ideal replacement. She was womanhood in all its glory and he coveted her madly. There was the small problem of her husband but Henry had had great experience in circumventing spouses. No obstacle would be allowed to stand in the way that led to paradise.

Bent over his desk, he was lost in contemplation of Brilliana Serle when a voice broke into his reverie. Henry looked up at Maurice Farwell.

'Mr Farwell,' he said, leaping obediently to his feet. 'Good day to you, sir. This is an unexpected pleasure. It's not often that you stray this far from parliament.'

'I've come for ammunition, Mr Redmayne.'

'We do not keep any cannonballs here.'

'I know,' said Farwell with a quiet smile. 'That's not the kind of ammunition I had in mind. We are to debate naval procurements this afternoon, and I need to have the relevant details at my fingertips. I'm told that you could provide them.'

'Why, yes,' said Henry, burrowing among the papers that littered his desk. 'I have everything you need here. You've been such a friend to us in the past that you can always count on our help.' His hand closed on some documents. 'This is what you require, I believe.'

Farwell took the documents. 'Thank you,' he said, perusing them.

'You may borrow them, if you wish.'

'There's no need, Mr Redmayne. I have an excellent memory and it always impresses the house if one can speak without notes. Yes,' he went on, nodding in appreciation as he read on. 'These facts and figures are quite unanswerable.' He turned to the second page and scanned it with a sharp eye. When he had read the last page, he was content. 'With these at my disposal, I'll be able to bring Sir Julius crashing down.'

'Sir Julius Cheever?'

'That's the fellow - though I fancy that he prefers to see himself as another Julius Caesar. He's a stubborn Roundhead yet he has strangely imperial ambitions.' Farwell gave the documents back to him. 'Someone should remind him what happened to Caesar.'

'Do you see much of Sir Julius in parliament?'

'Far too much. I do not mind lively debate - it's the essence of our democracy - but I do draw the line at personal invective. Respect for one's political opponents is important, I feel. When the business of the day is done, we should be able to shake hands and act as gentlemen.'

'I cannot imagine Sir Julius shaking hands with a government minister,' said Henry. 'He would sooner amputate his whole arm.'

'It makes for so much unnecessary hostility.'

Henry did not know him well but he had followed Farwell's career with interest. The man's rise had been swift and sure. Unlike most successful politicians, he seemed to have held himself aloof from the cabals and conspiracies that animated the Parliament House. Maurice Farwell was above such things. Henry had never once heard his name connected with skullduggery or corruption.

'In some ways,' admitted Farwell, 'I admire him. We need men of Sir Julius's calibre. He has a simple integrity that shines like a candle in the darkness. But he does not, alas, treat us with any regard,' he said. 'Full-throated abuse is all that we hear. And there is such a ring of defiance about him. He still seems to think that the Lord Protector will walk into the chamber at any moment.'

'Cromwell is dead - thank goodness! Those dark days are over.'

'You would not think so to listen to Sir Julius.'

'He has supporters, I hear.'

'A ragbag of hangers-on. Nobody of any standing follows him. Though he could have counted on Bernard Everett,' he conceded. 'Now, he would have been a much more formidable opponent. His death was untimely. By repute, he was a master of debate. I would have enjoyed locking horns with Mr Everett.'

'My brother is involved in the pursuit of his killer.'

'Indeed? More power to his elbow.'

'Christopher was the architect who designed Sir Julius's house.'

'Then he earned his fee,' said Farwell, approvingly. 'I've seen the place. It's a fine piece of architecture.' He lowered his voice. 'I trust that your brother does not share his client's political opinions?'

'He finds them repellent.'

'Too strong a word - Sir Julius is misguided, that is all.'

'Christopher tells me that he has mellowed slightly of late.'

'We saw no sign of it in parliament yesterday. He was as bellicose as ever. A debate is always another battlefield to him. However,' he added with a chuckle, 'I do believe that there's been something of a change in his private life and I, unwittingly, was the cause of it.'

'Are you referring to Mrs Kitson?'

'You've heard about the attachment?'

'One of his daughters told me about it. I was thunderstruck. It's hard to think of a more eccentric liaison.'

'My wife more or less prophesied it,' said Farwell, proudly. 'Adele warned me some time ago that Dorothy Kitson was ready to consider marriage once more and - lo and behold - along comes Sir Julius.'

