The King's Evil

'What shall I tell him?'

'Just that. There is a dire emergency.'

'I will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.

'Wait!' shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you live in this ward?'

'Yes, sir. I was born and brought up here.'

'Do you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'

'Very well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'

'Fetch him. He is the constable I want.'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

'Now, hurry!'

Jem needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon trotting clumsily through the streets on his errand.

Christopher was glad that he had gone. Wanting to spare the man the shock of seeing the dead body, he was also keen to have some time alone to take a closer look at the scene of the crime and he could not do that with a horrified nightwatchman on his hands. Jem's presence would be a definite hindrance. He was best kept in ignorance of what had been found until the constable was summoned.

As the first wave of disgust faded, Christopher plucked up the courage to study the corpse with more care. Kneeling beside it, he held the lantern close and saw that Sir Ambrose Northcott had been stabbed in the chest. A number of wounds had been opened up but the most telling thrust was to the heart. The dagger was still buried deep inside it. He had not been a passive victim. Signs of a struggle were evident from the marks in the dust which covered the floor and there was a piece of material clutched in the dead man's hand, as if torn from his assailant's clothing. Something else caught Christopher's eye. Sir Ambrose's other hand lay open, its palm covered with tiny white flakes. Christopher spotted some more of them on the floor, speckling the dust, but had no idea what they were. He picked a flake up on his fingertip and sniffed it. There was no smell. He blew the flake away again.

Taking care not to touch the body, he ran the lantern from head to toe by way of a cursory autopsy. It yielded little further information. Sir Ambrose was still wearing the apparel in which he had dined though the vivid blood had redefined its colours. Rings still adorned some fingers on both hands. One shoe had come off, its silver buckle glinting in the meagre light. Christopher shook his head sadly, offered up a prayer for the soul of the dead man then rose to his feet.

The implications slowly dawned on him. If Sir Ambrose was dead, what would now happen to the house and to the sizeable fee which the architect was due to be paid for designing it? His personal ambitions suddenly crumbled. Yet he was not only concerned with the prospect of the huge personal loss. How would Samuel Littlejohn react when he learned that his employer had been murdered? Bricklayers, carpenters, stonemasons, tilers, glaziers and all the other tradesmen engaged to work on the property would have to be laid off instantly. The death would have widespread effects. Christopher did not relish the task of passing on the bad tidings to his brother, still less to Solomon Creech.

Both men had been very alarmed by Sir Ambrose's disappearance. Christopher wondered why. How much did they know? Did they sense that a tragedy like this might occur? Had a shadow been hanging over Sir Ambrose Northcott? Who or what cast it?

Caught up in his reflections, Christopher did not at first hear the approaching footsteps. It was only when a fresh lantern threw more light into the cellar that he realised someone was coming.

'I am here!' he called. 'At the far end.'

'We are coming, sir,' answered a voice.

'Tell Jem to stay back. There is no need for him to see this.'

'Very well, sir. You heard that, Jem.'

'Yes,' said the nightwatchman.

One pair of feet halted but the other came on in purposeful strides. Lantern held before him, Jonathan Bale walked forward until he reached the last chamber and found Christopher blocking his way.

'Why did you send for me, sir?' asked the constable.

'Something terrible has happened, I fear.'

'What is it?'

Christopher stepped aside to reveal the scene of horror.

'See for yourself,' he murmured.

Chapter Seven

Jonathan Bale did not flinch. He had looked on death too many times for it to hold any shock or surprise for him. His lantern threw a much more searching light over the corpse, enabling Christopher to see details which had been concealed from him earlier. When he tried to look closer, the constable waved him back with an arm.

'Stay clear, Mr Redmayne,' he said. 'I will take charge now.'

'That slight bruising around his throat. I did not notice that earlier. Nor that trickle of blood on his scalp.'

'Did you touch the body at all, sir?'

'No.'

'So it has not been moved?'

'It is exactly as I found it, Mr Bale.'

'Good.'

The constable was methodical. Before he examined the body itself, he memorised its position and noted the telltale marks all round it on the dust-covered ground. His eye measured the dimensions of the chamber then scoured every inch of it. When he knelt to study the corpse, he ignored the half-eaten face, more interested in the wickedness of man than in the hunger of rats. He carefully opened the flaps of Sir Ambrose Northcott's coat so that he could view each stab wound in turn. The dagger had left ugly red holes in the man's waistcoat and Holland shirt before plunging finally into the heart. Jonathan searched every pocket. It was a long time before he rose reflectively to his feet.

Christopher watched him with gathering impatience.

'Well?' he said.

'This is a bad business, sir.'

'There are obvious signs of a struggle.'

'So I see.'

'He was a strong man. He would have put up a fight.'

'You know the deceased?'

'Of course. It is Sir Ambrose Northcott.'

'Indeed?' Jonathan took a last look at the corpse before turning to appraise Christopher. 'When did you discover the body, sir?'

'Soon after I arrived.'

'And when was that?'

'Dawn was still breaking.'

'An early hour for such a visit, sir.'

'I was anxious to see Sir Ambrose.'

'Did you arrange to meet him here?'

'No, no,' said Christopher. 'But I was confident that he would come to the site at some stage. When he is in London, he calls here every day without fail. I wanted to reassure myself.'

'Reassure?'

'That no harm had befallen him. Sir Ambrose disappeared last night. My brother came to my house in great alarm. Sir Ambrose had promised to meet him that evening but he did not turn up or send an apology for his absence. That is most unusual, according to Henry.'

'Is he your brother, sir?'

'Yes. Henry Redmayne. He is - or, at least, was - a good friend of Sir Ambrose Northcott. Henry searched for him all over the city last night. When there was no sign of him, he became profoundly worried.'

'With cause, it seems,' said the other.

'Alas, yes.'

'What made you come into the cellars, sir?'

'Curiosity.'

'It seems an odd thing to do,' observed the constable with a hint of suspicion. 'If you were hoping to meet someone on the site, the last place you would expect to find him is in a dark cellar. Why come here?'

'Because of what the nightwatchman said.'

'Jem?'

'Yes. He told me that Sir Ambrose called here yesterday evening. I have no reason to doubt his word.'

'Nor me, sir. I can vouch for Jem Raybone.'

'Unfortunately, he was not able to tell me very much but he did remember that Sir Ambrose went down into the cellars.'

'Why?'

'Presumably, to show them off to his companion.'

Interest sharpened. 'There was someone with him?'

'Another man.'

'Did Jem recognise the fellow?'