The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  Watching him from the bottom of the garden, the three thieves were growing restless. They had been there for well over an hour now. It was a starlit night and they had a good view of the whole site. They could see the night- watchman in dark profile, lifting the flagon to his lips.

  The man with the cudgel took it out in readiness.

  'The old fool will never go to sleep!' he grumbled.

  'We cannot wait much longer,' said a second man.

  'We'll not wait at all. I'll knock him out.'

  'Hold!' advised the third man. 'I think he is going to lie down.'

  The nightwatchman could no longer maintain the pretence of being diligent. It was good beer and its seductive taste could not be resisted. He emptied the whole flagon. By the time he discarded it, he was barely able to sit upright on his bench. A short nap was urgently required. Summoning up the last of his strength, he hauled himself off the bench and staggered across to a pile of soft earth, dug from the ground to create space for the cellars. It made an inviting bed. No sooner had he stretched himself on its gentle gradient than he fell asleep. Gentle snores rose up into the night air.

  After waiting a short while, the man with the cudgel crept furtively up the garden to investigate. Weapon raised, he stood menacingly over the nightwatchman but he was not called upon to strike. The old man was fast asleep and unlikely to be roused by any sounds. After beckoning his companions, the thief made his way across to the tarpaulin which covered the building materials and which had been protection enough until the pilfering began. Stakes had been hammered into the ground so that the tarpaulin could be tied to them and thus rendered safe against high winds. Since it would be their last visit to the site, there was no point in untying the ropes, then later retying them to their stakes, as they had done on previous occasions when trying to conceal their theft. A knife was used to cut through the ropes then two of the men held a corner each of the tarpaulin and drew it back to expose their target.

  Expecting to see nothing more than piles of bricks and stacks of timber, they were taken completely unawares when two figures suddenly sprang out at them. Christopher Redmayne unleashed his pent-up rage by flinging himself at one of the thieves and knocking him to the ground. Samuel Littlejohn, sweating profusely from his close confinement beneath the tarpaulin, grappled with another man and showed no mercy. It was not simply a case of apprehending the thieves. Architect and builder alike wanted revenge. They were possessive about their house. It had been defiled by intruders. It made the pair of them rain hard, unforgiving blows on their respective quarries.

  Still free, the man with the cudgel did not know whether to save himself or help his fellows. In the event, self- interest won his vote. After a few ineffective swings at Littlejohn with his cudgel, he took to his heels and raced towards the boat which was moored at the jetty. He did not get far. Lurking in the shadows was a bulky figure who stepped out to block his way. The cudgel swung again but the blow was easily parried by a staff. Before the thief could defend himself, the end of the staff jabbed deep into his stomach to take the wind out of him then it clipped him hard on the side of the head. He dropped his cudgel and fell.

  Jonathan Bale caught him before he hit the ground.

  'Come, sir,' he said. 'Let us get you back to your fellows.'

  The constable gave a call and three watchmen came out of their hiding place to take charge of the thief. When they had deprived him of a dagger, they dragged him up the garden of the house.

  Surprise had been decisive in catching the other men. Swiftly overpowered, they now lay groaning on the ground. Christopher stood over them with a sword in his hand while Littlejohn used an arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Blood dripped from the builder's cheek but it was not his own. It belonged to the man whose lip he had opened with his angry knuckles. Littlejohn was now panting heavily but delighted with his night's work.

  'We did well, Mr Redmayne,' he boasted. 'Very well.'

  'Not well enough,' said Christopher. 'We only caught two of them.'

  'The third is also taken,' announced a voice. 'I had thought to arrest all three myself but it seems that you have done my office for me.'

  Christopher and Littlejohn were amazed to see the constable coming towards them with the thieves' accomplice in the grip of the watchmen. They were thrilled that all the malefactors had been caught. In the gloom, Christopher did not at first recognise the constable.

  'You came at an opportune moment,' he said.

  'I was acting on information, sir,' explained Jonathan.