'I pity the poor lady.'

'There's obviously a mutual attraction of some kind.'

'Sir Julius has the appeal of a gargoyle.'

'I disagree. Some might consider him to have a rugged charm. And I'm told that he has two very beautiful daughters.'

Henry pounced on his cue. 'No, Mr Farwell,' he said, beaming, 'I dispute that. One is beautiful but the other is quite exquisite.'

'Clearly, you know them both.'

'Not as well as I would wish.'

'Do they take after their father?'

'Happily - no.'

'It looks as if they may soon acquire a stepmother,' said Farwell, 'and I give my wholehearted blessing to the match. Dorothy Kitson is a delightful person. If anyone can tame Sir Julius, then it is she. He might yet be redeemed by the love of a good woman.'

Jonathan Bale was an indifferent horseman and the ride was a trial for him. Conscious of his friends discomfort, Christopher Redmayne took them along at a steady trot. A canter would have troubled the constable. A hell-for-leather gallop would have hurled him from the saddle of the borrowed animal. After speaking with Bridget McCoy at the Saracens Head, the two men were on their way to Smithfield. Both she and her son were ready to go with them but Christopher declined the offer. Patrick needed rest and the sight of his mother would only put their quarry to flight again. With the drawing of the killer in his pocket, and with the certainty that the man worked as a Smithfield porter, Christopher felt that they had enough information to run him to ground themselves.

'You are handling the mare well, Jonathan,' he said.

'I'd rather not handle her at all.'

'It's the quickest way to get to Smithfield.'

'I'd sooner crawl there on my hands and knees,' said Bale, holding on to the reins as if his life depended on it. 'It feels so unsafe up here.'

'You'll get used to it.'

Covering over ten acres, Smithfield had been the city's largest meat market for centuries. It was famed for its turbulence and as the site of many executions. Smithfield was the home of the annual Bartholomew Fair, an occasion for unbridled rowdiness and debauchery. So notorious was it as a place of fighting and duelling that it was known as Ruffians Hall. In an attempt to impose a degree of order, the area had been paved and provided with sewers and railings, but old habits died hard. It was still pulsing with danger.

Christopher and Bale became aware of it long before it came into view. Slaughtermen had been working in earnest and the stink of blood and offal was carried on the light breeze. It made them both retch. The noise, too, came out to meet them. Crazed cattle, sheep and pigs set up a constant din as they scuttled here and there in a vain attempt to avoid their grisly fate. When the riders got to Smithfield itself, the stench was indescribable. Everywhere they looked, axes were being swung and doomed animals were sending their last cries of protest up to heaven.

It was no place for the faint-hearted or for the unwary. As soon as they dismounted, the first thing that Christopher did was to employ a young boy to look after their horses, promising to pay him when they returned so that they could guarantee he would still be there. A ghastly scene confronted them. Blood-soaked men were loading meat into carts. A fresh supply of cattle was just arriving. A barking dog was chasing some sheep. A mischievous drover, much the worse for drink, let loose a large bull and it rampaged around the market, scattering all and sundry, before disappearing into one of the shops to cause even more havoc. It was a typical day at Smithfield.

They talked to anyone who hired porters. A description was given, the drawing was shown and Christopher hinted at a reward for any help. Their efforts brought little result at first. People either did not recognise the man or protected him out of a false loyalty. It took them an hour before they finally found someone willing to assist them. He was a squat individual with a porcine face and thick forearms. After staring at Bridget McCoy’s art for some time, he gave a nod.

'Yes, I know him,' he said. 'Dan Crothers.'

'Are you certain of that?' asked Bale.

'I should be. He works for me.'

'Is he here now?'

'No,' said the man. 'He disappeared. Dan's like that.'

'Could he have been in Leadenhall Market earlier on?'

'That's where I sent him with the cart. He had meat to deliver. Dan brought the cart back then vanished.'

'Has he always worked here?' said Christopher.

'On and off.'

'Was he ever in the army?'

'Yes, sir. Eight years, he served.'

'So he'd be used to handling weapons?'

'Sword, dagger, pistol, musket - Dan knows them all.'

'I see,' said Christopher with a meaningful glance at Bale. 'Has he been here all this week?'

