'Surely not.'
'Sir Julius has gathered other firebrands around him.'
'Bernard Everett was no firebrand - I met him, Henry. I took him to be a most amenable gentleman.'
'What you met was his public face, the one he wore to beguile and deceive. In private, I venture to suggest,' said Henry, raising a finger, 'he was a fellow of a very different stripe. Everett was another skulking Roundhead and it cost him his life. Look no further for an explanation of his murder, Christopher. I can tell you exactly why he was killed.'
'Can you?'
'He had been recruited by Sir Julius Cheever to depose the King.'
Jonathan Bale was familiar with all the taverns and ordinaries in his ward. Much of the petty crime with which he had to deal came from such places. Peaceful citizens turned into roaring demons when too much drink was taken. Law-abiding men could be seized with the desire to wreak havoc. Bale had lost count of the number of tavern brawls he had broken up over the years, or the number of violent drunkards, male and female, he had arrested. The Saracen's Head in Knightrider Street caused less trouble than most. It permitted none of the games of chance that bedevilled other establishments, and prostitutes were not allowed to ply their trade there.
Bridget McCoy kept a very watchful eye on her premises.
'When did he arrive here, Mrs McCoy?'
'This morning.'
'What did he say?' asked Bale.
'He wanted a room for one night that overlooked the street.'
'Knightrider Street, you mean?'
'Yes, Mr Bale, even though our best room is on Bennet's Hill.'
'Did you tell him that?'
'Of course.'
'But he still chose the other room. Did he say why?'
'I didn't ask,' said Bridget. 'When someone wishes to lodge here, I try to give them what they want. It's a small room but I keep it very clean. He said that it would be ideal for him and he paid me there and then.' She bit her lip. 'I hate to think that I was helping him to commit a murder. He seemed such a quiet man.'
Bridget McCoy had been outraged that her tavern had been used as a vantage point by a ruthless killer. There were occasional scuffles among her customers and pickpockets had been known to drift in from time to time, but the Saracen's Head had never been tainted by a serious crime before. It upset her. She was a short, compact Irishwoman with a surging bosom that made her seem much bigger than she really was, and a tongue sharp enough to cut through timber. Talking to the constable, she had a soft, melodious, Irish lilt. Raised in anger, however, the voice of Bridget McCoy, hardened by years in the trade and seasoned with the ripest language, could quell any affray.
'Did he tell you his name, Mrs McCoy?'
'Field. His name was Mr Field.'
'No Christian name?'
'He gave none.'
'How would you describe him?'
'He was a big man, Mr Bale, with something of your build. Older than you, I'd say, and with a broken nose. But it was a pleasant face,' she added, 'or so I thought. And I spend every day looking into the faces of strangers. Mr Field had a kind smile.'
'He showed his victim no kindness,' remarked Bale, sharply.
'How much did you see of him?'
'Very little. Once I showed him to his room, he stayed there.'
'Biding his time.'
'How was I to know that?' she said, defensively. 'If I'd understood what business he was about - God help me - I'd never have let him set foot over the threshold. The Saracen's Head has high standards.'
'You were not to blame, Mrs McCoy.'
'I feel that I was.'
'How?'
'By letting that devil take a room here.'
'That's your livelihood. Customers rent accommodation. Once they hire a room, you are not responsible for what they do in it.'
'I am, if they break the law,' she said with a grimace. 'I should have sensed that something was amiss, Mr Bale. I should have sounded him out a little more. My dear husband would have smelled a rat.'
'Patrick, alas, is no longer with us.'
'Mores the pity. He'd have been first to join the hue and cry.'
'You are still a valuable witness,' Bale told her. 'You met the man face to face. You weighed him up.'
'Not well enough, it seems.'
'Did anyone else here set eyes on him?'
'Only Nan, my cook. He ran past her in the kitchen when he made his escape. It gave her quite a start.'