  'Information?'

  'Yes, sir. I was roused from my bed and advised that a crime was about to take place on this site.'

  'Who gave you such advice?'

  'Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe.'

  Littlejohn was baffled. 'Who?'

  'A neighbour of mine, sir. A Quaker. He chanced to overhear these rogues plotting their crime. After following them here, Mr Thorpe came straight to my house to warn me.'

  'We are most grateful to him,' said the builder. 'And grateful to you as well. These villains have already stolen far too much from this site and they had to be caught. They deserve to rot in prison.'

  'They will, sir.'

  'We hope we may recover some of the property taken earlier.'

  'That depends where it went,' said Jonathan, glancing at the men on the ground. 'These men came by boat so the likelihood is that they had a warehouse nearby where they could take the stolen goods. Do not worry, sir, I am sure they will tell us all we wish to know.'

  Jonathan grabbed each of them in turn by the scruff of his neck and pulled him upright. Both were too dazed to resist, let alone to attempt an escape. Two of the watchmen seized a man apiece. The constable was very pleased. In a crime-infested ward, the forces of law and order had achieved a small triumph. Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe had been instrumental in securing one arrest. A man who had violated several laws on his own account that night had helped to foil a serious crime.

  Christopher took a closer look at the providential constable.

  'Do I not know you, friend?' he said.

  'No, sir,' protested Jonathan. 'We have never met.'

  'Yes, we have. I remember you now.'

  'I have no memory whatsoever of you, sir.'

  'But you must have,' said Christopher, warming to him. 'You came to my aid once before. It was near St Paul's when a pickpocket robbed me of my purse. Yes, you are Jonathan Bale, are you not?' he recalled. 'I had a feeling we would meet again one day. I am Christopher Redmayne. I offered you a drawing of the cathedral by way of thanks. Surely, you remember me now, my friend? I was the artist whose purse you restored. Christopher Redmayne.'

  Jonathan took a deep breath before issuing a polite rebuff.

  'You are mistaken, sir. I have never heard that name before.'

  It was almost three weeks before Sir Ambrose Northcott returned to London and he did so in high spirits. They were temporarily dampened when he learned of the crimes at the site but lifted once more at the news that three thieves were now in custody along with the man who received and paid for their stolen goods. Everything taken from the site was still in the latter's warehouse. Complete restitution occurred. Northcott was delighted that he had suffered no real loss. His only regret was that the malefactors would not appear before him when he sat on the Bench. It deprived him of the pleasure of imposing vile punishments upon them.

  Building had continued apace in his absence. The improvement was dramatic. With the cellars complete, the bricklayers were able to start on the exterior walls of the house. Additional men had been taken on by Littlejohn to construct the high wall around the garden, ensuring both privacy and a higher level of security. Though much still remained to be done before skilled craftsmen were brought in to work their magic on the interior of the residence, Northcott was vastly encouraged. The house now bore a much closer resemblance to the one which first began life as an architect's vision on a sheet of paper in Fetter Lane.

&n
bsp; Christopher Redmayne earned his employer's warm gratitude. It was his initiative which had helped to ensnare the thieves and which led, indirectly, to the return of the materials which they stole. Northcott pressed the architect to dine with him at a select tavern. Christopher accepted with alacrity though his pleasure was diluted somewhat when he realised that there was a third person at the table with them. He found Solomon Creech more repellent than ever. The lawyer was at his most unctuous.

  'Yes, Sir Ambrose,' he said, washing his hands in the air, 'I was most insistent that we solved the crime before your return. I could not have you coming back to find us hampered by such setbacks. I made that clear to Mr Littlejohn and to Mr Redmayne here,' he said, offering a weak smile to Christopher. 'I had perforce to speak sternly to them on your behalf but my firmness paid dividends.'

  'So it appears, Solomon,' said Northcott.

  'I had half a mind to hide under that tarpaulin with them.'

  'Brave man!'

  'Age alone held me back.'