'No,' grumbled the man, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'Dan went off somewhere for a day or two. I only employ him, of course, so he didn't bother to tell me. When he got back, I swinged him soundly. If he kept going off, I warned him, I'd find another porter.'

Christopher tried to contain his excitement. Everything he had heard confirmed that they might have found the elusive Mr Field at last. He had been in Leadenhall Street that morning so could well have encountered Bridget McCoy and her son. He had also been away from his work at the very time when Sir Julius Cheever had been ambushed in Hertfordshire. As a former soldier, Crothers would be proficient with a musket. If he were only a humble porter, being paid to commit murder would have a strong temptation for him.

'Where does he live?' said Christopher.

'Old Street,' the man told him. 'Hard by St Luke's Church. Are you going to pay Dan a visit, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Then tell him not to come back here. I'll not take him on again.'

'You won't be able to,' said Bale, solemnly.

Christopher dropped some coins into the man's grubby hand. After collecting their horses, they rode off towards Old Street, glad to escape the multiple horrors of Smithfield. Bale's face was expressionless but he felt the same inner thrill as Christopher. The hunt might be over. The killer who had desecrated the constable's beloved ward would now pay for his crime. So keen was Bale to get there that he forgot all about his fear of riding a horse.

When they reached Old Street, they soon found the house. It was little more than a hovel. Whatever he had done with his blood money, Dan Crothers had not used it to find more a comfortable lodging. They tethered their horses and approached with care. Christopher sent Bale around to the rear of the house before he knocked on the door. There was no reply. He pounded with his fist and, this time, the door swung back on its hinges.

'Mr Crothers!' he called. 'Are you there?'

Still there was no response. Taking out his sword, Christopher pushed the door fully open and stepped furtively into the house. On the ground floor, it comprised two small rooms and an evil- smelling scullery. They were all empty. He went slowly up the bare wooden stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible but unable to stop the loud creak of a loose step. Two rooms stood ahead of him. One door was ajar and he could see that there was nobody inside the room. When he turned to look at the other door, however, he sensed danger.

'Mr Crothers!' he called again. 'Dan Crothers!'

There was an eerie silence. Convinced that there was someone in the room, Christopher inched forward. It was no time for misplaced heroism. The man had a musket and he knew how to fire it. Christopher had to temper his eagerness with commonsense. He yelled once more.

'Mr Crothers - I'm coming in!'

Kicking open the door, he then jumped back quickly out of sight so that any shot would go harmlessly past him. As it happened, there was no resistance at all. Dan Crothers was in no position to offer it. He was lying on his back in the middle of the room. Christopher took out the drawing to compare it with the face of the dead man. Bridget McCoy's work was uncannily accurate. All his features were there. Mr Field was without doubt the alias of Dan Crothers. There was one significant difference between the drawing and the man on the floor. It was a detail that the Irishwoman might be pleased to add.

His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

'There's no need at all for you to be there, Orlando,' said Dorothy Kitson.

'I could not possibly let you go alone.'

'I do not require a chaperone.'

'I think that you do,' said her brother, fussily 'and that's why I insist on accompanying you. My presence will act as a needful restraint.'

Dorothy laughed. 'A restraint against what?'

'Impulsive action. It will also introduce some balance. If you went there alone, you would be hopelessly outnumbered.'

'This is an informal meeting, Orlando, not a skirmish.'

'Nevertheless, I'll not see my sister put at a disadvantage.'

Orlando Golland had called on her to find out what time they were bidden that evening. Ordinarily, he would strenuously have avoided the company of Sir Julius Cheever but circumstances compelled him to go. What surprised him was how calm and unflustered his sister was about the forthcoming event. Golland was already having qualms.

'I spoke to Maurice Farwell about it,' he said.

'About what?'

'This ludicrous friendship you have with Sir Julius.'

'It's not ludicrous,' she replied, sharply.

'Then what is it?'

'Something that has given me untold pleasure. As for Maurice, I think it very unkind of you to discuss my personal affairs with him.'

'I took him to task for introducing the pair of you at Newmarket.'

'Then talked about us as if we were two horses in the paddock, I've no doubt.' Dorothy took a moment to suppress her anger. 'Orlando, I have a pleasant friendship with a certain gentleman. That is all. It's not a source of gossip for you and Maurice Farwell.'

