The Parliament House

by Edward Marston

  'Parliament sits in a few days, I believe,' he said.

  'Yes,' said Sir Julius, sadly, 'and I'd hoped to introduce Bernard Everett to the chamber. It was not to be, I fear. But I'm sure that he'll forgive me if I rush back to London as soon as the funeral is over.'

  'Mr Everett may have gone but you have other loyal friends there.'

  'I thank the Lord for it.'

  'One of them, I gather, is Lewis Bircroft.'

  'Bircroft?' The old man's eye kindled. 'What do you know of him?'

  'Only that he was a staunch supporter of you, Sir Julius.'

  'You've been listening to that lunatic brother of yours again.'

  'Henry is no lunatic.'

  'He's a blabbering gossip.'

  'He did tell me about the accident that befell Mr Bircroft,' admitted Christopher, 'that much is true. I wonder that you did not perceive a connection between that and what happened to Mr Everett.'

  'Be warned, young man.'

  'That's the very advice that you should take, Sir Julius.'

  'Silence!'

  'It's not only Mr Bircoft's fate that needs to be remembered. Arthur Manville must also be borne in-'

  'Enough - damn you!' Sir Julius cut him short, growling in an undertone so that he did not disturb the three members of the Polegate family at the other table. 'Are you determined to test my temper?'

  'Not at all, Sir Julius.'

  'Well, you are going the right way about it.'

  'I am bound to be concerned for your safety.'

  'If you bother me again,' said Sir Julius, 'then you'll need to be concerned for your own safety. Keep away from me. I thought you were coming with us to pay to your respects to Bernard Everett but I see now that it was just a ruse to hound me.' He got up and towered over Christopher. 'Stand off, sir. Oblige me by holding your tongue in future. I've nothing more to say to you.'

  The truce was over.

  Patrick McCoy was industrious. The Saracen's Head stayed open for long hours and he worked tirelessly throughout that time, fetching and carrying, sweeping and clearing away, dealing firmly with the occasional obstreperous customer and doing all the other tasks that his mother assigned to him. Cheerful, willing and good-natured, he laboured without the slightest complaint. What he lacked in intelligence, he made up for in sheer application.

  It was during a lull that afternoon that he spoke to his mother.

  'Mr Bale thought I could be a constable one day,' he said.

  'He was only being kind to you, Patrick.'

  'It's no more than I do here, Mother.'

  'It is,' she said. 'A parish constable has a lot of responsibilities. He has to keep his eye on so many different things. He has to make reports and appear in court. You could never do that.' 'I could if Mr Bale showed me how to do it.'

  'Your place is here,' she said, cupping his chin in her hand. 'I need you beside me, Patrick. What would I do without my son?'

  'Find someone else.'

  'There's nobody like you.'

  Bridget spoke with an amalgam of fondness and practicality. She loved her son deeply and depended on him completely. Had he been more competent, she would not have thwarted his ambition but she was aware of all the things that were beyond him. Ever since he had been born, she had been protecting him from mockery and doing her best to build his confidence. At the Saracen's Head, he had an important role. Anywhere else, his limitations would be cruelly exposed.

  'What if I was to catch him?' he asked.

  'Catch who?'

  'The man with the broken nose.'

  'You've no idea what he looks like, Patrick.'

  'You do, Mother.' The vacant smile surfaced. 'Do you remember what you used to do when I was little?'

  'I played with you whenever I could. So did your father.'

  'You were much better at it than he was.'

  'Better at what?'

  'Drawing pictures for me,' he said. 'You drew pictures of animals and people and ships on the river. I liked them.'

  'That was years ago, Patrick.'

  'You can still do it.'

  'I haven't the time,' she said. 'Besides, why should I bother?'

  'Because it would help me.'

  'I think you've outgrown childish pictures.'

  'But it would show me what he looked like, Mother.'

  'Who?'

  'The man who fired that musket from upstairs,' he told her. 'If you drew a picture of his face, I'd know who he was if I saw him at the market. I'd be able to catch him for you. That's what you want, isn't it?'