  'Yet I believe that Mr Littlejohn is older than you,' said Christopher, annoyed at the way in which the egregious lawyer was trying to wrest glory from them. 'Age did not deter him. He fought like a lion.'

  'Solomon is more of a fox,' remarked Northcott.

  I knew that he was some kind of animal, thought Christopher, but he did not express it in words. Sir Ambrose Northcott was an astute man. He would not be taken in by the lawyer's claims. Christopher could rely on his employer to sift arrant lies from the plain truth.

  When the meal was over, Northcott gave a signal and Creech rose to leave, covering his exit with obsequious thanks and bending almost double as he backed out of the room. Northcott turned to his other guest.

  'You do not like him, Christopher, do you?' he said.

  'I hardly know the man.'

  'You know enough about him to despise him. I could see it in your eyes.' He laughed at the other's discomfort. 'Do not be alarmed. I am far from fond of him myself. Solomon Creech can be odious at times but he has one of the shrewdest legal brains in London and that is why I employ him. I always seek out the best men to serve me.' He flicked a finger to order more wine. 'That is why I chose you.'

  'Thank you, Sir Ambrose.'

  'I have no regrets on that score.'

  'Nor I,' said Christopher.

  'Come, sir,' teased the other. 'You must have some complaints. When you were engaged to design a house for me, you could hardly have imagined that it would involve spending several hours under a tarpaulin before fighting with a couple of ruffians.'

  'I enjoyed every moment of it.'

  'So, by all accounts, did Samuel Littlejohn.'

  'He is a powerful man when he is roused.'

  'As indeed are you, Christopher. Your brother did not just regale me with details of your architectural abilities. He spoke of your physical prowess as well. Henry told me what a fine swordsman you are. And you clearly keep yourself in excellent condition.' The teasing note returned. 'No wonder you have made such an impression on the Littlejohn family.'

  'Samuel is a splendid man. It is I who revere him.'

  'I was referring to his daughter.'

  'Ah.'

  'Margaret? Is that what she is called?'

  'I believe so.'

  'You know so, Christopher. The girl is enthralled by you.' 'Hardly,' said the other, trying to brush an embarrassing subject aside. 'We have hardly spoken two words to each other.'

  'She worships you in silence,' said Northcott with a grin. 'I saw her at the site yesterday. Those big eyes of hers never left you for a second. Her father tells me that she was taken with you from the start. Since your exploits with those thieves, she adores you.' He gave his companion a sly nudge. 'What do you intend to do about it?'

  'Do about it, Sir Ambrose?'

  'Margaret is an attractive creature.'

  'Nobody would gainsay that.'

  'Then what is holding you back?'

  'From what?' Christopher saw the candid lechery in his eye. 'Oh, no, Sir Ambrose. There can be no question of that.'

  'Why not? You are young, unmarried and virile.'

  'I am wedded to my work.'

  'Every man needs to season his labours with pleasure.'

  'You begin to sound like my brother.'

  'Henry would not hesitate in such a case as this.'

  'I am afraid that he would not, Sir Ambrose.'

  'So why must you?' pressed the other. 'Margaret Littlejohn is patently entranced by you. Requite her love.' Another nudge. 'Take pity on her, Christopher. Give the young lady what she so earnestly craves.'

  'That would be unwise and unfair.'

  'Would it?'

  Christopher weighed his words carefully before speaking. His first impression of Margaret Littlejohn had proved correct. She was a potential danger. Her admiration of him was now so blatant that he tried to avoid her eye lest even a greeting nod from him be mistaken as a form of encouragement. Christopher had known infatuation himself in his younger days and he understood the lengths to which it could drive a person. His fear was that the builder's daughter would become so enamoured of him that she would discard all propriety and blurt out a declaration of love. That was something which he wished to avoid at all costs.

  'Answer me,' insisted Northcott. 'Unwise and unfair, you say?'