'But his wife foresaw it all.'

'What do you mean?'

'Adele had a distinct feeling about you.'

'She made no mention of it to me.'

'According to her husband, she sensed that you were ready to welcome a man back into your life again. The tragedy is that you chose Sir Julius.'

'I chose him as a friend - not as anything else.'

'He may have higher aspirations.'

'Well, he has not discussed them with me.'

'Maurice was as surprised as any of us.'

'I'm not interested in Maurice's opinion, or that of his wife.'

'He could not believe that Sir Julius could turn suitor at his age,' said Golland, 'and he found it even more difficult to accept that you should encourage his overtures.'

'Sir Julius has not made any overtures.'

'What else is this invitation but a declaration of intent?'

'For heaven's sake, Orlando,' she said, her exasperation showing. 'It's perfectly natural that Sir Julius should want me to make the acquaintance of his daughters. It will put a stop to any idle speculation on their part about our friendship. At least,' she continued, 'I hoped that it would. Your presence will probably only inflame it.'

'How?'

'They will interpret it as a sign that you are examining their family to see if a closer relationship with them is desirable.'

'I'm certain that it is not.'

'Only because you do not know Sir Julius.'

'Maurice Farwell does.'

'Leave him out of this,' she responded, tartly.

'He considers him to be an ogre.'

'Maurice's views are irrelevant. So, for that matter, are yours. I'll not let anyone else live my life for me. I'm old enough and wise enough to make my own decisions. And that, Orlando,' she said, looking him in the eye, 'is exactly what I intend to do.'

When he saw that the man was dead, Christopher Redmayne went to the window and summoned his companion. Jonathan Bale soon joined him and the pair of them bent over the corpse to inspect it.

'He has not been dead long,' decided Bale.

'How do you know?'

'Because I've seen too many murder victims in my time.'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'The blood is still fresh and there's no sign of rigor mortis. That only starts to set in after four hours or more.'

'He was obviously a strong man,' noted Christopher, looking at the broad shoulders and the muscular arms. 'He'd not have been easy to overpower.'

'That's why he was knocked out first,' said Bale, turning the head of the corpse so that a gash became visible. Blood had stained the back of the scalp. 'I think that Mr Crothers was hit from behind before having his throat slit. What I don't know is why anyone should want to kill him.'

'It was because he failed, Jonathan.'

'Failed?'

'He had two attempts at shooting Sir Julius and, each time, his victim survived. It must have been very galling for his paymaster,' said Christopher. 'I was there when the second shot was fired and it looked as if Sir Julius was dead. That report would have been brought back to London. Imagine the shock for the man who employed Crothers when he realised that Sir Julius was, in fact, still alive.'

'He'd be very angry, Mr Redmayne.'

'I think he lost patience with his hired killer.'

'There's another thing,' said Bale. 'As long as Mr Crothers carried on his old job as a porter, there was always the chance that he'd be found in the end. He knew too much. Someone silenced him.'

'He may yet be able to tell us something.'

'Search his pockets.'

'I will. You see what else you can find.'

Bale looked around the room. It was small, dirty and poorly furnished. Dan Crothers had pathetically few possessions. Beyond a pile of old clothing, there was little apart from some bread, wrapped up in a cloth, and a flagon of beer. Hidden away underneath the bed, however, was a collection of weapons. Bale got down on his knees to pull out a dagger, a cudgel, a flintlock pistol and a musket. There was powder and ammunition for both firearms.

'This is the musket that killed Mr Everett,' said Bale, holding it in his hands. 'The murder's been solved. Mr Crothers is the guilty man.'

'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Unfortunately, someone has done the executioner's job for us. If we'd caught him alive, he might have been able to tell us who suborned him to commit the crime. That's the real villain, Jonathan - the man behind all this.'

'Was there anything in his pockets?'

'A piece of cheese and a few coins, that's all.'

'Have you felt inside the coat, sir?'

'I could find no pockets there.'

'Let me try,' said Bale, putting the musket aside and crouching beside the corpse. 'Criminals sometimes have secret pouches sewn into their coats where they can hide things.' He groped around until his hand closed on something. 'I thought so.'

'What have you discovered?'

'Not much, sir, but it may help us.' He withdrew his hand and opened his palm. He was holding two pieces of paper. 'Messages of some kind, I think.'