'I'm not surprised,' said Bale. 'We may need to call on both of you at a later stage to help to identify him. Do you think that you'd be able to recognise Mr Field again?'
'I'd pick that face out of a thousand.'
'Good.'
'Recognise him?' she howled, quivering with fury. 'Recognise that broken-nosed rogue? I'll never forget the slimy, stinking, turd-faced, double-dealing son of a diseased whore. May the rotten bastard roast in Hell for all eternity!'
'He will, Mrs McCoy,' said Bale, calmly. 'He will.'
Chapter Three
Christopher Redmayne waited until the next day before calling on them. In the interim, he had spoken with a couple of people to whom his brother, Henry, had introduced him, veteran politicians who had sat in the House of Commons long enough to become familiar with its deadly currents and treacherous eddies. Neither of them had spoken kindly of Sir Julius Cheever and Christopher had, of necessity, to conceal the fact that they were talking about the man whom he hoped would one day be his father-in-law. His brief researches into the murky world of politics had been chastening. When he rode towards Westminster in bright sunshine that morning, Christopher was unusually subdued.
His spirits revived as soon as the house came into view. It had been built for Sir Julius so that he could have a base in the city during periods when parliament was sitting, or when he wished to spend time with his other daughter, Brilliana, who lived in Richmond. The property was neither large nor particularly striking but it had a double significance for the architect. It had been the first substantial commission he had gained without the aid of his brother and, as such, marked the beginning of his independence. Previous work had always come his way because Henry had used his influence with various friends. By no stretch of the imagination could Sir Julius be looked upon as a friend - or even a nodding acquaintance - of Henry Redmayne.
But the house had a much more powerful claim to a place in Christopher's heart. It was the catalyst for the meeting between him and Susan Cheever, a relationship that had begun with casual interest before developing into a firm friendship, then gradually evolving into something far deeper. The promise of seeing her again made him sit up in the saddle and straighten his shoulders. He just wished that he could be bringing happier tidings on his visit.
Arriving at the house, he met with disappointment. Sir Julius was not there. It gave him a welcome opportunity to speak alone with Susan but it was her father whom he had really come to see.
'What time will Sir Julius return?' he asked.
'Not until late this afternoon.'
'In that case, I may have to call back.'
'Why?' said Susan. 'Do you have a message for him?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Can you not trust me to pass it on?'
'I'd prefer to speak to him myself,' said Christopher, not wishing to alarm her by confiding what he had discovered. 'Meanwhile, I can have the pleasure of spending a little time with you.'
She gave a wan smile. 'It's hardly an occasion for pleasure.'
'Quite so. What happened yesterday was appalling.'
'I still cannot believe it, Christopher.'
'No more can I. It had been such a joyous occasion for all of us. Then, in a flash, it turned into tragedy. How is Mrs Polegate bearing up?'
'Indifferently well. Mr Everett was very dear to her.'
'It was kind of you to offer some comfort, Susan.'
'I stayed there for hours but I could not ease the pain of her bereavement. Mrs Polegate was inconsolable. The only t
hing that might take the edge off her grief is the arrest of the man who killed her brother.'
'Jonathan Bale and I will do all we can to find him.'
They were in the parlour of the house, a room that reflected the taste of the client rather than that of the architect. Sir Julius had been the most decisive employer that Christopher had ever had, knowing exactly what he wanted from the start. That brought advantages and disadvantages. The main benefit was that valuable time had been saved because there had been none of the endless prevarication that made other clients so frustrating. On the debit side, however, was the fact that Christopher had to agree to an interior design that was serviceable while also being totally out of fashion. Even when seated beside the woman he loved, he was aware of how much more intrinsically appealing the room could have been had he been given his head.
Gazing fondly into her eyes, he forgot all other problems.
'These past couple of months have been wonderful,' he said.
'Have they?'
'Of course, Susan. I've been able to see so much of you.'
'That's been the saving grace of our visits,' she confessed.
'Don't you enjoy coming to London?'
