'Implicitly.'
'Thank you.'
Margaret Littlejohn was both embarrassed and elated, bashful in the presence of the man she adored yet savouring the experience all the same. Christopher was glad that the maidservant was there, hoping that his visitor would not blurt out any declaration in front of a third person. His mind was already grappling with the problem of how he could get rid of them without undue rudeness.
'Father kept most of it from me,' explained Margaret. 'He did not want to upset me with the nasty details. All that he told me was that Sir Ambrose Northcott had met with an accident and that the building work had been stopped.'
'In essence, that is the truth.'
'But the poor man was murdered.’.'
'Alas, yes.'
'What happened to him is too horrible to contemplate.'
'That is why Mr Littlejohn protected you from it.'
'I shudder every time I think about the way Sir Ambrose died.'
'Try to put it out of your mind.
'But I was there, Mr Redmayne,' she confessed, eyes widening with consternation. 'On the day that he was killed, I was there at the site.'
'So were the rest of us. The place was humming with activity.'
'I am talking about that evening. When ...' Her voice died and she needed a moment to compose herself. 'When it happened,' she continued. 'What I saw may be of no use at all, of course, but I felt I had to tell you about it just in case. I feel guilty at holding it back.'
'You saw something?' he pressed, moving in closer. 'You were at the site on the evening when Sir Ambrose was killed?' She nodded. 'Did you see him arrive with another man?'
'No, Mr Redmayne. When we got there - Nan was with me - the only person we saw was the nightwatchman. He was in the garden, well away from the house itself. He was pulling the tarpaulin over the bricks and the timber,' she recalled. 'He did not see the man leave.'
'What man?'
'The one who came out of the cellar.'
Christopher crouched down before her. 'You saw a man come out of the cellar?' he said. 'On his own?'
'Yes.'
'Did you recognise him?'
'Unhappily, no. I hoped for a moment that it might be ...' She blushed again but covered her coyness with a swift recital of events. 'I have never seen him before. He was tall, well-dressed and wore a wide-brimmed hat that was pulled down over his face. We were too far away to see much more than that, Mr Redmayne. I was afraid to venture too close in case the nightwatchman saw me and reported it to my father.' She tossed a look over her shoulder at Nan. 'I misled him. He thought that I was visiting my cousin but I was near Baynard's Castle instead.'
'If I understand you correctly,' recapitulated Christopher, sensing that the girl had invaluable information, 'you saw a man coming out of the cellar and leaving before the nightwatchmen could descry him?'
'He took care that it would not happen, Mr Redmayne.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well,' she said, 'he crept up those steps and peeped around to make sure that nobody could see him. Then he put down the lantern he was carrying and hurried off quickly. Oh, did I say that he was carrying a stick? I do remember that. A tall man with a hat and a stick.'
'Did he notice you and your maidservant?'
'No, Mr Redmayne. We were hiding behind the corner.'
'Which way did he go?'
'Towards the river. I think he had a boat waiting.'
'Did you see a boat?'
'No,' she said, delighted at his interest and keen to maintain it. 'The wall of the house blocked him from sight for most of the way. But I did catch a glimpse of the top of his hat when he reached the landing stage beyond the garden. Why else would he go there?'
'Quite so, Miss Littlejohn.'
'After that, it was time for us to leave ourselves.'
'So you saw nothing else?'
She shook her head. Christopher took her carefully through each detail of her story once again and fixed the approximate times of her arrival and departure. Her evidence dovetailed with that of Jem Raybone. The night- watchmen saw two men enter the cellar. Christopher was certain that the one whom Margaret Littlejohn observed leaving was the killer. The probable time of the murder was confirmed.
'Was I right to come to you?' she asked.
'Oh, yes. I am most grateful.'
'Father said that you were determined to solve this crime. I hoped that I could be of some little help to you.'
'You have been of great help,' said Christopher, standing up.
'Thank you, sir. Do not think too badly of me.'
'Badly?'
