'I want to be a constable one day,' he announced.
'There's always a place for new men, Patrick,' said Bale.
'Well, my son is not going to be one of them,' affirmed Bridget. 'He'll be too busy helping his mother to run the tavern.'
'I'd be a good constable,' boasted the youth.
'Put that nonsense out of your head.'
'But I want to be like Mr Bale.'
'You don't have the brains for it, Patrick.'
'I can learn, Mother,' insisted the youth. 'Can't I, Mr Bale?'
'Yes, lad,' said Jonathan, kindly.
'Don't encourage him,' warned Bridget. 'Patrick is spoken for.
Besides, what use is a constable who can neither read nor write nor even remember what day it is half the time?' She used her free hand to give her son an affectionate pat. 'You're my constable, Patrick. Your job is to look after the Saracen's Head.'
Patrick was determined. 'I want to work with Mr Bale.'
'One day, perhaps,' said the constable, knowing that it would never happen. 'One day, Patrick.'
One surprise succeeded another. No sooner had Christopher Redmayne bade farewell to his brother than he had a second unexpected visitor at his house. Spurning both safety and convention, Susan Cheever had ridden unaccompanied to Fetter Lane, an address to which she normally travelled by coach. While his master took her into the parlour, Jacob once again acted as an ostler, leading her horse to the stables at the rear of the premises.
Christopher was thrilled to see her again so soon. Seated beside her on the couch, he noted how the ride had put some colour in her cheeks and how the breeze had disturbed the ringlets of hair that peeped out from under the front of her bonnet. He also saw the slight anxiety in her eyes.
'Is something amiss?' he asked.
'I have tidings that might interest you, Christopher. Word came late yesterday that Mr Everett's body was ready for removal. Father intends to accompany it to Cambridge later this morning.'
'Is he travelling alone?'
'No,' replied Susan. 'Mrs Polegate and her children will share the coach with him. Mr Polegate is already there, of course. The whole family will stay for the funeral tomorrow.'
'Thank you for telling me,' he said, worried that Sir Julius would be unprotected on the road. 'I'd like to pay my last respects to Mr Everett as well. What time are they leaving?'
'Not until eleven o'clock.'
'Then I'll bear them company.'
'I had a feeling that you might wish to do that.'
'As long as Sir Julius does not object. He and I did exactly not part on friendly terms yesterday.'
'I think you'll find him a changed man today.' 'I'm glad to hear it, Susan,' he said. 'Your father can very irascible when his views are challenged. What's brought about the change?'
'That's what I came to tell you,' she confided, lowering her head for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. When she looked up, she forced a smile. 'I have an apology to make, Christopher.'
'Why?'
'Because I lied to you.'
'I don't believe that.'
'I did and I hated myself for doing so. I suppose the truth is that I hoped that the problem would disappear of its own accord. You deserved better from me. I'm very sorry.'
'You mentioned a problem.'
'Yes,' said Susan, uncomfortably. 'It's one that I stupidly tried to conceal from you. Father has met someone who has made a deep impression on him. Her name is Mrs Kitson - Mrs Dorothy Kitson. He's been spending a lot of time with her.'
'Ah,' he said as realisation dawned, 'so that accounts for his benign mood in Knightrider Street. I saw him go off into a reverie more than once. Sir Julius is in love.'
'I'm not sure that it has reached that stage yet.'
'Whatever stage it's reached, it's obviously a source of pleasure to him. In what way is that a problem, Susan?'
'Father is too set in his ways to embark on a romance.'
'That's a decision only he can make.'
'Mrs Kitson is a distraction,' she argued. 'Father came to London to attend parliament, not to be beguiled into an attachment.'
'Have you met this lady?'
'Not yet.'
'Then how do you know it was she who beguiled him? he asked. 'Could it not be that it was he who has actually enchanted her?'
'Hardly - you've met him.'
'Stranger things have happened, Susan. Look at my brother, for instance. Henry is very far from being what most people conceive of as handsome yet he's somehow bewitched a whole series of gorgeous ladies in his time.'
