The Parliament House cr-5

by Edward Marston

  'Not if I get in the first blow.'

  Bridget was firm. 'No, Patrick. All that we can do is to find him. We have to leave it to Mr Bale and Mr Warburton to arrest him.'

  'We can't let him get away.'

  'No, we'll follow him. We'll find out where he lives and then report it to the constables.' Her despondency returned. 'If we ever catch sight of him, that is, and I don't believe we will. He's gone forever. That lousy, scurvy, villainous son of a pox-ridden whore may not even be in London.'

  They walked on. While his mother was unhopeful, Patrick was full of confidence. He felt certain that they would see the man this time. He straightened his shoulders and marched along with pride. It was almost as if he were on patrol as a parish constable. The market was already busy by the time they reached Leadenhall Street and all four courtyards were swarming with people. In such a heaving multitude, it would not be easy to pick out one person.

  Beginning with the courtyard where the man had been seen before, they walked slowly through the crowd. Bridget wished that she were taller so that she could see over the heads of the people all around her. Unable to retain a mental picture of the suspect for long, Patrick kept taking out one of the pictures that his mother had drawn in order to refresh his memory. When he looked up again, his eyes searched for a broken nose and a mole. As they moved from one courtyard to another, he saw both frequently but they were never on the same person. Having taken the crumpled drawing from his pocket for the tenth time, Patrick resolved to rely on his mother. Bridget had seen and talked to the man. She would know him.

  'He's not here,' she decided.

  'The market is still young. More people are coming in all the time.'

  'We can't stay here all morning.'

  'I can,' he volunteered.

  'No, Patrick. We've too much work to do.'

  'What's more important than catching Mr Field?'

  'Nothing,' she said. 'Nothing at all.'

  'Then we stay.'

  Bridget nodded. Bolstered by her son's resolve, she continued the search, going back to the first courtyard and starting all over again. It was painstaking work. The more faces that flashed in front of her, the more confused she became and the ear-shattering noise all around her was a further distraction. She seemed to be at the very heart of the turmoil. Pushed and jostled from all sides, Bridget started to lose faith in the whole enterprise yet again.

  Then a man's face passed within a yard of her. It took her a moment to register the shape of his head, the large ears, the colour of his complexion, the hang of his lip, the ugliness of the broken nose and that mole on the cheek that she had noticed at their first encounter. When she put all the elements together, she was certain of his identity.

  'That's him, Patrick!' she said.

  'Where?'

  'That man carrying the side of beef on his shoulder.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'As sure as I'll ever be - that's the rogue.'

  'Then let me get him,' said Patrick, bunching his fists.

  She held him back. 'No!'

  'We can't miss a chance like this, Mother.'

  'Follow him. See where he goes.'

  'He could easily shake us off in this crowd.'

  'Stay here!' she ordered.

  But she had reckoned without the strength of his ambition. Patrick McCoy was a young man with little in life beyond the desire to better himself. And the only way he could conceive of doing that was to be a parish constable. Here was a chance to display his abilities. In a situation like this, Jonathan Bale would not hold back. Ten yards away was a man who had committed murder from the vantage point of the Saracens's Head. He had to be apprehended.

  Pushing his mother aside, Patrick bullocked his way forward.

  'Stop!' he yelled. 'Stop there right now!'

  Like everyone else in the vicinity, the man with the side of beef over his shoulder turned to look in Patrick's direction. Then he noticed the woman who was trying to follow the youth and he realised who she was.

  'Wait there!' shouted Patrick. 'I want a word with you, Mr Field!'

  The man immediately took a defensive stance. As Patrick charged at him, he swung the side of beef so hard that it knocked his attacker to the ground. Flinging his cargo down on top of Patrick, he delivered several swift kicks to the youth's head to disable him. Then he fled at full speed into the crowd with a stream of abuse from Bridget McCoy filling his ears.

