The Parliament House

Chapter Six

After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.

'I'm glad that you're home,' said his wife as he came through the door. 'There's a letter for you from Mr Redmayne.'

'When did it arrive?'

'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'

'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'

'Whatever for?'

'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'

'On the kitchen table.'

He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.

'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.

'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'

'Who is it?'

'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'

She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'

'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'

'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'

'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'

'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'

'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'

Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.

'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.

'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'

'He may look like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable. The son can barely hold a conversation. Whenever I see him,' she went on, 'I thank God that our boys are not like that. They go to school. They learn things. All that Patrick McCoy has learned is how to clear the tankards off the tables at the Saracen's Head.'

'It's not his fault.'

'I know, Jonathan. I feel sorry for the poor lad.'

'Anyway, he does more than simply clear away the tankards. His mother keeps most of her customers under control but, if one of them does start to cause mischief, it's Patrick who throws him out, young as he is. The lad's as strong as an ox.'

'Yes,' she confirmed. 'I saw him lift a beer barrel off a cart the other day. Most men would have rolled it along the ground but he carried it as if it was as light as a feather.' She shook her head worriedly. 'What's Bridget McCoy going to do with him?'

'Keep him at the tavern where she can watch over him,' said Bale. 'Mind you, that's not what the lad wants himself.'

'No?'

'He has an ambition, Sarah.' 'To do what?'

'My job - he wants to be a parish constable.'

She spluttered. 'Patrick McCoy?'

'Everyone's entitled to dream.'

'He could never do what you do, Jonathan.'

'The lad's eager and that's a good start. I've met too many officers who've been pushed into it against their will. If you resent what you have to do, how can you do it properly?'

'There are not many parish constables like you,' she said with an admiring smile. 'You love the work and do it well. And you're fit enough for the post. Constables in some parishes are almost decrepit.'

'I know at least three who are disabled, Sarah, yet they're kept hard at it because nobody else will come forward to take their place.' Clicking his tongue, he repeated a familiar complaint. 'No wonder there's so much crime in London when there are so few able-bodied men employed to prevent it. What's the point of laws if we lack the means to enforce them? We need more constables on the streets.'

'Could that lad possibly be one of them?'

'It's unlikely, I agree.'

'He's not clever enough.'

'Tom Warburton is hardly known for his brains.'

'Maybe not but Tom has other qualities.'

'So does Patrick - he's strong, honest and God-fearing.'

Sarah looked him in the eye. 'Would you like to work with him?'

'If it was a case of talking to people, or looking for clues, or reading documents of some sort, then the lad would be hopelessly out of his depth. But if I had to patrol the riverbank on a dark night,' said Bale, meeting her gaze, 'then I'd be more than happy to have him walking beside me.'

They had gone the best part of ten miles before they stopped at a wayside inn. While the horses were rested and watered, the travellers went inside for refreshment. Hester Polegate and her sons were too locked in their private anguish to be capable of any conversation so they dined alone in a corner. Christopher Redmayne shared a table with Sir Julius Cheever. It gave him an opportunity for time alone with the other man. Mindful of their last encounter, he kept off the subject that had so enraged his companion earlier.

'Having your daughter arrive from Richmond must have been a very pleasant surprise for you,' he began.

'I do not like surprises.'

'But this one must have gladdened your heart, Sir Julius.'

'Must it?'

'Mrs Serle is a member of your family.'

'Yes,' agreed Sir Julius, 'Brilliana does indeed have that claim on my affections. The trouble is that, where Mrs Serle goes, Mr Serle is always compelled to follow.'

'Do you not enjoy your son-in-law's company?'

'What is there to enjoy? Lancelot has neither wit nor affability.'

'I've always found him extremely affable.'

'That's because you've never had to endure his presence for any length of time. There's hardly any subject that I dare raise with him. If we discuss the way he manages his estates, I end up quarreling with him about his farming methods. And if he unloads his political opinions on me, I want to strangle the fellow with my bare hands.' He gave a mime by way of illustration. 'Last time I visited Richmond, he had the gall to tell me that the King was a credit to the Stuart dynasty.'