'Your brother is still relatively young - father is nearly sixty.'
'Age has no meaning in affairs of the heart.'
'But I'm not certain that this is what it is.'
'You can only make a proper judgement when you meet Mrs Kitson in person. Is your father ready for you to do that?'
'Yes,' she said. 'He wishes to introduce both of us to her.'
'Both of you?'
'Brilliana arrived from Richmond without warning. Subtlety, alas, was never her strong suit. She confronted Father at once and demanded to know what was going on in his private life. In the end, he capitulated. We are to meet Mrs Kitson before long.'
'Then all of your doubts may soon be eradicated.'
'I still feel uneasy about it, Christopher.'
'Why?'
'Father was perfectly happy as he was.'
'He leads a very full life, I grant you that.'
'It's far too full,' she argued. 'Father never stops. When we are at home, he busies himself with the running of the estate. And the minute we arrive in London, he has endless meetings with other Members of Parliament. He has no time for a dalliance.'
'Sir Julius obviously thinks otherwise. Besides, how do you know that's it's merely a dalliance? It may be more serious than that.'
Susan was about to reply but she thought better of it. Simply talking about the situation had introduced a sharpness into her voice that was rather unbecoming. Christopher noticed it at once. What interested him was that she sounded less like a daughter, talking about her father, than an apprehensive mother, trying to shield a wayward son from an artful female. Years before, Sir Julius Cheever had been rocked by the death of his wife and he had leaned heavily on his younger daughter as a result. While Christopher admired her devotion to her father, it did prevent him from asking Susan to share her life with him instead. As long as she looked after one man with such dedication, she would keep another at arm's length.
'I wonder if you are being altogether honest with yourself,' he said.
'What do you mean?'
'You've taken against this lady, Susan, haven't you?'
'I'm bound to have fears.'
'But they concern you rather than Sir Julius. Whenever you talk about him, you sound proprietary. He is yours. You've no wish to yield him up to another woman.'
'I have a duty,' she said, igniting with passion. 'When she was on her death bed, my mother made me promise that I would take care of him. I gave her my word, Christopher. I can't go back on that now.'
'You can if someone else lifts the burden from your shoulders.'
'Father is no burden.'
'He's no child either,' he pointed out. 'You can't make up his mind for him, especially on something as personal as this. Sir Julius will follow his instincts and you must let him do that.'
'Not if he's making a terrible mistake.'
'You've no proof that he's doing that, Susan.'
'No proof, maybe,' she admitted, 'but I have my suspicions. Don't ask me to explain what they are, Christopher, because I'm not able to put them into words. Father could be in danger, that's all I know.'
It was the ideal cue for him to tell her about a more immediate peril faced by her father but he drew back from doing so. At a time when she was already distressed, it would hurt her even more. It would also reveal that he had deceived her and Susan would feel aggrieved at that. There was an awkward silence. He
wished that he could reach out and enfold her in his arms but there was an invisible barrier between them. Two names suddenly popped into his head.
'Did you ever meet a man called Arthur Manville?' he asked.
'Why, yes,' she replied. 'He used to come to the house.'
'Used to?'
'We've not seen him for a long time. He and Father probably fell out. Mr Manville had robust opinions. He tended to express them at the top of his voice. I heard father shouting him down on occasion.'
'What about Lewis Bircroft?'
'Why do you ask about him?'
'Curiosity. My brother happened to mention his name.'
'Mr Bircroft also took part in regular meetings at our house in Westminster,' she said, 'but, for some reason, he stopped coming as well. I was sorry about that. He was a pleasant man, very intelligent, and something of a philosopher. Mr Bircroft wrote many political pamphlets. Father had a great admiration for him.'
'Did he say why the man stopped visiting your house?'
'No, Christopher, but, then, he never talks about politics with me. He says that I could not even begin to understand what goes on inside the walls of the Parliament House.'