  Chapter Nine

  Crimes and disturbances did not obligingly cease in Baynard's Castle ward to allow Jonathan Bale to devote his whole time to the murder hunt. That morning, he and Tom Warburton were called to Great Carter Street to intervene in a violent quarrel. A customer had visited the barber-surgeon, who, among his many talents, was able to draw teeth. It was a painful exercise but less of a torment than the bad tooth that had infected the customer's whole mouth and made his cheek swell to twice its size. The extraction was swift and decisive. On only one small detail could the barber-surgeon be faulted. He had removed the wrong tooth.

  When the constables arrived on the scene, the men were trading blows and roaring spectators were urging them on. Bale grabbed the barber, Warburton took hold of the customer, and they dragged the adversaries apart. Struggling for release, the two men continued the fight with robust language and dire threats. It was minutes before Bale was able to calm them down enough to hear the cause of their dispute. He was still trying to act as a mediator when he saw two people hurrying along the street towards him.

  Bridget McCoy was flushed and agitated but it was her son who made the constable stare. A hideous bruise darkened one side of Patrick's face and there was an ugly swelling on his temple. One eye was almost closed. Even the disgruntled customer felt sorry for him. A lost tooth did not compare with a vicious beating. Leaving Warburton to sort out the argument, Bale detached himself to speak to the newcomers.

  'What happened?' he said.

  'We saw him,' replied Bridget. 'We saw that bastard again.'

  'Where?'

  'At the market.'

  'Why did you not send word, Mrs McCoy?'

  'It would have taken too long,' said Patrick. 'So I tried to arrest him myself. I tried to be like you, Mr Bale.'

  Bridget indicated the wounds. 'You can see the result,' she said, rancorously. 'He almost kicked my son's head off. Wait till I catch up with the knave. I'll bite his balls off and spit them in the Thames.'

  'Tell me exactly what happened, Mrs McCoy,' suggested Bale.

  'I'll slice him into tiny bits and feed him to the dogs.'

  'We have to apprehend him first, and we can't do that while you're railing against him. Now, then, let me hear the full story.'

  Supported and sometimes contradicted by her son, Bridget gave a bitter description of events. The crowd had now abandoned the dental dispute and turned their attention to this new development. Given an audience, Bridget responded by introducing gruesome details, couched in the sort of language that most of them had never before heard coming from the lips of a woman. Bale seized on the salient details.

  'He's a porter,' he concluded. 'Mr Field is a porter.'

  Patrick rubbed his sore face. 'Mother says that's not his name.'

  'I think that she's right, lad.'

  'So we don't know who he really is.'

  'But we know where he works.'

  'Do we, Mr Bale?' said Bridget.

  'Yes,' he told her. 'If he had a side of beef with him, he was delivering it to market. So we can guess where he took his name from.'

  'Where?'

  'Smithfield. He's a meat porter from Smithfield. Take out the Smith and what do you have left, Mrs McCoy?' 'Field.'

  'I'll wager that's how he christened himself.'

  'Let's catch him, Mr Bale,' urged Patrick. 'Let's go to Smithfield.'

  'The only place you're going to is bed,' said his mother, tenderly. 'You must have a terrible headache. Wait until you see yourself in a mirror, Patrick. You shouldn't be abroad in a stat
e like that.'

  'I agree,' said Bale. 'Take him home. I have to tell someone else what you managed to find out. Then we'll need to speak to you again.'

  'And to me,' insisted Patrick. 'I was there as well.'

  'You need to rest, lad.' 'I only did what you'd have done, Mr Bale.'

  'That was very brave of you.'

  'He used our tavern for a murder. That was sinful.'

  'It was a bloody disgrace!' asserted Bridget.

  'Take him away, Mrs McCoy,' advised Bale. 'I think a doctor ought to look at those wounds of his. They were got honourably, Patrick,' he said, hoping to cheer him up. 'But it's time to step aside now, lad. Leave this fellow to us.'

  'It's not a criticism, Brilliana,' said her husband. 'It's an observation.'

  'Well, it's one that is quite uncalled for, Lancelot.'

  'Do you deny that you paid excessive attention to Mr Henry Redmayne?'

  'No, I do not.'

  'Or that you praised his paintings?'

  'I adored them,' said Brilliana.

  'They were thoroughly indecent.'

  'Nakedness can be beautiful in the hands of a skilful artist.'