Christopher took them from him. The first one was a short letter, written in a neat hand, informing Crothers that Sir Julius Cheever would be travelling to Cambridge that very day. It was unsigned. A different correspondent had sent the other letter. Using a spidery scrawl, he simply gave a date and the name of the Saracens Head in Knightrider Street. Christopher passed both missives to Bale to read.

'That's the date on which Bernard Everett was killed,' he said, pointing to the second letter. 'This is clear proof that someone gave Dan Crothers instructions to shoot Sir Julius.'

'Someone else sent the other message,' observed Bale, reading it. 'That means we have to look for two people.'

'Or even more. I think we'll find a conspiracy at work.'

'How do we expose it?'

'With a combination of patience and hard work, Jonathan. We caught up with one villain. Now we have to find the person or persons who paid him.' Christopher took the letters from him. 'This murder must be reported at once.'

'I'll do that, Mr Redmayne.'

'Thank you.'

'Sir Julius will need to hear about this as well.'

'I'll tell him that we found the man who tried to kill him on his way to Cambridge. But I'll urge him not to drop his guard,' said Christopher. 'One hired killer might be dead but there's clearly another at work. My fear is that he might turn his attention to Sir Julius now.'

'What about Mrs McCoy, sir?'

'I leave you to inform her - and to thank her for that drawing she made. It helped us to find the man. I think she'll be delighted to learn that he's dead.'

'Delighted or disappointed?'

'You know her better than I do, Jonathan.'

'Mrs McCoy is a woman of strong passions,' said Bale. 'She'd have preferred to cut his throat herself then have the pleasure of dancing a jig on his grave.'

When he stormed into the house with a dark scowl on his face, it was clear that Sir Julius Cheever had not enjoyed his day in parliament. His daughters greeted him in the hall.

'Welcome home, Father,' said Susan, guessing the reason for his irritability. 'Did you come off worse in the debate?'

'We had a moral victory,' he replied," 'but it was not reflected in the voting. Those lily-livered cowards were too frightened to stand up against the government.'

'What were you talking about?' asked Brilliana.

'Naval procurements.'

'What a dreary subject!'

'Far from it, Brilliana. It's a topic of national importance. It's not all that many years ago that we had Dutch vessels, sailing up the Medway and destroying part of our fleet. We need to make sure that it never happens again. One way to do that is to root out incompetence from the Navy Office.'

'Oh,' she said. 'That's where Henry Redmayne works.'

'He was partly responsible for my defeat this afternoon.'

'But he's not a Member of Parliament.'

'No, he isn't,' said Sir Julius, sourly, 'but he supplied privileged information to Maurice Farwell. Had I been in possession of those details, my case would have been strengthened. As it was, Farwell used them so skilfully me against me that I was tied in knots.'

'You cannot expect to win every debate,' said Susan.

'I had right on my side in this one.' 'Why did you not get Henry to help you?' said Brilliana.

'That popinjay would never assist me. He's in the pocket of men like Maurice Farwell, cunning politicians who surround themselves with flatterers. Redmayne is a sycophant.'

'I don't agree at all, Father. Henry struck me as his own man.'

'This is not the time to argue,' said Susan, conscious that their visitors would be arriving within the hour. 'Everything is ready. We had your note to say that Dorothy's brother would be coming as well.'

'I was not my idea to invite that dry old stick,' said her father.

'I believe that he's a chief magistrate.'

'Orlando Golland has no call to barge in.'

'I take is as a promising sign,' said Brilliana. 'It's an indication of how involved Mrs Kitson really is. Mr Golland is coming so that he can take a closer look at his future brother-in-law.'

'Arrant nonsense! I've told you a dozen times. Mrs Kitson is a friend and nothing more than a friend.'

'At the moment.'

'Brilliana!'

'You can't hide your feelings from me, Father,' she said, depositing a kiss on his cheek. 'I'll go and see if Lancelot is ready. He must look at his best if he's to impress Mr Golland.' She tripped up the staircase. 'My husband would sit upon the bench with real authority.'

'Authority!' said Sir Julius, turning to Susan. 'He lost all touch with that concept the moment he married your sister. Lancelot has to ask her for permission to breathe. However,' he continued, leading her into the parlour so that they could speak in private, 'let's forget them for a moment. I had some cheering news earlier.'