  'Yes, Sir Ambrose,' explained Christopher. 'It would be unwise for me to become involved with any woman at this time because it would prove a serious distraction. And it would be especially unwise of me to engage the affections of a young lady whose father works alongside me.'

  'But the fellow approves of the match.'

  'It is not a match. That is the crucial point. Margaret Littlejohn is a charming young lady but I could never requite her love,' he admitted, 'and it would be unfair both to her and her father to pretend that I could. As for the other course of action, it would be quite monstrous of me to take my pleasure then cast her aside when I tired of her. What purpose would be served by that?'

  'Ask your brother.'

  'Henry and I view these things differently.'

  'I am more inclined to side with him.'

  'Would you do so if you were involved in a similar situation?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Only this, Sir Ambrose,' said Christopher. 'Henry told me that you have a daughter who is little above Margaret Littlejohn's age. Were she to become hopelessly entranced by a young man, would you advise him to take full advantage of her?'

  'Leave my daughter out of this!' said Northcott testily.

  'I only sought to draw a parallel.'

  'It is an offensive one. Let us forget the whole matter.'

  'Gladly, Sir Ambrose.'

  'My daughter, Penelope, is engaged to be married.'

  'Henry omitted to mention that.'

  'I will tax him on the subject when I meet him this evening.'

  'Please accept my apology. No offence was intended.'

  'Enough, man! I will hear no more!'

  There was an awkward pause. Another bottle of wine arrived and their glasses were refilled. Christopher waited until his host had taken a long sip before he resumed the conversation.

  'I have made enquiries about an artist,' he said quietly.

  'Artist?' grunted the other.

  'You wanted a portrait painted, Sir Ambrose. To hang in the hall of the new house. You stressed that the artist had to be worthy of such a commission. I have found two men, either of whom would suit you.'

  'Who are they?'

  Christopher described the two men and praised their work in equal measure. Northcott's interest was engaged once more and his ruffled feathers were gradually smoothed. He insisted on seeing the work of both artists before reaching a decision between them. Talk of the portrait led on to a discussion of furnishings for the house and an hour slipped pleasurably past. The architect was glad that Margaret Littlejohn had faded completely out of their discourse. Northcott had obviously forgotten all about her. Chris
topher took great care to make no further reference to his host's daughter. He did not wish to provoke more ire.

  Northcott regained his buoyant mood. When they parted company, he shook Christopher's hand warmly and thanked him once again for the bravery he had shown in confronting the thieves. Sir Ambrose Northcott was expansive, promising that no expense would be spared on the house and assuring the young architect that he would be among the first guests invited to dine there. Christopher was honoured. The prospect of owning a beautiful new home seemed to rejuvenate Northcott. He walked away with a jauntiness in his gait.

  Christopher was struck by the extraordinary vitality of the older man. Sir Ambrose Northcott truly defied his years. He had an inner zest which somehow made light of the passage of time. Though no longer entirely uncritical of his employer, Christopher could not but admire his bounding energy.

  As he watched the man go, it did not occur to him for a second that he would never see Sir Ambrose Northcott alive again.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah Bale was never quite able to relax completely but her load was considerably lightened once she had put the children to bed. Oliver and Richard were boisterous lads who needed a watchful eye kept on them and, in the course of a normal day, their mother was frequently called upon to prise them apart, act as a peacemaker, adjudicate, discipline, amuse, threaten or read to them. Just fifteen months separated the six-year-old Oliver from his younger sibling and the fact that Richard was slightly bigger than him sharpened the edge of his competitiveness but Sarah's mixture of firm action and warm maternalism usually kept the two boys under control and it was only on rare occasions that their father was brought in to impose his authority. Jonathan was proud of his sons and equally proud of the way in which his wife was bringing them up. Though he took his turn at reading to them from the Bible or telling them stories, it was Sarah who bore the brunt of their education in the home.

  The constable was a busy man and the Great Fire increased both his professional responsibilities and his domestic commitments. When not attending to his duties, his main priority was to reconstruct the house in Addle Hill. It was noisy work.