'I admire his bravery in doing so, Sir Julius.'

The old man glared at him. 'You share his sentiments?'

'Not entirely,' said Christopher. 'But if I did, I'd not have the courage to voice them so boldly in front of you. That must surely make you respect your son-in-law.'

'I'd respect him far more if he kept Brilliana from snapping at my heels whenever we meet. Children,' he continued. 'That's what she needs more than anything else - children. And where are they? There's no sign of them. After years of marriage, I've still not been presented with my first grandchild. It's unnatural, Christopher.'

'Perhaps your daughter does not wish for a family.' 'It's every woman's wish,' asserted Sir Julius, flatly. 'The fault lies not with Brilliana but with that milksop of a husband. He's clearly unequal to the office of fatherhood.'

'That's unkind,' said Christopher, defensively. 'Mr Serle does not deserve your scorn. Apart from anything else, he's made himself into a fine swordsman. I've had a few bouts with him and he's improved beyond all recognition.'

Sir Julius was grudging. 'I suppose that's in his favour.'

'He has many other good qualities and you must surely be grateful to any man who makes your elder daughter so happy.'

'Brilliana's happiness depends on having her every whim satisfied. There's no more capricious human being in the whole kingdom. I think that she should be challenged rather than indulged but Lancelot has chosen the easier path through life.'

'And seems content to do so.'

'Yes, I'll admit that.'

Talking about his family had helped to relax Sir Julius. He had not forgotten his recent confrontation with Christopher but he was ready to set it aside. It was as if a truce had been declared between them. As time passed, his manner softened even more and Christopher was tempted to explore the limits of their truce.

'Parliament sits in a few days, I believe,' he said.

'Yes,' said Sir Julius, sadly, 'and I'd hoped to introduce Bernard Everett to the chamber. It was not to be, I fear. But I'm sure that he'll forgive me if I rush back to London as soon as the funeral is over.'

'Mr Everett may have gone but you have other loyal friends there.'

'I thank the Lord for it.'

'One of them, I gather, is Lewis Bircroft.'

'Bircroft?' The old man's eye kindled. 'What do you know of him?'

'Only that he was a staunch supporter of you, Sir Julius.'

'You've been listening to that lunatic brother of yours again.'

'Henry is no lunatic.'

'He's a blabbering gossip.'

'He did tell me about the accident that befell Mr Bircroft,' admitted Christopher, 'that much is true. I wonder that you did not perceive a connection between that and what happened to Mr Everett.'

'Be warned, young man.'

'That's the very advice that you should take, Sir Julius.'

'Silence!'

'It's not only Mr Bircoft's fate that needs to be remembered. Arthur Manville must also be borne in-'

'Enough - damn you!' Sir Julius cut him short, growling in an undertone so that he did not disturb the three members of the Polegate family at the other table. 'Are you determined to test my temper?'

'Not at all, Sir Julius.'

'Well, you are going the right way about it.'

'I am bound to be concerned for your safety.'

'If you bother me again,' said Sir Julius, 'then you'll need to be concerned for your own safety. Keep away from me. I thought you were coming with us to pay to your respects to Bernard Everett but I see now that it was just a ruse to hound me.' He got up and towered over Christopher. 'Stand off, sir. Oblige me by holding your tongue in future. I've nothing more to say to you.'

The truce was over.

Patrick McCoy was industrious. The Saracen's Head stayed open for long hours and he worked tirelessly throughout that time, fetching and carrying, sweeping and clearing away, dealing firmly with the occasional obstreperous customer and doing all the other tasks that his mother assigned to him. Cheerful, willing and good-natured, he laboured without the slightest complaint. What he lacked in intelligence, he made up for in sheer application.

It was during a lull that afternoon that he spoke to his mother.