  'All I saw was filth and obscenity,' he argued, wrinkling his nose, 'and if that is an accurate reflection of the man's taste, I vote that we shun the society of Henry Redmayne forthwith.'

  'Then you'll be cutting off your nose to spite your face.'

  'In what way?'

  'He can help you, Lancelot,' she said, kissing him softly on the cheek. 'That was the only reason I pandered to him. I did it for you.'

  'Really?'

  'Is a wife not allowed to advance her husband's interests?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then you should give me thanks instead of berating me.'

  They were in the garden of the Westminster house, seated on a bench that occupied a little arbour. It was a fine summer's day. Insects buzzed happily around them and the mingled scent of flowers filled the air. Lancelot Serle was so unaccustomed to offering his wife even the slightest reproach that it had taken him a long time to work up the courage to do so. She was quick to defend herself.

  'Henry Redmayne is a means to an end,' she explained. 'That's why I chose to flatter him. He attends Court and is on familiar terms with anyone of note in parliament. We must cultivate him, Lancelot. He is your passport to greater things.'

  'But he ignored me completely.'

  'He'll not do so again.'

  'Those lecherous eyes of his never strayed from you.'

  'I encouraged his interest,' said Brilliana, 'so that he would feel obligated to me. When I have a more secure hold on him, I'll ask Henry to introduce you to people who can assist your own political career. In due course, he will also present you at court. Would you not like to rub shoulders with the King?'

  'Who needs a king when I live with a queen?' he said, gallantly.

  'A pretty compliment but it evades my question.'

  Serle was more forceful. 'Then my answer is this: yes, I would like to enter parliament. Yes, I do want to have my say in the government of the country. And yes, moving in court circles would be - if you'll forgive a crude pun - the crowning achievement. However,' he went on, seriously, 'I'd like to do it by my own efforts, Brilliana, and not be beholden to a man who nurses improper thoughts about my wife.'

  'Henry does not have improper thoughts.'

  'Judging by those paintings, he never has any other kind.'

  'His father is the dean of Gloucester Cathedral.'

  'I discerned no ecclesiastical leanings in his elder son.'

  'Lancelot,' she said, stamping a foot, 'I cannot help you if you will not be helped. Knowing the right people is everything.'

  'My suspicion is that Henry Redmayne knows all the wrong ones.'

  Brilliana gasped. 'What has possessed you?'

  'I'm sorry, my dear. I know that you mean well but I think that there are other ways to fulfil my ambitions. Dangling the person I love as tempting bait in front of another man is not one of them, especially when the man in question is Mr Henry Redmayne.'

  She stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, piqued that he should deny her a role in his political advancement yet stirred by the boldness with which he had spoken. Brilliana did not know how to respond. The need to do so was removed by the arrival of Susan.

  'Ah, there you are,' she said. 'Am I interrupting anything?'

  'Yes,' replied Serle.

  'No,' overruled his wife, putting a hand on his knee. 'Lancelot and I were engaged in idle gossip, nothing more. Do join us, Susan.' Her sister held her straw hat as she ducked under the arbour. 'You look as if you've brought news.'

  'I have,' said Susan, taking a seat beside her. 'A message has come from Father. He's called on Mrs Kitson again.'

  'I thought that he went straight to the Parliament House.'

  'He could not resist going to Covent Garden first, even though it took him right out of his way. His message is simple. We are to expect Mrs Kitson this evening.'

  'Splendid!' said Brilliana, clapping her hands.

  'And it seems that her brother will be coming as well.'

  'Her brother?'

  'Mr Golland. He's a justice of the peace.'

  'I've always wanted to sit on the bench,' said Serle, alerted by the news. 'I look forward to meeting him.'

  'We must not let Father down,' warned Brilliana. 'We must be on our best behaviour. Her brother as well, you say? It sounds as if it will be quite a party. Listen, Susan,' she said, artlessly, 'perhaps you should invite Christopher to join us.'

  'I think not,' said Susan, 'this is a family affair.'

  'Well, he is practically one of the family.'

  'Not yet, Brilliana.'