'A dutiful daughter should have told all this to her father,' she admitted. 'But I could not do that or he would have known that I deceived him about where I was that evening. Please do not betray me.'
'I would not dream of it.'
'The simple truth is ...' She reached out to touch his arm. 'The simple truth is that I hoped against hope that you might be at the site that evening. That is why I came. That was why I always came.'
Margaret Littlejohn suddenly burst into tears and flung herself clumsily forward. Christopher had no alternative but to catch her. It put him in an awkward predicament, compounded by the fact that Nan had mysteriously disappeared from the room as if by some pre-arranged signal. Margaret sobbed, clung tightly to him, felt the comfort of his arms then turned a tearful face up for some return of affection. Christopher managed a smile but his emotions were swirling. He was still wondering how he could detach himself from her when Jacob came to his rescue.
Materialising out of the kitchen, the old servant was resourceful.
'I see that the young lady is unwell, sir,' he said, moving her gently away from his master and easing her towards the door. 'I take it that you would wish me to accompany her back home at once?'
Margaret felt profoundly cheated and Nan appeared in the doorway with a look of exasperation on her face but Christopher was so relieved that he vowed to give his servant a handsome reward.
'Thank you, Jacob,' he said in a tone of the utmost consideration. 'Your offer is most timely. See them to the very door of their house and take especial care of Miss Littlejohn who is a trifle upset. She has just given me the most enormous amount of help. I am so glad that she made the effort to come here.'
Partially appeased, Margaret Littlejohn stemmed her tears with a lace hankerchief and bestowed a yearning smile of farewell on her host before going out with her maidservant. Neither woman overheard the urgent command which Christopher whispered into Jacob's hairy ear.
'Never - never, ever - let them across my threshold again!'
The Jolly Sailor belied its name that evening. It was half-empty when Jonathan Bale arrived and the atmosphere felt curiously flat. Most patrons were either too drunk to exhibit any jollity or too sober to get drawn into a song. The constable did not mind. During his years as a shipwright, the tavern had been a favourite of his. He felt comfortable among seafaring men, sharing their concerns, understanding their problems and talking their language. His office might have given him a new sense of responsibility but it did not deprive him of his love of the sea or of those who made their living in its capricious bosom.
Jonathan talked easily to six or seven sailors before he chanced upon one who could really help. The man was on his own in a corner.
'You have heard of Sir Ambrose Northcott, then?' said Jonathan.
'Oh, yes,' replied the other before spitting dramatically on the floor. 'I know the rogue only too well.'
'Why is that?'
'Because I sailed aboard his ship.'
'For how long?'
'Almost two years.'
Jonathan smiled. 'Let me fill your tankard for you, my friend.'
'I'll not try to stop you.'
The constable sat opposite him at a rough wooden table and called for more beer. When both their tankards were full, they clinked them before taking a long sip apiece. Appraising his companion, Jonathan realised why th
e man chose to lurk in a shadowy corner of the tavern. He was a short, solid individual in his forties with huge scarred hands. His face was so ugly that it had a kind of grotesque fascination. Nature had contrived the misshapen features and an occasional brawl accounted for the broken nose and the swollen ear but these were minor distractions from the dozens of large, hideous, red boils which swarmed across his cheeks, chin and forehead like so many enraged wasps.
'Do not look too close, sir,' said the man. 'Take pity on me.'
'Have you always had this condition?'
'It came on me this last year.'
'Is there no cure?'
'I have not found one yet so I am instead trying to cure people of staring at me like a freak.' He bunched a menacing fist. 'The only thing which seems to work is to loosen their teeth with this.'
'I am sorry,' said Jonathan, averting his gaze. 'You mentioned a ship. I had heard that Sir Ambrose owned a vessel.'
'That is right. The Marie Louise.'
'A strange name for an English ship.'
'It was called The Maid of Kent when I sailed in her.'
'Marie Louise does not sound much like a maid of Kent.'
A throaty laugh. 'More like a whore of Calais!'