'Mr Bale thought I could be a constable one day,' he said.

'He was only being kind to you, Patrick.'

'It's no more than I do here, Mother.'

'It is,' she said. 'A parish constable has a lot of responsibilities. He has to keep his eye on so many different things. He has to make reports and appear in court. You could never do that.' 'I could if Mr Bale showed me how to do it.'

'Your place is here,' she said, cupping his chin in her hand. 'I need you beside me, Patrick. What would I do without my son?'

'Find someone else.'

'There's nobody like you.'

Bridget spoke with an amalgam of fondness and practicality. She loved her son deeply and depended on him completely. Had he been more competent, she would not have thwarted his ambition but she was aware of all the things that were beyond him. Ever since he had been born, she had been protecting him from mockery and doing her best to build his confidence. At the Saracen's Head, he had an important role. Anywhere else, his limitations would be cruelly exposed.

'What if I was to catch him?' he asked.

'Catch who?'

'The man with the broken nose.'

'You've no idea what he looks like, Patrick.'

'You do, Mother.' The vacant smile surfaced. 'Do you remember what you used to do when I was little?'

'I played with you whenever I could. So did your father.'

'You were much better at it than he was.'

'Better at what?'

'Drawing pictures for me,' he said. 'You drew pictures of animals and people and ships on the river. I liked them.'

'That was years ago, Patrick.'

'You can still do it.'

'I haven't the time,' she said. 'Besides, why should I bother?'

'Because it would help me.'

'I think you've outgrown childish pictures.'

'But it would show me what he looked like, Mother.'

'Who?'

'The man who fired that musket from upstairs,' he told her. 'If you drew a picture of his face, I'd know who he was if I saw him at the market. I'd be able to catch him for you. That's what you want, isn't it?'

She was taken aback. 'Yes, Patrick. It is.'

Bridget embraced him lovingly. It was not because she believed for a moment that he could ever apprehend the wanted man. It was because he had just given her an idea that might possibly assist the hunt for the killer. As a young mother, Bridget McCoy had indeed had a moderate skill as an artist. It had been employed in those days to amuse a demanding son. All that she used it for now was to design placards that went in the window to advertise the cost of drinks and accommodation. In the corner of each one, she always drew a smaller version of the Saracens Head that adorned the signboard hanging outside the tavern. Customers had remarked on the accuracy of her portrayal. If she could recreate one head, she could surely copy a second from memory

'Yes, Patrick,' she said. 'I will draw a picture of the man.'

'Will you give it to me? Can I take it to market tomorrow?'

'We'll show it to Mr Bale first.'

And she gave him another impulsive hug.

'At your age, I was already married,' Brilliana Serle proclaimed. 'It's high time that your mind turned in that direction.'

'That's for me to decide,' said Susan Cheever.

'It's my duty as an elder sister to advise you.'

'And it's my right to ignore that advice, Brilliana.'

'Married life can bring true fulfilment to a woman.'

'Not only to a woman,' Lancelot Serle interjected. 'It's the same for a man as well. I had no conception of what happiness really was until I met and married Brilliana. My whole world has been enlarged.'

'I'm delighted for both of you,' said Susan, looking from one to the other, 'but my situation is different. Brilliana was free to wed. I am not. As long as Father needs me, then he will always have first call on my love and time.'

'And what about your love for Christopher Redmayne?' asked Brilliana, aiming the question at her like a stone. 'Not to mention his patent adoration of you.'

Susan blushed. 'That's a private matter between the two of us.'

'Has he made a declaration?'

'He makes it every time they are together,' said Serle with a gentle smile. 'You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Christopher Redmayne is spellbound.'

'Excuse me,' said Susan, anxious to terminate the conversation.