  'But he's such a presentable young man and would add some interest for Mrs Kitson. And I have an even better idea,' she continued. 'Since we are enlarging our number, why not add one more and include Christopher's brother as well? I should like to meet Henry again.'

  Henry Redmayne could not get her out of his mind. Though he appeared to be working at the Navy Office that morning, his thoughts were with Brilliana Serle and that bewitching smile she had given him as they parted. She had come into his life at an opportune moment. Spurned by one wife, he had met the ideal replacement. She was womanhood in all its glory and he coveted her madly. There was the small problem of her husband but Henry had had great experience in circumventing spouses. No obstacle would be allowed to stand in the way that led to paradise.

  Bent over his desk, he was lost in contemplation of Brilliana Serle when a voice broke into his reverie. Henry looked up at Maurice Farwell.

  'Mr Farwell,' he said, leaping obediently to his feet. 'Good day to you, sir. This is an unexpected pleasure. It's not often that you stray this far from parliament.'

  'I've come for ammunition, Mr Redmayne.'

  'We do not keep any cannonballs here.'

  'I know,' said Farwell with a quiet smile. 'That's not the kind of ammunition I had in mind. We are to debate naval procurements this afternoon, and I need to have the relevant details at my fingertips. I'm told that you could provide them.'

  'Why, yes,' said Henry, burrowing among the papers that littered his desk. 'I have everything you need here. You've been such a friend to us in the past that you can always count on our help.' His hand closed on some documents. 'This is what you require, I believe.'

  Farwell took the documents. 'Thank you,' he said, perusing them.

  'You may borrow them, if you wish.'

  'There's no need, Mr Redmayne. I have an excellent memory and it always impresses the house if one can speak without notes. Yes,' he went on, nodding in appreciation as he read on. 'These facts and figures are quite unanswerable.' He turned to the second page and scanned it with a sharp eye. When he had read the last page, he was content. 'With these at my disposal, I'll be able to bring Sir Julius crashing down.'

  'Sir Julius Cheever?'

  'That's the fellow - thoug
h I fancy that he prefers to see himself as another Julius Caesar. He's a stubborn Roundhead yet he has strangely imperial ambitions.' Farwell gave the documents back to him. 'Someone should remind him what happened to Caesar.'

  'Do you see much of Sir Julius in parliament?'

  'Far too much. I do not mind lively debate - it's the essence of our democracy - but I do draw the line at personal invective. Respect for one's political opponents is important, I feel. When the business of the day is done, we should be able to shake hands and act as gentlemen.'

  'I cannot imagine Sir Julius shaking hands with a government minister,' said Henry. 'He would sooner amputate his whole arm.'

  'It makes for so much unnecessary hostility.'

  Henry did not know him well but he had followed Farwell's career with interest. The man's rise had been swift and sure. Unlike most successful politicians, he seemed to have held himself aloof from the cabals and conspiracies that animated the Parliament House. Maurice Farwell was above such things. Henry had never once heard his name connected with skullduggery or corruption.

  'In some ways,' admitted Farwell, 'I admire him. We need men of Sir Julius's calibre. He has a simple integrity that shines like a candle in the darkness. But he does not, alas, treat us with any regard,' he said. 'Full-throated abuse is all that we hear. And there is such a ring of defiance about him. He still seems to think that the Lord Protector will walk into the chamber at any moment.'

  'Cromwell is dead - thank goodness! Those dark days are over.'

  'You would not think so to listen to Sir Julius.'

  'He has supporters, I hear.'

  'A ragbag of hangers-on. Nobody of any standing follows him. Though he could have counted on Bernard Everett,' he conceded. 'Now, he would have been a much more formidable opponent. His death was untimely. By repute, he was a master of debate. I would have enjoyed locking horns with Mr Everett.'

  'My brother is involved in the pursuit of his killer.'

  'Indeed? More power to his elbow.'

  'Christopher was the architect who designed Sir Julius's house.'

  'Then he earned his fee,' said Farwell, approvingly. 'I've seen the place. It's a fine piece of architecture.' He lowered his voice. 'I trust that your brother does not share his client's political opinions?'