'From whom?'

'Christopher. While one member of the Redmayne family is trying to thwart me, another has actually tried to help. He intercepted me as I was about to leave the House of Commons.'

'What did he tell you?'

'They found the man who tried to kill me.'

'That's wonderful,' said Susan, taking his arms to squeeze them. 'Who was he? How did they catch him? Where is the man now?'

'With the coroner. He was dead when they got to him.'

Her excitement disappeared. 'Dead?'

'Someone had slit his throat, Susan.'

'Heavens!'

'So the news is not entirely good,' he admitted. 'We still do not know who hired this man to come after me. In other words, they are free to set someone else on me. Say nothing of this to Brilliana and Lancelot,' he urged. 'I find their concern for my safety so irritating. Most of all, Susan, do not breathe a word of this to Mrs Kitson or her brother. It will only spoil the evening and I'm determined that it will be a success.'

Jonathan Bale had a good understanding of Bridget McCoy's character. His prediction was borne out. When he told her about their visit to Smithfield, and the discovery they had subsequently made, she felt cheated that Dan Crothers had escaped her retribution.

'Slit his throat?' she cried. 'I'd have taken his whole head off.'

'Show some respect for the dead, Mrs McCoy.'

'I save my respect for the living and that's more than he did. You saw what he did to Patrick. He knocked him down then kicked him in the head. A man like that deserves no mercy.'

'He got none,' said Bale.

'I want to see him.'

'No, Mrs McCoy.'

'I can help to identify the broken-nosed bastard.'

'Your drawing of him did that. Besides, now that we have his real name, we can call on several people from Smithfield to identify him. Dan Crothers was well-known there.'

'I'd still like to see him, Mr Bale. I'm entitled to gloat.'

'Do it in private. The coroner will not let you near the body.'

'But I was a victim of deceit.'

'That's the very reason you should be kept away from him,' said Bale, gently. 'It would only arouse you to evil thoughts. The man is dead, Mrs McCoy. Take comfort from the fact that you and Patrick helped us to find him. If you had not gone to Leadenhall Street today, we might still be searching for Dan Crothers.'

'That's right.'

'Your son behaved like a true constable.'

'No, Mr Bale,' she said. 'He rushed in too fast. You'd never have done that. Patrick has learned his lesson. He'll not be so rash again - I'll make sure of that.'

'How is he?'

'Still fast asleep in bed.'

They were in the taproom of the Saracen's Head. It was only half-full so Bridget was not kept busy serving beer. Angry that she had not been involved in the capture, she was grateful to Bale for bringing the news in person, and for showing a genuine interest in her son.

'Why do we never see you drinking in here, Mr Bale?' she said, giving him a nudge. 'Don't you like beer?'

'I like it very much, Mrs McCoy.'

'But you prefer another tavern to this one - is that it?'

'No,' he explained. 'I'd rather drink it at home in the company of my wife. And I never touch it when I'm on duty. What use would a drunken constable be?'

'None at all. But you'll have a tankard now, won't you?'

'No, Mrs McCoy.'

'It would be my way of thanking you.'

'That's very kind of you but I'll have to refuse. I've still got lots of work to do today. I must keep my head clear.'

'One drink won't hurt you,' she said, slapping the barrel on the counter. 'Howlett's beer is the best in London.'

Bale was suddenly alert. 'Howlett's beer?'

'We've always used his brewery.'

'Would that be Erasmus Howlett?'

'Yes, Mr Bale. He supplies good quality at fair prices, and you can't say that of some brewers. Do you know Mr Howlett?'

'I met him some days ago.'

'Then you know what a decent man he is.'

'Yes, I do.'

'He visits all the taverns that buy his beer,' she said.

'Does he?'

'Yes. In fact, he was here a week or so ago. A man in his position doesn't need to bother with the likes of us. He could send someone in his place. But Erasmus Howlett cares enough to come here himself. He's a real gentleman in every way. Well, you've met him.'

'I have,' said Bale.

But he was not thinking about the man's prowess as a brewer or of his courteous treatment of his customers. What occupied his mind was a memory of a scrawled letter that had been found in the pocket of a murder victim. When the constable had questioned him earlier, Erasmus Howlett had been friendly and gracious.

But his hands had never stopped shaking.