She reached across him to snip some roses with her shears. They were in the formal garden at the rear of the "Westminster house, and Susan was collecting flowers for display in the parlour. Compared to the extensive gardens at their home in the Midlands, it was relatively small but it allowed her to grow a whole range of flowers and fruit. During their time away, men were employed to tend the garden. When she and her father were in residence, however, Susan liked to supervise them. For her, the garden had two major attractions. It was a pretty, secret, tranquil refuge from the ceaseless commotion of London, and, more important in her opinion, Christopher Redmayne had designed it.

It was ironic. She thought about him every day and longed to be with him. Yet now that her sister wanted to talk about the architect, Susan was rather unnerved. Strolling across the lawn, she hoped that she had curtailed the discussion but Brilliana was not so easily shaken off. She pursued her sister without mercy.

'Have you met his family?' she said.

'Yes, Brilliana.'

'They must have found you eminently acceptable.'

'They were not asked to accept me in the sense that you imply,' said Susan, adding some lavender to her basket. 'His father is the dean of Gloucester cathedral and his elder brother, Henry, works at the Navy Office.'

'The father is above reproach then. What of the brother?'

'He and Christopher are very different.'

'But the fellow is respectable, I trust?'

Susan faced her. 'Brilliana, I resent this interrogation.'

'We can't have anyone who lowers our family's standards. Before I even consented to have Lancelot as a suitor, I took very careful note of his people. That was imperative.'

'Fortunately,' said Serle, joining them, 'we survived your scrutiny. I'm certain that Christopher's family will do the same.'

'That remains to be seen, Lancelot.' 'No, it does not,' said Susan, turning to face her. 'There's no need for scrutiny of any kind. You are taking far too many things for granted, Brilliana. My place is here beside father. Christopher and I have made no plans whatsoever.'

'You'll lose him if you dither.'

'Yes,' agreed Serle. 'Tempus fugit.'

'He'll slip right through your fingers, Susan.'

'I'll not be rushed into anything before I am ready,' asserted Susan, 'so I'll thank you to stop pressing me on the matter. Christopher and I are close friends. That situation contents both of us for the moment. I find it indelicate of you even to raise the matter.'

'My only concern is for your well-being,' said Brilliana.

'You may safely leave that in my own hands.'

'Things may soon change,' Serle pointed out. 'If Sir Julius should, by chance, marry, then your occupation's gone. A stepmother will replace you, Susan. You'll be in the way.'

'I don't foresee that happening,' said Susan.

'You must at least allow for the possibility.'

'Lancelot's point is a telling one,' said Brilliana, touching his arm in acknowledgement. 'Father is clearly enthralled with Mrs Kitson and a woman of her age would not encourage his advances unless the feeling between them were mutual. In due course, I suspect, what is now a mere possibility might well evanesce into a probability.'

Serle grinned. 'Sir Julius married again! Who'd have thought it?'

'We've not even met the lady yet,' Susan reminded them. 'When we do, she will understand what is at stake. In addition to taking on a third husband, she will also be acquiring two stepdaughters. Some people might find that rather daunting.'

'There's nothing remotely daunting about me,' claimed Brilliana, striking a pose. 'I'm the most agreeable person I know. Lancelot?'

'You are extremely agreeable, my dear,' he said, taking his prompt. 'And highly desirable as a stepdaughter - as, indeed, is your sister.'

'There were are, then - it's settled. Oh, how satisfying!' Brilliana rubbed her hands together. 'Father will wed Mrs Kitson and Susan will be free to accept a proposal from her inamorato.'

'Christopher is only a friend,' said Susan with exasperation.

Serle beamed. 'That's all I was when your sister and I first met,' he said, 'and look at us now. Cynics may cry that marriage is a form of enslavement but I found it an act of liberation. Brilliana has enabled me to do a whole host of things that I thought were completely outside my compass. She has empowered me.'

'That's why you must take the next step forward,' said Brilliana, imperiously. 'You must cut a figure in parliament, Lancelot. You are more than ready for it now.'

'You've made me believe I am ready, my dear. When you first mentioned the idea, I was anxious and hesitant but not any more. Your confidence in me has provided the fire I needed.'