  She was taken aback. 'Yes, Patrick. It is.'

  Bridget embraced him lovingly. It was not because she believed for a moment that he could ever apprehend the wanted man. It was because he had just given her an idea that might possibly assist the hunt for the killer. As a young mother, Bridget McCoy had indeed had a moderate skill as an artist. It had been employed in those days to amuse a demanding son. All that she used it for now was to design placards that went in the window to advertise the cost of drinks and accommodation. In the corner of each one, she always drew a smaller version of the Saracens Head that adorned the signboard hanging outside the tavern. Customers had remarked on the accuracy of her portrayal. If she could recreate one head, she could surely copy a second from memory

  'Yes, Patrick,' she said. 'I will draw a picture of the man.'

  'Will you give it to me? Can I take it to market tomorrow?'

  'We'll show it to Mr Bale first.'

  And she gave him another impulsive hug.

  'At your age, I was already married,' Brilliana Serle proclaimed. 'It's high time that your mind turned in that direction.'

  'That's for me to decide,' said Susan Cheever.

  'It's my duty as an elder sister to advise you.'

  'And it's my right to ignore that advice, Brilliana.'

  'Married life can bring true fulfilment to a woman.'

  'Not only to a woman,' Lancelot Serle interjected. 'It's the same for a man as well. I had no conception of what happiness really was until I met and married Brilliana. My whole world has been enlarged.'

  'I'm delighted for both of you,' said Susan, looking from one to the other, 'but my situation is different. Brilliana was free to wed. I am not. As long as Father needs me, then he will always have first call on my love and time.'

  'And what about your love for Christopher Redmayne?' asked Brilliana, aiming the question at her like a stone. 'Not to mention his patent adoration of you.'

  Susan blushed. 'That's a private matter between the two of us.'

  'Has he made a declaration?'

  'He makes it every time they are together,' said Serle with a gentle smile. 'You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Christopher Redmayne is spellbound.'

  'Excuse me,' said Susan, anxious to terminate the conversation.

  She reached across him to snip some roses with her shears. They were in the formal garden at the rear of the "Westminster house, and Susan was collecting flowers for display in the parlour. Compared to the extensive gardens at their home in the Midlands, it was relatively small but it allowed her to grow a whole range of flowers and fruit. During their time away, men were employed to tend the garden. When she and her father were in residence, however, Susan liked to supervise them. For her, the garden had two major attractions. It was a pretty, secret, tranquil refuge from the ceaseless commotion of London, and, more important in her opinion, Christopher Redmayne had designed it.

  It was ironic. She thought about him every day and longed to be with him. Yet now that her sister wanted to talk about the architect, Susan was rather unnerved. Strolling across the lawn, she hoped that she had curtailed the discussion but Brilliana was not so easily shaken off. She pursued her sister without mercy.

  'Have you met his family?' she said.

  'Yes, Brilliana.'

  'They must have found you eminently acceptable.'

  'They were not asked to accept me in the sense that you imply,' said Susan,
adding some lavender to her basket. 'His father is the dean of Gloucester cathedral and his elder brother, Henry, works at the Navy Office.'

  'The father is above reproach then. What of the brother?'

  'He and Christopher are very different.'

  'But the fellow is respectable, I trust?'

  Susan faced her. 'Brilliana, I resent this interrogation.'

  'We can't have anyone who lowers our family's standards. Before I even consented to have Lancelot as a suitor, I took very careful note of his people. That was imperative.'

  'Fortunately,' said Serle, joining them, 'we survived your scrutiny. I'm certain that Christopher's family will do the same.'

  'That remains to be seen, Lancelot.' 'No, it does not,' said Susan, turning to face her. 'There's no need for scrutiny of any kind. You are taking far too many things for granted, Brilliana. My place is here beside father. Christopher and I have made no plans whatsoever.'

  'You'll lose him if you dither.'

  'Yes,' agreed Serle. 'Tempus fugit.'

  'He'll slip right through your fingers, Susan.'