Susan was being deliberately misled. In order not to alarm her, Sir Julius had said nothing about the violence inflicted on his friends. He kept her ignorant of the hazards of political life for someone with views similar to his own. Christopher elected to do the same. Given her deep concern over her father's romantic friendship, he reasoned that Susan had enough to worry about.
'Well,' she said, rising from the couch, 'I suppose that I had better return home. They will be wondering where I am and, if you are going to Cambridge for a couple of days, you'll need time to pack some things.'
Christopher stood up. 'Jacob will do that for me,' he said, 'so I've plenty of time in hand. Tarry a little and I'll ride back to Westminster with you. Fine horsewoman that you are, I don't like the idea of your going abroad on your own.'
'Then I'll wait until you're ready.'
'Shall I ask Jacob to get you some refreshment?'
'No, thank you. I've not long had breakfast.'
'I had mine some hours ago,' said Christopher. 'Since I need to give so much time to this investigation, I'm attending to my own work early in the morning. Though I'm willing to play the constable, I can't forget that I'm also an architect. So,' he went on, 'your sister is staying with you, is she? Is her husband with her?'
'Yes, she and Lancelot came together.'
'I hope that I have the chance to spend time with them.'
Susan looked embarrassed. 'It might be better if you didn't,' she suggested. 'At all events, I think that you should avoid Brilliana.'
"Why - does she disapprove of me?'
'Quite the opposite.' 'Oh?'
'Brilliana likes to exert control over people,' said Susan.
'That was the first thing I noticed about her. She enjoys power. Your sister is a very beautiful woman but I do not envy Mr Serle.'
'Lancelot is content to be dominated by her.'
'Most men would resent that.'
'Not only men, Christopher. I've suffered more than anyone at her hands. When she cannot persuade, Brilliana will hector. When that fails, she'll resort to abuse. It can be very painful.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Because my sister turned her attention to me last night,' said Susan with obvious discomfort. 'Or, to be more precise, she's decided to use her influence on us.'
'Us?' said Christopher, mystified. 'We are the best of friends. Surely, your sister appreciates that? She has no call to interfere. How can she possibly use her influence on us?'
Susan said nothing but her silence was an explanation in itself.
Jonathan Bale acted swiftly. He gave Bridget McCoy and her son time to leave their provisions at the Saracen's Head, then the three of them drove back to Leadenhall Street in a borrowed cart. Bale took the reins and Bridget sat beside her. Patrick was perched at the back of the cart, his legs dangling over the edge, his whole body burning with excitement at the thought that he was helping a parish constable. If he could prove his worth on this occasion, he told himself, then his dream of becoming an officer might one day be fulfilled. When they reached the market, however, he was disappointed to learn that he had to guard the horse and cart. He could hardly demonstrate his prowess from there.
The market was still very busy and the pandemonium as deafening as ever. Barking dogs added to the cacophony. Bale had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
'Take me to the exact spot where you saw him, Mrs McCoy.'
'I will,' she said.
'And if, by chance, you do recognise him again, just point him out to me. I'll take over from there.'
'But I want to wring his neck for him.'
'Let the law take its course,' advised Bale. 'If you charge at the man, you'll only frighten him off and we'd have missed our opportunity. I need to creep up on the fellow. Do you understand that?'
'Yes, Mr Bale,' she said, reluctantly.
He buffeted his way through the crowd with Bridget at his heels. When they reached the place where she had spotted the man she took to be Field, she tapped Bale's shoulder and he stopped. She indicated where Field had been at the time. A woman of her height would not have been able to see much over the bobbing heads of the throng and the constable began to have doubts. Bridget McCoy was insistent.
'I know what I saw, Mr Bale,' she said, confidently. 'It was him.'
'In which direction was he going?'
She pointed a finger. 'Towards that lane.'
'Then let's talk to the stall holders between here and there,' said Bale, 'in case one of them knows the man.'