Susan had never met anyone less fiery than her brother-in-law but she did not say so. Instead, she had an upsurge of sympathy for him. Lancelot Serle was an educated man with a range of talents but he was hardly suited for the bear pit of political life. Brilliana was trying to force him outside his natural milieu and he would suffer as a result. Living with her father gave Susan an insight into the physical and mental strains of parliamentary activity. Stronger men than her brother-in-law had been broken on its relentless wheel. There was another factor to be taken into account.

'You'd find yourself in opposition to Father,' remarked Susan.

'On some issues,' he said.

'On every issue, Lancelot.'

'What of that?' challenged Brilliana. 'My husband will stand up for his principles just as Father does. If that means they will clash in the House of Commons, so be it.'

'Diversity of opinion is inevitable,' said Serle, philosophically. 'It would be a dull Parliament House if we all agreed with each other. Out of discord comes forth compromise - and I am a master of that.'

'Then I wish you the best of luck,' said Susan, hiding her fears for him. 'What I would suggest, however, is that you do not

reveal your ambitions to Father just yet.'

'He would not listen if I did. Sir Julius rarely listens to me.'

'His mind is on other things at the moment,' said Brilliana with a smile of approval, 'and that means he will listen to nobody. All that he can think of is his future wife, Mrs Dorothy Kitson.'

Dorothy Kitson stirred her cup of tea before tasting it. After taking a few sips, she set cup and saucer down and looked across the mahogany table at her brother.

'What objections do you have, Orlando?' she asked.

'They are not so much objections as lingering reservations.'

'You lawyers will play with words!'

'Then let me be more blunt, Dorothy.'

'I'd prefer that to all this equivocation.'

'First,' said her brother, counting his reasons off on his fingers, 'Sir Julius Cheever has the most abhorrent political views.'

'It's something we never discuss.'

'Second, his estates are in the wilds of Northamptonshire.'

'I'm given to believe that it's a county of some appeal.'

'Third - and you wish me to be honest - the fellow is too rough and ready for someone of your fine sensibilities. He's a farmer, Dorothy - and a soldier to boot. There's an uncouth air to him and he blusters. You have absolutely nothing in common with him.'

'Then why do we delight in each other's company?'

'Witchcraft!'

Dorothy laughed. Though she loved her brother, and leaned heavily on his advice, there were moments when he seemed hopelessly out of touch with normal human behaviour. She put it down to the fact that he had never married, or fathered a child, or ventured a single step outside the legal realm. Orlando Golland was a fleshy man in his sixties with heavy jowls that shook as he spoke, and a ginger wig that sat askew his overly large head. A brilliant lawyer in his day, he was now a justice of the peace in the city. His benign features concealed the fact that his habit of issuing unduly harsh sentences to those who appeared before him was legendary.

'Four,' he concluded, 'I do not like the fellow.'

'You did not like my first husband either,' she recalled.

'I came to appreciate his few recognisable virtues.' She laughed again. 'You sought my opinion and I've given it with clarity. I'm sorry that you ever met Sir Julius.'

'Then you should not have introduced me to him.'

'It was Maurice Farwell who did that.'

'Yes,' she riposted, 'but it was you who took me to Newmarket.'

'My horse was running there.'

'You must accept some of the blame, Orlando.'

'Not one iota.'

Brother and sister were in the parlour of Dorothy Kitson's house in Covent Garden, a stately mansion that was only one of four properties that she owned. The table at which they sat was cushioned by an expensive Turkish carpet and caught the light from the sash window. Two large, ornate, matching mirrors stood either side of a display cabinet that contained oriental porcelain. Large and well-proportioned, the room was an accurate reflection of her taste and her evident prosperity.

'Sir Julius does not belong here,' contended Golland. 'He would be totally out of place, Dorothy.'

'He has properties of his own.'

'Yes - the main one is in Northamptonshire!'

'It is not the end of the world.'