  'I'll not be rushed into anything before I am ready,' asserted Susan, 'so I'll thank you to stop pressing me on the matter. Christopher and I are close friends. That situation contents both of us for the moment. I find it indelicate of you even to raise the matter.'

  'My only concern is for your well-being,' said Brilliana.

  'You may safely leave that in my own hands.'

  'Things may soon change,' Serle pointed out. 'If Sir Julius should, by chance, marry, then your occupation's gone. A stepmother will replace you, Susan. You'll be in the way.'

  'I don't foresee that happening,' said Susan.

  'You must at least allow for the possibility.'

  'Lancelot's point is a telling one,' said Brilliana, touching his arm in acknowledgement. 'Father is clearly enthralled with Mrs Kitson and a woman of her age would not encourage his advances unless the feeling between them were mutual. In due course, I suspect, what is now a mere possibility might well evanesce into a probability.'

  Serle grinned. 'Sir Julius married again! Who'd have thought it?'

  'We've not even met the lady yet,' Susan reminded them. 'When we do, she will understand what is at stake. In addition to taking on a third husband, she will also be acquiring two stepdaughters. Some people might find that rather daunting.'

  'There's nothing remotely daunting about me,' claimed Brilliana, striking a pose. 'I'm the most agreeable person I know. Lancelot?'

  'You are extremely agreeable, my dear,' he said, taking his prompt. 'And highly desirable as a stepdaughter - as, indeed, is your sister.'

  'There were are, then - it's settled. Oh, how satisfying!' Brilliana rubbed her hands together. 'Father will wed Mrs Kitson and Susan will be free to accept a proposal from her inamorato.'

  'Christopher is only a friend,' said Susan with exasperation.

  Serle beamed. 'That's all I was when your sister and I first met,' he said, 'and look at us now. Cynics may cry that marriage is a form of enslavement but I found it an act of liberation. Brilliana has enabled me to do a whole host of things that I thought were completely outside my compass. She has empowered me.'

  'That's why you must take the next step forward,' said Brilliana, imperiously. 'You must cut a figure in parliament, Lancelot. You are more than ready for it now.'

  'You've made me believe I am ready, my dear. When you first mentioned the idea, I was anxious and hesitant but not any more. Your confidence in me has provided the fire I needed.'

  Susan had never met anyone less fiery than her brother-in-law but she did not say so. Instead, she had an upsurge of sympathy for him. Lancelot Serle was an educated man with a range of talents but he was hardly suited for the bear pit of political life. Brilliana was trying to force him outside his natural milieu and he would suffer as a result. Living with her father gave Susan an insight into the physical and mental strains of parliamentary activity. Stronger men than her brother-in-law had been broken on its relentless wheel. There was another factor to be taken into account.

  'You'd find yourself in opposition to Father,' remarked Susan.

  'On some issues,' he said.

  'On every issue, Lancelot.'

  'What of that?' challenged Brilliana. 'My husband will stand up for his principles just as Father does. If that means they will clash in the House of Commons, so be it.'

  'Diversity of opinion is inevitable,' said Serle, philosophically. 'It would be a dull Parliament House if we all agreed with each other. Out of discord comes forth compromise - and I am a master of that.'

  'Then I wish you the best of luck,' said Susan, hiding her fears for him. 'What I would suggest, however, is that you do not

  reveal your ambitions to Father just yet.'

  'He would not listen if I did. Sir Julius rarely listens to me.'

  'His mind is on other things at the moment,' said Brilliana with a smile of approval, 'and that means he will listen to nobody. All that he can think of is his future wife, Mrs Dorothy Kitson.'

  Dorothy Kitson stirred her cup of tea before tasting it. After taking a few sips, she set cup and saucer down and looked across the mahogany table at her brother.

  'What objections do you have, Orlando?' she asked.

  'They are not so much objections as lingering reservations.'

  'You lawyers will play with words!'

  'Then let me be more blunt, Dorothy.'

  'I'd prefer that to all this equivocation.'