'When was the name changed?'
'Some time last year, they tell me.'
'And did they say why?'
'No,' replied the man. 'Some whim of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. He was always doing things like that. Making decisions, changing things around. And he was a loathsome passenger to have aboard. Real tyrant, he was. Never stopped harrying the crew. Many's the time I'd have liked to push him overboard.'
'Where did you sail?'
'Anywhere and everywhere. Spain, Portugal, France, Holland, even Norway on occasion. As soon as one cargo was unloaded here, we would set sail to collect another. The Maid of Kent was a trim vessel, I'll say that for her. When we clapped on full sail, she could outrun most of her rivals. Yes,' he sighed nostalgically, 'when Sir Ambrose was not aboard, I had some good times on that ship.'
'And since then?'
'I joined the crew of a coastal vessel, bringing coal down from Newcastle. Miserable work until I was forced out of it.'
'Forced out?'
'This face,' said the man, jabbing a stubby finger at it. 'There's no better way to lose shipmates than to sprout a crop such as I did. They could not bear to look on me lest they catch some disease. When the captain discharged me, I could not find anyone else to take me on. It is just as well, really. The sea spray used to make these boils sting so much I felt that my face was on fire.'
He took a long, noisy sip from his tankard then wiped his lips with the back of his arm. Jonathan coaxed as much detail as he could out of the man about his time on Sir Ambrose Northcott's vessel. He was surprised to hear how often the owner went on the voyages. War did not seem to hinder his business. He traded covertly with countries which were nominally at odds with his own.
'Sir Ambrose sounds like a doughty privateer,' said Jonathan.
'I'd sooner call him a black-hearted bastard.'
The man's reminiscences became harsher as he retailed examples of what he saw as the iniquities of Sir Ambrose Northcott. By the time his companion had finished, Jonathan had been given some valuable insights into the commercial activities of the dead man. He memorised the details so that he could pass them on to Christopher Redmayne. Whatever his doubts about the latter, he had to admit that the architect had dedicated himself to the pursuit of the killer in the most selfless manner. Working with him might not turn out as unpleasant a task as he feared.
A degree of jollity at last entered the Jolly Sailor. Drink was flowing more freely, raucous ditties were being sung, customers were flirting with the landlady and two of them were trying to dance in the middle of the floor. Jonathan decided to leave before the first brawl started but he paid to have the other man's tankard filled first.
'Will you not drink with me?' said the sailor.
'I still have a drop left here, my friend.'
'Then let us have a toast.'
'Gladly.'
'To my future health!' said the man.
'I'll drink to that,' said Jonathan, raising his tankard before emptying it with one long gulp. 'I hope that you soon find the cure for your ailment and get back to sea where you belong.'
'I have one last chance.'
'Last chance?'
'When I take my boils to the finest physician in London.'
'And who might that be?'
'Why,' said the man proudly. 'His Majesty, of course. They say that the King's Touch can cure any disease. Tomorrow, I am to present myself to Mr Knight, His Majesty's surgeon, who lives in Bridges Street at the sign of the Hare in Covent Garden. When he has examined me, I will be given a ticket to join those other sufferers who will receive the King's Touch the next day.'
'I wish you luck, my friend!'
'I put my faith in His Majesty.'
'That is more than I would do,' murmured Jonathan.
'Many men have felt the King's Touch.'
'And many women, too,' said the other under his breath.
'I have heard tell of miracles taking place this way,' he added aloud. 'I pray that you will be cured by one.'
'I have to be,' said the man with an edge of desperation. 'This face of mine is cursed. I'll not endure the pain for much longer. Mind you, I will admit this. There are other poor souls in a worse condition than me. Most of those who will go before His Majesty are stricken with the King's Evil, as they call it. Scrofula. A cruel disease. It can turn a beautiful face into vile ugliness. I have seen men whose skin looked as if they have been flayed alive and some have been so stricken that they went blind.' He drank some more beer, then belched. 'Have you ever seen anyone with the King's Evil?'