'It seems so to me. No,' he said, fussily. 'I could not possibly let you live there. It would be unbearable.'

'For whom?'

'For you, for me and for everyone who cares about you.'

'I appreciate your concern,' she said with a smile, 'but your assumptions are premature. All that I've told you is that Sir Julius and I have become friends and you immediately throw up a barricade across the aisle. Can one not have friendship without proceeding to marriage?'

'Of course.'

'Then your strictures become irrelevant.'

'The man is not good enough for you, Dorothy.'

'You hardly know him.'

'I know him by repute.'

'You are reputed to be the most ruthless magistrate in London,' she said, 'but it would be unfair to judge you solely on your record in court. I know that you have a more compassionate side to your character. The same is true of Sir Julius.'

'You'll never convince me of that.'

'Then I'll not waste time trying.'

'Beware, Dorothy!'

'Of what - my brother's false counsel?'

She sipped her tea and Golland lifted his own cup to his lips. Since he had never shown any serious interest in the opposite sex - still less in his own - he could not understand the passions that moved others. Horses were his only love. They had a graceful simplicity about them. Attraction between two people had always baffled Orlando Golland. Each time his sister had married, she had chosen men whose charm he had been quite unable to comprehend. He accepted them because at least they came from the same privileged background as his sister. Nothing would persuade him to welcome Sir Julius Cheever into the family.

'The wonder is that Maurice Farwell even spoke to the man,' he said as he remembered their visit to Newmarket. 'I'd have cut him dead.'

'Maurice is a gentleman. He treats his opponents with respect.'

'That disgusting old reprobate deserves no respect.'

'Sir Julius is younger than you, Orlando,' she pointed out, 'and he is neither disgusting nor a reprobate. He's a surprisingly cultured man, well-read and well-informed.'

'He helped to overthrow the monarchy, Dorothy.'

'That's all in the past.'

'Men like that never change.'

And neither do you,' she said, fondly. 'I knew that it was a mistake to consult you. I needed guidance, not a recitation of Sir Julius's faults. In truth, I do not know what my feelings are for him. In talking to you, I hoped that I might find out. But that was far too much to ask. You put on your judicial robes and condemned him on sight.'

He was penitent. 'I am rightly chastised.'

'I forgive you.'

'Have you arranged to see him again?'

'Not yet.'

'But this friendship is set to develop?'

Dorothy was cautious. 'We shall see,' she decided. 'We shall see. After my second husband died, I vowed never to marry again but I did so at a time when I was overcome with grief. That is no longer the case.'

'You cannot mourn forever.'

'I know. As for Sir Julius, I will have to wait until he returns.'

'He has left the city?'

'Yes, Orlando,' she said. 'I had a note from him this morning. He is travelling to Cambridge to attend a funeral.'

They faced a problem. Eager to press on at a reasonable speed, they had to show respect for the dead. Even though he was hidden under a tarpaulin, Bernard Everett could not be hurried. The measured pace of a funeral was not required but neither was a headlong dash to their destination. At the behest of Sir Julius Cheever, coach and cart moved at a comfortable speed that would get them there eventually without causing any offence to the mourners who rode with him.

They were still in Hertfordshire when they made their second stop of the day. The inn gave them a chance to seek light refreshment and to answer any calls of nature. Horses that had become lathered in the hot sun could have a welcome rest in the shade. The coachman and the footman were glad of the chance to slip off their coats. The two men on the cart also relished the cover of the trees. Christopher Redmayne was the last to reach the inn, dismounting and tethering his horse close to the others. Determined not to upset Sir Julius again, he stayed outside and strolled off through a stand of oaks and elms.

It had been an uneventful journey. Moving at such a moderate speed had given him an opportunity to study the landscape with a degree of leisure. Hertfordshire was one of the smallest counties in England. Rivers and streams abounded, crisscrossing the terrain in almost every direction and forcing them to make use of various bridges and fords. It was a granary for London, providing corn for its bread and hay fodder for its horses. Many fields were given over to beef cattle, some of the herds having been driven down from the north to be fattened on the lush grass before sale in the capital.