  'First,' said her brother, counting his reasons off on his fingers, 'Sir Julius Cheever has the most abhorrent political views.'

  'It's something we never discuss.'

  'Second, his estates are in the wilds of Northamptonshire.'

  'I'm given to believe that it's a county of some appeal.'

  'Third - and you wish me to be honest - the fellow is too rough and ready for someone of your fine sensibilities. He's a farmer, Dorothy - and a soldier to boot. There's an uncouth air to him and he blusters. You have absolutely nothing in common with him.'

  'Then why do we delight in each other's company?'

  'Witchcraft!'

  Dorothy laughed. Though she loved her brother, and leaned heavily on his advice, there were moments when he seemed hopelessly out of touch with normal human behaviour. She put it down to the fact that he had never married, or fathered a child, or ventured a single step outside the legal realm. Orlando Golland was a fleshy man in his sixties with heavy jowls that shook as he spoke, and a ginger wig that sat askew his overly large head. A brilliant lawyer in his day, he was now a justice of the peace in the city. His benign features concealed the fact that his habit of issuing unduly harsh sentences to those who appeared before him was legendary.

  'Four,' he concluded, 'I do not like the fellow.'

  'You did not like my first husband either,' she recalled.

  'I came to appreciate his few recognisable virtues.' She laughed again. 'You sought my opinion and I've given it with clarity. I'm sorry that you ever met Sir Julius.'

  'Then you should not have introduced me to him.'

  'It was Maurice Farwell who did that.'

  'Yes,' she riposted, 'but it was you who took me to Newmarket.'

  'My horse was running there.'

  'You must accept some of the blame, Orlando.'

  'Not one iota.'

  Brother and sister were in the parlour of Dorothy Kitson's house in Covent Garden, a stately mansion that was only one of four properties that she owned. The table at which they sat was cushioned by an expensive Turkish carpet and caught the light from the sash window. Two large, ornate, matching mirrors stood either side of a display cabinet that contained oriental porcelain. Large and well-proportioned, the room was an accurate reflection of her taste and her evident prosperity.

  'Sir Julius does not belong here,' contended Golland. 'He would be totally out of place, Dorothy.'

  'He has properties of his own.'

  'Yes - the ma
in one is in Northamptonshire!'

  'It is not the end of the world.'

  'It seems so to me. No,' he said, fussily. 'I could not possibly let you live there. It would be unbearable.'

  'For whom?'

  'For you, for me and for everyone who cares about you.'

  'I appreciate your concern,' she said with a smile, 'but your assumptions are premature. All that I've told you is that Sir Julius and I have become friends and you immediately throw up a barricade across the aisle. Can one not have friendship without proceeding to marriage?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then your strictures become irrelevant.'

  'The man is not good enough for you, Dorothy.'

  'You hardly know him.'

  'I know him by repute.'

  'You are reputed to be the most ruthless magistrate in London,' she said, 'but it would be unfair to judge you solely on your record in court. I know that you have a more compassionate side to your character. The same is true of Sir Julius.'

  'You'll never convince me of that.'

  'Then I'll not waste time trying.'

  'Beware, Dorothy!'

  'Of what - my brother's false counsel?'

  She sipped her tea and Golland lifted his own cup to his lips. Since he had never shown any serious interest in the opposite sex - still less in his own - he could not understand the passions that moved others. Horses were his only love. They had a graceful simplicity about them. Attraction between two people had always baffled Orlando Golland. Each time his sister had married, she had chosen men whose charm he had been quite unable to comprehend. He accepted them because at least they came from the same privileged background as his sister. Nothing would persuade him to welcome Sir Julius Cheever into the family.

  'The wonder is that Maurice Farwell even spoke to the man,' he said as he remembered their visit to Newmarket. 'I'd have cut him dead.'

  'Maurice is a gentleman. He treats his opponents with respect.'

  'That disgusting old reprobate deserves no respect.'

  'Sir Julius is younger than you, Orlando,' she pointed out, 'and he is neither disgusting nor a reprobate. He's a surprisingly cultured man, well-read and well-informed.'