'Only if I can see you, Christopher. As you know, I'm a country girl at heart. We may have St James's Park on our doorstep, but it's not the same as being surrounded by thousands of acres of land.'
'There are plenty of fine estates on the outskirts of the city.'
'But none that I'd exchange for the one we already own.'
'What about your father?' asked Christopher. 'He used to describe the capital as a veritable cesspool. His exact words, if I recall them aright, were that London is a swamp of crime and corruption.'
'He still holds to that view.'
'Then why has he spent so much time here recently?'
'Commitments of a political nature.'
'But the House of Commons has not been sitting.'
'Father doesn't confine his activities to the Parliament House,' she said. 'He claims that the most fruitful debates take place outside it. He's gathered a small group of like-minded men around him.'
'Men like Bernard Everett, for example?'
'Yes, Christopher. As soon as he was elected, he paid us a visit in Northamptonshire. He and father discussed political affairs all night.'
'That must have been very tiresome for you, Susan.'
'It's worse when we come here.' 'Is it?'
'Far worse,' she complained. 'There are evenings when the whole house seems to echo with political gossip. They talk about who's rising in power, who's likely to fall, how this objective can be best achieved and that one cunningly blocked, how the King exercises too much sway over the House of Commons and how his brother is an even more dangerous threat to civil liberty.'
Christopher laughed. 'Someone has been eavesdropping, I see.'
'What else can I do when the place has been invaded like that?' 'How many people attend these meetings?'
'Five or six, as a rule.'
'And your father is the acknowledged leader?'
'The habit of command is a difficult thing to break. Father, likes to be in charge. Oh, I'm sure that they have worthy aims and pursue them with due sincerity,' she conceded, 'but it makes for some dull evenings from my point of view. I foolishly assumed that you had designed a London home for us.'
'That's precisely what I did do.'
'No, Christopher. This is merely another Parliament House.'
'Then we'll have to devise more ways to get you out of it.'
'I'd be so grateful.'
'I hadn't realised that it was matters of government that had drawn your father back here so much. It crossed my mind that the city held some other attraction for him.'
Susan bridled slightly. 'What can you mean?'
'Nothing, nothing,' he said, seeing her reaction and regretting his comment. 'I was obviously mistaken.'
'You were, I assure you. Father is eager for political advancement. He will not get that by languishing on his estate in Northamptonshire. Friends have to be seen, ideas discussed, plans agreed. There's never a day when he's not engaged in some aspect of parliamentary work.'
'Is that where he is now, Susan?'
'Of course,' she said with an unaccustomed edge to her voice. 'Father is dining with a close political ally.'
'I thank the Lord that you have no interest whatsoever in affairs of state,' said Sir Julius Cheever, beaming at her. 'That would have been disastrous.'
'Why?'
'Because, dear lady, we would never have agreed.'
'I cannot imagine our disagreeing about anything, Sir Julius,' she said, sweetly, 'for you are the most agreeable man I've ever met.'
He chortled. 'Nobody has ever described me as agreeable before.'
'Nobody else has ever divined your true nature.'
Dorothy Kitson was a handsome woman in her early forties with the kind of sculptured features that only improved with age. Twice widowed, she had inherited considerable wealth on each occasion but it had made her neither extravagant nor overbearing. She had remained the quiet, intelligent, unassuming woman she had always been and, while she had had many suitors, none had been treated as serious contenders for her hand. That, at least, was the situation until Sir Julius had come into her life. He was so unlike anybody she had ever met before that she found him intriguing.
They were dining together at his favourite establishment in Covent Garden, a place that combined excellent food with a degree of privacy not usually found elsewhere. Clearly enchanted with her, Sir Julius wanted Dorothy Kitson entirely to himself. Having started with oysters, they had a hash of rabbits and lamb before moving on to a chine of beef, all of it accompanied by a plentiful supply of wine. Since his guest ate and drank in moderation, Sir Julius reined in his own appetite as well.