Christopher had also noticed how many watercress beds they passed in the villages. An antidote to the scurvy that afflicted so many Londoners, watercress was always in great demand. Of more interest to the architect was the large number of country houses he had seen, rural retreats from the stench and squalor of the city, places of escape from the regular outbreaks of plague. Helping to rebuild London after the ravages of the Great Fire, his concerns were exclusively urban. He was fascinated to see how houses could be designed to blend into the landscape, and how fine architecture could, in turn, be enhanced by its surroundings. The journey was also a learning process for Christopher.

Emerging from the trees, he saw yet another stream, meandering lazily through the grass before disappearing in a spinney. Ahead of him, in the distance, was a building that arrested his gaze at once, a magnificent prodigy house, constructed in the previous century by someone with high ambition and unlimited capital. Burnished by the sun, it stood on a rise that commanded a panoramic view. Its array of gables, turrets and pinnacles gave it the appearance of a fairytale palace. A banner fluttered from the flagpole on top of the tower.

'That's what you should be designing,' said a voice behind him.

Christopher looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that Sir Julius was coming through the trees. The long ride in a stuffy coach seemed to have drained much of the hostility out of him.

'A place like that,' continued the old man, surveying the house with approval, 'could make you rich and famous.'

'But it would take so long to build that I would soon tire of it. I prefer to design houses in a city,' said Christopher, 'places that are likely to be completed in a year rather than in twenty or thirty. London is the greatest city in the world and I feel honoured to be able to make a small contribution towards reshaping it.'

'Would you not like to have created that house?'

'No, Sir Julius.'

'Why not? It looks superb.'

'But it was designed long ago when such a style was in fashion. Had I been its architect,' said Christopher, 'I would now be well over a hundred years old.' Sir Julius chortled. 'I'll settle for smaller projects with more immediate results.'

'Like the house you designed for me in Westminster?'

'My memory is that you designed it, Sir Julius. I merely executed your wishes. Not that I disagreed with any of your specifications,' he added, hastily, 'but I'll not take full credit for a property that sprang largely from your fertile brain.'

'I knew what I wanted.'

'That makes you almost unique among my clients.'

Christopher was relieved to be back on speaking terms with him but Sir Julius had not come for conversation. He was there to stretch his legs and to enjoy a pipe of tobacco while he could. Leaving the architect, he sauntered down to the stream then followed its serpentine course for thirty yards or so. He paused to light his pipe and inhaled deeply. There was an air of contentment about him. Peering down into the water, he seemed to Christopher to be far more at ease in a rural setting. London was anathema to him. Sir Julius was, in essence, a country gentleman, a rogue politician who could set a corrupt parliament by the ears but who was happiest when at home on his estates.

Studying the father, Christopher became acutely aware of the daughter. Susan Cheever also loved the country. That was where she could be a free spirit. She came to London under duress and only found it tolerable because of Christopher's friendship. What he did not know was whether that friendship was strong enough to entice her to stay. His future lay in the city, her hopes resided in the country. Christopher feared that those competing calls might gradually ease them apart.

He was still meditating on the unresolved problem when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head in the direction of the spinney, Christopher observed a brief flash as the sun glinted off an object half-hidden in the undergrowth. He sensed danger at once and responded. Drawing his sword, he charged towards Sir Julius and yelled at the top of his voice.

'Get down!' he shouted. 'Get down on the ground!'

The warning was a fraction too late. As Sir Julius spun round to look at him, a musket was fired from the spinney and the old man was hit. Before Christopher could reach him, he let out a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling into the stream with a loud splash. Spat from his mouth, the clay pipe was carried along by the rippling water, a thin wisp of smoke still rising from it until the bowl tipped over and the tobacco was swallowed up in one liquid gulp.