There were dozens of carts, stalls and booths in the vicinity but that did not deter Bale. He was methodical. After working their way down one side of the courtyard, they came back up the other. They asked if anyone was acquainted with a Mr Field and gave a description of the man. Their efforts were fruitless. When they enlarged the area of their search, they met with equal lack of success. Nobody recognised the name or identified the nasal abnormality. In a city where drunken brawls were a daily event, a broken nose was a common sight.
What hampered them was that vendors were too busy serving customers to talk to Bale and Bridget for more than a few seconds. They were there to sell their produce, not to engage in conversation with an angry Irishwoman and an inquisitive constable. In certain cases, Bale feared, even if they had known the wanted man, some vendors would not have admitted it. They would have protected a friend. Bale and Bridget pressed on until they finally had a more promising response.
'Field?' said the old woman. "Would that be Gamaliel Field?'
'It could be,' replied Bale.
'Then, yes, I do know him.'
'Was he here this morning?'
'Of course. Gamaliel is always here.'
'And is he about my age and build?'
'With a broken nose?' added Bridget, starting to believe that they had eventually picked up a scent. 'A proper brute of a man.'
'Some would say so,' decided the old woman.
She had a poultry stall and had just sold the last of her stock - a goose in a wooden cage - when they approached her. Bale put her in her sixties and poor eyesight made her squint, but her voice was clear enough even if it did crack. She gave them a toothless grin.
'What business have you with Gamaliel?' she said.
'We just need to speak to him,' explained Bale, squeezing Bridget's arm to stop her from blurting out their real intention. 'We believe that Mr Field may be able to help us.'
'He's not here now, sir.'
'Then where is he?'
'Drinking at the Black Horse, if I know him.'
'And where's that?' asked Bridget.
'I know where it is,' said Bale. He nodded at the old lady. 'Thank you very much. You've been very helpful.'
She grinned again. 'Tell Gamaliel that I'll see him tomorrow.'
'No, you won't!' said Bridget under her breath.
The two of them walked along Leadenhall Street until they came to an alleyway. Once through that, they turned into a narrow street that curved its way north. The Black Horse was only one of a number of taverns in the street, and it occupied a position between a warehouse and a carpenter's shop. Bale told his companion to stand directly opposite so that she could have a good view of anyone who came out. He then slipped down the passageway at the side of the building so that he could enter it at the rear.
Bridget McCoy waited impatiently, wishing that she had a weapon about her so that she could wreak her revenge. In using the Saracen's Head as a place from which to commit murder, Field had left the place tainted. It would always bear a stigma. The reputation that she had struggled so hard to maintain in the wake of her husband's death had been vitiated by a man with a broken nose. Bridget wanted the satisfaction of seeing him hang from the gallows so that she could hurl abuse at him. Her only regret was that she could not put the noose around his neck herself.
The longer she waited, the more incensed she became, letting her rage build until it was difficult to contain. Where was Jonathan Bale? Why was he spending so much time in the Black Horse? Had he met with resistance? Or had Gamaliel Field overpowered him? Concern mingled with fury to leave her throbbing with emotion. Having tracked the man down, they must surely not let him escape.
Bridget was on tender-hooks. Her blood was racing. She had just reached the point where she could endure it no longer when the front door of the Black Horse opened and Bale led out a burly man for her inspection. She identified him at once and she scurried across the street to attack him.
'That's the man!' she yelled. 'Arrest him, Mr Bale.'
Before he could move, Gamaliel Field was held in a bear hug then swung round quickly to face the tavern so that Bridget could not pummel him with her fists. She continued to screech and it took a while to calm her down. When she agreed not to assault the prisoner, Bale pulled him round so that she could have a closer look at him. Bridget was dismayed. Overwhelmed with eagerness for him to be the killer, she had been too hasty. The man was the same age and height as Bale but he was much fatter. His face was covered in a dark beard and his broken nose was nothing at all like the one owned by the killer who had rented a room from her at the Saracens Head. It was an agonising setback.
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