'I bless the man who organised the races at Newmarket that day,' he said, raising his glass. 'He made it possible for me to meet you.'
'It was only by accident that I was present, Sir Julius. I had planned to spend the day in the city but my brother insisted that I go with him to Newmarket as he had a horse running there.'
'Then my blessing on your brother as well.'
'As it happened, his filly won the race.'
'It was not the only winner that day,' he said, gallantly.
'Thank you.'
'Once I'd seen you, Dorothy, I lost all interest in horses.'
She smiled. 'I'm not sure that I appreciate the way that you put that,' she said, touching his hand, 'but the thought is a kind one.'
'I meant no offence,' he insisted.
'None was taken.'
'Then you'll agree to come to Newmarket with me again one day?'
'Only if you consent to watch the horses this time.'
They shared a laugh then sipped their wine. The change that had come over Sir Julius was remarkable. In place of his blunt demeanour and combative manner was a tenderness that seemed wholly out of character. He never once raised his voice, never once lost his temper. In the company of Dorothy Kitson, he was restrained and gentlemanly. His battered face was permanently wreathed in smiles. She, too, was plainly relishing every moment of their time together but not without a trace of guilt. Dorothy waited until the plates had been cleared away before leaning in closer to him.
'You've been very considerate, Sir Julius,' she said, quietly, 'but you do not have to hold back on my account.'
'I've not held back, dear lady. I've eaten my fill.'
'I was not talking about the meal. You came here today with a heavy heart, and I know the cause. My brother is a magistrate, remember. Whenever a serious crime is committed, news of it soon reaches Orlando's ears.'
His face clouded. 'He's told you about it, then?'
'Yes. I'm so terribly sorry.'
'Thank you.'
'An innocent man, shot down in broad daylight - it's frightening. It must have been a dreadful shock for you to lose a friend in such hideous circumstances. The
wonder is that you did not postpone a meeting with me so that you could mourn him properly.'
'I'd never dream of doing that, Dorothy.'
'I could have waited for a more appropriate time.'
'Every second spent with you is appropriate,' he said with clumsy affection. 'In dining with you, I show no disrespect to Bernard. He will ever be in my thoughts.'
'Did he have a family?'
'A wife and three children.'
'This will be a fearful blow to them.'
'I advised Francis Polegate not to send word by letter. Such bad tidings ought to be delivered in person so that he can soften their impact and offer condolences. He rode off to Cambridge this morning.' 'Where will the funeral be held?' she asked.
'At Bernard's parish church,' he replied. 'I've taken it upon myself to arrange the transfer of the body when the coroner releases it.'
'That's very considerate of you.'
'He was a good friend, Dorothy. He'd have done the same for me.'
'Heaven forbid!'
The arrival of the next course prompted them to change the subject. They talked about their first meeting at Newmarket races and noted how many happy times they had spent together since. Sir Julius was eager to see even more of her but Dorothy was cautious. Feeling that their friendship was moving at a comfortable pace, she was content to leave things as they were. At the same time, however, she did believe that one important step could now be taken.
'When will I be able meet your family, Sir Julius?' she said.
'As soon as you wish,' he told her, delighted at what he perceived as a real advance. 'My younger daughter, Susan, lives with me and is in our London abode even as we speak.'
'She has not yet married, then?'
'No, Dorothy.'
'Does she have prospects?'
'Yes, she is being courted by the young man who designed our house here. The problem is that Susan will not commit herself wholly to him while she has to look after her aged and infirm father.'
'You're neither aged nor infirm, Sir Julius.'
'My daughter treats me as if I were.'
'How will she respond when she is introduced to me?'
'Susan will be unfailingly polite,' he said, 'but you will still need to win her over. She's rather possessive, you see. Though I may be her father, she sometimes treats me like an errant child. I mean that as no criticism,' he added, quickly. 'Susan is very dutiful. When my dear wife died, it was she who took on the task of caring for me.'
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