'Oh, yes!' said Jonathan ruefully. 'Indeed, I have, my friend. I have seen a whole city afflicted with it.'
'A whole city? What is it called?'
'London.'
The ceremony was held at the Banqueting House. Since it was his first visit there, Christopher Redmayne took the opportunity to study what was, architecturally, the most striking part of Whitehall Place. He found it pure joy to view the work of Inigo Jones at such close quarters. Faced with Portland stone and built at a cost of over fifteen thousands pounds, the Banqueting House was the first exclusively Renaissance building in the capital and, in the opinion of most observers, still by far the best. The scale of the interior filled Christopher with awe and his eyes took in every lush detail. He spent so much time gazing up at the ceiling, adorned by a Rubens painting in celebration of the benefits of wise rule, that his neck began to ache. Sheer scale once again hypnotised him.
'Look at the size of those figures,' he urged, pointing upwards.
'I have seen them before,' said his brother airily.
'The cherubs must be almost ten feet high.'
'I prefer my cherubs lying horizontally on a bed.'
'Henry!'
'Pay attention. I brought you here to watch the ceremony and not to goggle at the ceiling like some country bumpkin on his first visit to London.' A loud murmur of interest went up. 'Ah, here is the King.'
Preceded by two priests in their vestments, Charles II entered at the head of a stately procession and made his way up the steps of a small dais to take his seat on the throne. Christopher was at the rear of the hall but, even from that distance, he thought that the King cut an impressive figure. Charles was a tall, dignified man with long, black, curly, shining hair and a black moustache. A leader of fashion, he was dressed in the French style with a long scarlet vest beneath his coat and black shoes offset by scarlet bows. It was the first time that Christopher had ever seen him in person and he was irresistibly reminded of the reward placard which he saw on display after the Battle of Worcester in 1651 and which described the royal fugitive as 'a tall, black man upwards of two yards high'.
There was a swarthiness about the kingly countenance which gave him a slightly fo
reign air but his bearing was that of a Stuart monarch with a firm belief in the Divine Right of his rule and in the importance of the ceremony in which he was to officiate. The face was striking rather than handsome and it wore such a grave expression that Christopher found it difficult to reconcile the man whom he saw before him with the rampant satyr of common report. A royalist by instinct, he felt a surge of pride in his monarch and admired the graceful ease with which he presided over the assembly.
When the priests had read from the Book of Common Prayer, the King's surgeons brought in the diseased supplicants to present them to him. There were almost five hundred of them in all and they gave off a communal odour of sickness. Some limped, some hobbled, some had to be carried into the royal presence. Most were afflicted with scrofula, the King's Evil, which blighted them with swollen glands and unsightly skin conditions. More advanced cases of the disease could lead to blindness and other frightening disabilities. As they shuffled in strict order towards the dais, the Gospel was read by one of the priests and the stirring words of St Mark echoed through the chamber.
'Afterward he appeared unto the eleven as they sat at meat, and upbraided them with their unbelief and hardness of heart, because they believed not them which had seen him after he was risen. And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth, and is baptised, shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name shall they cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.'
He raised his head to signal the first diseased man forward.
'They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.'
As the words were spoken, the King laid both hands fearlessly upon the kneeling supplicant before him then waited for a second person to take his place. Each time a different man, woman or child knelt in hope before him, the King's Touch was accompanied by the same verse from the Gospel.
'They shall lay their hands on the sick and they shall recover.'
Christopher found the whole event profoundly moving. Touched by the simple faith of those who waited so patiently in line, he was full of admiration for the way in which the King conducted himself. Charles did not shrink from even the most repulsive cases. Each one of them was treated with gentle consideration as they knelt to receive the Touch which might yet redeem them from the misery of their illness. When the long queue of people had eventually filed past, the ceremony was only half over. More prayers were offered then a second reading was taken from the Gospel of St John.
The King's Evil Page 15